life gives sign of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts.  These halcyons may be looked for with a little more assurance in that pure October weather which we distinguish by the name of Indian summer.  The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills, and warm, wide fields.  To have lived through all its sunny hours seems longevity enough.  The solitary places do not seem quite lonely.  At the gates of the forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to leave his city estimates of great and small, wise and foolish.  The knapsack of custom falls off his back with the first step he makes into these precincts.  Here is sanctity which shames our religions, and reality which discredits our heroes.

* * * * *

From “Society and Solitude.”

=_200._= THE POWER OF CHILDHOOD.

The perfection of the providence for childhood is easily acknowledged.  The care which covers the seed of the tree under tough husks and, stony cases, provides, for the human plant, the mother’s breast and the father’s house.  The size of the nestler is comic, and its tiny beseeching weakness is compensated perfectly by the happy patronizing look of the mother, who is a sort of high reposing Providence toward it.  Welcome to the parents the puny straggler, strong in his weakness, his little arms more irresistible than the soldier’s, his lips touched with persuasion which Chatham and Pericles in manhood had not.  His unaffected lamentations when he lifts up his voice on high, or, more beautiful, the sobbing child,—­the face all liquid grief, as he tries to swallow his vexation,—­soften all hearts to pity, and to mirthful and clamorous compassion.  The small despot asks so little that all reason and all nature are on his side.  His ignorance is more charming than all knowledge, and his little sins more bewitching than any virtue.  His flesh is angels’ flesh, all alive.  “Infancy,” said Coleridge, “presents body and spirit in unity:  the body is all animated.”  All day, between his three or four sleeps, he coos like a pigeon-house, sputters, and spurs, and puts on his faces of importance; and when he fasts, the little Pharisee fails not to sound his trumpet before him.  By lamp-light he delights in shadows on the wall; by daylight, in yellow and scarlet.  Carry him out of doors,—­he is overpowered by the light and the extent of natural objects, and is silent.  Then presently begins his use of his fingers, and he studies power, the lesson of his race.  First it appears in no great harm, in architectural tastes.  Out of blocks, thread-spools, cards, and checkers, he will build his pyramid with the gravity of Palladio.  With an acoustic apparatus of whistle and rattle, he explores the laws of sound.  But chiefly, like his senior countrymen, the young American studies new and speedier modes of transportation.  Mistrusting the cunning of his small legs, he wishes to ride on the necks and shoulders of all flesh.  The small enchanter nothing can withstand, no seniority of age, no gravity of character; uncles, aunts, grandsires, grandams, fall an easy prey:  he conforms to nobody, all conform to him; all caper and make mouths, and babble, and chirrup to him.  On the strongest shoulders he rides, and pulls the hair of laurelled heads.