ically at
least, my faith. And so I awake in the morning with a boyish
thoughtlessness as to how the outgoings of the day are to be provided
for, and its incomings rendered certain. After breakfast, I go forth
into my garden, and gather whatever the bountiful Mother has made fit
for our present sustenance; and of late days she generally gives me two
squashes and a cucumber, and promises me green corn and shell-beans very
soon. Then I pass down through our orchard to the river-side, and ramble
along its margin in search of flowers. Usually I discern a fragrant
white lily, here and there along the shore, growing, with sweet
prudishness, beyond the grasp of mortal arm. But it does not escape me
so. I know what is its fitting destiny better than the silly flower
knows for itself; so I wade in, heedless of wet trousers, and seize the
shy lily by its slender stem. Thus I make prize of five or six, which
are as many as usually blossom within my reach in a single
morning;--some of them partially worm-eaten or blighted, like virgins
with an eating sorrow at the heart; others as fair and perfect as
Nature's own idea was, when she first imagined this lovely flower. A
perfect pond-lily is the most satisfactory of flowers. Besides these, I
gather whatever else of beautiful chances to be growing in the moist
soil by the river-side,--an amphibious tribe, yet with more richness and
grace than the wild-flowers of the deep and dry woodlands and
hedge-rows,--sometimes the white arrow-head, always the blue spires and
broad green leaves of the pickerel-flower, which contrast and harmonize
so well with the white lilies. For the last two or three days, I have
found scattered stalks of the cardinal-flower, the gorgeous scarlet of
which it is a joy even to remember. The world is made brighter and
sunnier by flowers of such a hue. Even perfume, which otherwise is the
soul and spirit of a flower, may be spared when it arrays itself in this
scarlet glory. It is a flower of thought and feeling, too; it seems to
have its roots deep down in the hearts of those who gaze at it. Other
bright flowers sometimes impress me as wanting sentiment; but it is not
so with this.

Well, having made up my bunch of flowers, I return home with them....
Then I ascend to my study, and generally read, or perchance scribble in
this journal, and otherwise suffer Time to loiter onward at his own
pleasure, till the dinner-hour. In pleasant days, the chief event of the
afte