How dull
indeed appeared the printed page in comparison with the 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.
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