THE CLERK OF THE WOODS
May is the shortest month in the year. February is at least twice as long. For a month is like a movement of a symphony; and when we speak of the length of a piece of music we are not thinking of the number of notes in it, but of the time it takes to play them. May is a scherzo, and goes like the wind. Yesterday it was just beginning, and to-day it is almost done. "If we could only hold it back!" an outdoor friend of mine used to say. And I say so, too. At the most generous calculation I cannot have more than a hundred more of such months to hope for, and I wish the Master's baton would not hurry the tempo. But who knows? Perhaps there will be another series of concerts, in a better music hall.
The world hereabout will never be more
