uish. There is no escape for a heart crushed
as mine has been. How I long for the wilderness; to be alone with my
sorrow since heaven calling for your companionship cannot be mine!

"'Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar;
There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.

"'Every time you mention a birdie in one of your letters, Margaret,
I am driven to desperation. Why have I not the charms of the
woodland warblers to pierce with dulcet note the inmost fortresses
of your heart buttressed to strong resistance against my awkward
protestations of undying love? Nature has taught these creatures of
the wild to woo with a finer art. Man is but a clod--too sordid to
rise on wings of song into that vast expanse of heaven, a woman's
heart. Let me learn of the birds:

"'O, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!
Nor quit for me the trembling spray;
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.

"'Again, again, that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art,
For surely that would touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.'"

"Why, how apt those quotations are and how full!" laughed Gabrielle.
"You don't suppose the writer could have been so cruel as to
deliberately copy them, and yet he must have done so, of course.
Just think of it: some man sitting there wildly in love, seeking
counsel of the inspired poets to plead his cause. His great devotion
leads him to select the tenderest passages; only those verses that
speak the deep sentiments of his flaming heart does he see, and with
them he presents his case. Why, really, I find that I am arguing
myself into a friendly attitude toward this poor soul. Perhaps it is
not right for us to laugh at that which is so real to this earnest
pleader. Still, it is funny to stand aside and see two people in
love, isn't it, Jim? Really one can't help laughing, and as we don't
know whose letters these are, why shouldn't we laugh? Then think of
the poor girl, up there in the country, writing long letters in
return, proud of her lover's ardor, yet shy in penning words of
devotion. Isn't it an attractive picture, Jim?--full of that
'soothing, fond complaining' for them, and comedy for the rest of
us? Go on, my dear, and let us hear more of this poetic woe;
although Jim