Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
    There came a low, harmonious breath: 
    “For such as he there is no death;—­
  His life the eternal life commands;
  Above man’s aims his nature rose: 
    The wisdom of a just content
    Made one small spot a continent,
  And tuned to poetry Life’s prose.

  “Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,
    Swallow and aster, lake and pine,
    To him grew human or divine,—­
  Fit mates for this large-hearted child. 
  Such homage Nature ne’er forgets,
    And yearly on the coverlid
    ’Neath which her darling lieth hid
  Will write his name in violets.

  “To him no vain regrets belong,
    Whose soul, that finer instrument,
    Gave to the world no poor lament,
  But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. 
  O lonely friend! he still will be
    A potent presence, though unseen,—­
    Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: 
  Seek not for him,—­he is with thee.”

* * * * *

Mr. MARTIN’S disappointments.

The circumstances of a first meeting so color long years of acquaintanceship, that, should these circumstances be comic in their nature, the intercourse which follows partakes much of the grotesque.  Thus, perhaps, it is, that the misfortunes of Edward Martin, apart from the whimsical demeanor of the man himself, provoke in my memory a smile rather than a sigh.

Some years ago, journeying on foot through Northern Connecticut, it became necessary for me to stop overnight at the quiet inn of Deacon S——.

Sharon I had visited, fair as Berkshire, but less an old story; I had lingered about the twin lakes of Salisbury; I had carried away many sweet memories of Warramaug and its mountain; and I now found myself in the neighborhood of Gramley Bridge, eager for fresh water, clean towels, and the plenty of a country tea-table,—­not averse to strawberry short-cake, or the snowy delights of cottage-cheese.

It was rapidly growing dark, when, as I hurried on toward my cheerful welcome, a bend in the road brought me in sight of a figure that filled me with curiosity and amazement.

  “Was it a man? 
  A devil infernal? 
  An angel supernal?”

Was it were-wolf spectral, or bear aboriginal?  It lived and moved, and, as I cautiously neared the spot, I seemed to recognize a human being in the singular form,—­stooping, squatting, and groping before me.

The man, for such it proved, was performing most wondrous gymnastics upon the ground,—­smelling here, smelling there, too agile to be tipsy, too silent to be mad.  I had no desire to be alone in a lonely road at nightfall with a maniac, and I was not sorry when my nearer approach resolved these strange phenomena into a well-dressed pedestrian on all-fours in the middle of a dusty highway.

He rose as I approached, and I smiled to see that the spectacles astride his handsome nose were minus one lens.  He seemed half blind and wholly bewildered.  I looked at once for the lost glass, and there it lay shining at me from the very spot where he had been so industriously peering.  He laughed grimly as I handed it to him, fitted his treasure into its wonted rim, took out his watch, and with a low chuckle said,—­