he book of life, how shut-in its atmosphere, how
tinkling and distant the sound of its voices. Suddenly I shut my book
with a snap.

"Musty coaches and Latin quotations!" I exclaimed. "Montaigne's no
writer for the open air. He belongs at a study fire on a quiet evening!"

I had anticipated, when I started out, many a pleasant hour by the
roadside or in the woods with my books, but this was almost the first
opportunity I had found for reading (as it was almost the last), so full
was the present world of stirring events. As for poor old Montaigne, I
have been out of harmony with him ever since, nor have I wanted him in
the intimate case at my elbow.

After a long time in the forest, and the sun having reached the high
heavens, I gathered up my pack and set forth again along the slope of
the hills--not hurrying, just drifting and enjoying every sight and
sound. And thus walking I came in sight, through the trees, of a
glistening pool of water and made my way straight toward it.

A more charming spot I have rarely seen. In some former time an old
mill had stood at the foot of the little valley, and a ruinous stone
dam still held the water in a deep, quiet pond between two round hills.
Above it a brook ran down through the woods, and below, with a pleasant
musical sound, the water dripped over the mossy stone lips of the dam
and fell into the rocky pool below. Nature had long ago healed the
wounds of men; she had half-covered the ruined mill with verdure, had
softened the stone walls of the dam with mosses and lichens, and had
crept down the steep hillside and was now leaning so far out over the
pool that she could see her reflection in the quiet water.

Near the upper end of the pond I found a clear white sand-bank, where
no doubt a thousand fishermen had stood, half hidden by the willows, to
cast for trout in the pool below. I intended merely to drink and moisten
my face, but as I knelt by the pool and saw my reflection in the clear
water wanted something more than that! In a moment I had thrown aside my
bag and clothes and found myself wading naked into the water.

It was cold! I stood a moment there in the sunny air, the great world
open around me, shuddering, for I dreaded the plunge--and then with a
run, a shout and a splash I took the deep water. Oh, but it was fine!
With long, deep strokes I carried myself fairly to the middle of the
pond. The first chill was succeeded by a tingling glow, and I can convey
no