There are some days in which, odd fellow that I am, I feel as if I am quite asleep in this hasty world. I should like to write of the joy of the scent of rich earth and leafen mould, of the breath of late fall under an elm-tree, of the stirrings of a fiddle, of the dim swell at thought of long-borne history, and of unchanging things, of starlight, and of God, passing through progress and hastiness, undisturbed.