This is an imaginary picture, based no doubt on some actual experience. It is worth reading because it puts one into sympathy with Nature, even with one of its wildest and most uninhabitable parts. There are girls, and boys too, living in secure houses in village or town, who are afraid, afraid of the dark, afraid of the deep woods, afraid of wild, lonely places where snakes may be lurking, or some imagined beast. There are many grown-up people who are more fearful than children, to whom a storm is terrifying, who see little beauty in rough places, who take no enjoyment in fog, rain or snow. It is natural to be afraid, but it is not wholesome, and it betrays ignorance. This kind of fear deprives most people of much that makes up the very best of life. One need not be rash or daring to conquer fear. It is only needful to awaken, to get into sympathy with Nature, to see the world as it really is, and not as our shrinking bodies lead us to imagine.
A man died not long ago who for many years had lived perhaps as close to Nature as anyone in this generation. His name was John Muir. He loved the mountains with their vast silences and wide outlooks; the storms and winds, searching every hidden corner and ruling all Nature in their passing; the giant trees of his home country, majestic sentinels of tranquillity, and age-long growth; he loved the clouds and stars, birds, beasts and flowers; he loved mighty waters, whose power man’s hand might never check. This man wrote at times modestly and reverently of what he saw and felt. You can learn truth from him. Many other men have seen deeply into Nature, and written with sincerity, pages which we do well to study. There comes to mind the poet Lanier, who, struck by the fatal hand of disease, sought to prolong his life by living with Nature in the open. How delicately and clearly he translated beauty into terms of music and rhythm! How intimately he sensed the world about him! He wrote,
“I am not overbold.
I hold
Full powers from Nature manifold.
I speak for each no-tonguéd tree
That, spring by spring, doth nobler be,
And dumbly and most wistfully
His mighty prayerful arms outspreads
Above men’s oft-unheeding heads,
And his big blessing downward sheds.
I speak for all-shaped blooms and leaves,
Lichens on stones and moss on eaves,
Grasses and grains in ranks and sheaves;
Broad-fronded ferns and keen-leaved canes,
And briery mazes bounding lanes,
And marsh-plants, thirsty-cupped for rains,
And milky stems and sugary veins;
. . . . . .
“All purities of shady springs,
All shynesses of film-winged things
That fly from tree-trunks and bark-rings;
All modesties of mountain-fawns,
That leap to covert from wild lawns,
And tremble if the day but dawns;
All sparklings of small beady eyes
Of birds, and sidelong glances wise
Wherewith the jay hints tragedies;
All piquancies of prickly burs,
And smoothnesses of downs and furs
Of eiders and of minevers;
All limpid honeys that do lie
At stamen-bases, nor deny
The hummingbirds’ fine roguery,
Bee-thighs, nor any butterfly;
All gracious curves of slender wings,
Bark-mottlings, fiber-spiralings,
Fern-wavings and leaf-flickerings;
Each dial-marked leaf and flower-bell,
Wherewith in every lonesome dell
Time to himself his hours doth tell;
All tree-sounds, rustlings of pine-cones,
Wind-sighings, doves’ melodious moans,
And night’s unearthly under-tones;
All placid lakes and waveless deeps,
All cool reposing mountain-steeps,
Vale-calms and tranquil lotos-sleeps;—
Yea, all fair forms, and sounds, and lights,
And warmths, and mysteries, and nights,
Of Nature’s utmost depths and heights,
—These doth my timid tongue present,
Their mouthpiece and leal instrument
And servant, all love-eloquent.
I heard, when ‘All for love’ the violins cried;
So, Nature calls through all her system wide,
‘Give me thy love, O man, so long denied.’”
—From The Symphony, Sidney Lanier.
No message could be more beautiful or more welcome than this. Not poets and artists, but birds, streams, and the pure encircling air should call us into the open. We may not have the opportunity to wander in the jungle by night, or to climb lonely mountains or penetrate into the glooms of giant forests, but we can get outdoors by day into parks or country, and we can learn to sleep outdoors and feel the health-giving air with every breath we draw, and to awaken every morning with gladness that we are looking out upon the sky and rising sun, with no barriers of blinds and storm-windows between us and Nature. When we realize every day that to live, to simply be alive, is joy, then work will never mean drudgery or idleness and luxury seem things worth while.
If Bird and Arbor Day can make you understand and feel this message, it will be the happiest day of the year for you.—A. H. W.
For Teachers and Pupils