Norwich bulletin., 1910-06-11
Outdoors With Rain and Sunshine

my feline companion, pussy-cat Kit | Kat dreamer of dreams, hunter of birds and mice, lover of cream and comfortable cushions and corners. he who came into existence to be my cat, to live with me and attach himself to | me, to be dependent upon my good will for home and shelter, for food and bed and warmth and kindness, so neither do I know the maple leaves nor the leaves of grass that lift themselves to rain and sun. l know tnem-and a thousand other things by sight. Now and again I catch glfmpses of the in- dividuaffty that is the innermost es- sence of each; and I love them be- cause they are, in the world of nature, my neighbors and friends. In a limit ed sense know them intimately Ev cry leaf on every tree mods a good morning greeting to me, every blade of grass bids me listen to hear it grow: every speck of the dust of the road tells it has been something else and is on it's way to become something more; the air breathes Its caressesr the winds are rough and ready play-fei- lows, the wild flowers scatter delica- cy and bloom over cross country ram bIes, the birds of the woods are friend ly and uDafraid the stars of evening twinkle and sparkle or shine serene as they mount the curve or the blue. Down under all, the bare, green earth is good to walk upon Because l know them all I love them; because love them, I would gladly know them better and deeper. Yet the mystery of the heart and soul and life of living things is an impenetrable to me, to- day. as to the first who ever besought of Mother Nature her guarded secrets, her treasured reserves.
 Kit-Kat is tired of listening, and bored by my queStionings. He is dain- tily stepping away over the green, wet lawn on his velvety white paws. Nothing ever stains the whiteness of them. not even the wanton slaughter of young robins. venturing forth upon first flight from the nest.
 Oh, to be a birdI To go singing and Winging ones way up and up and up. into the high, deep. ambient sky! l love my friendly earth, the homely, brown, foot trodden earth. Neverthe- less, I should like now and then to spurn it with winged feet,to soar above it and fly high up to see what is there. love my elms and naples, my birches and beeches and oaks. Yet long to be higher than they, to be lift ed high up over them, and to look down upon their tip-tops. as the birds do, from the azure of the air. Gladly knowing that I could return to my nest beneath their branches at a call, like the birds, I long for the heights upon heights far above, the vast, ex- porable and unexpiorable spaces up to which I might. little by little, wing my way.
 I wander, brother mine. if this is what am doing now, what all are do- ing. We seem to be merely plodding; never soaring, nor even flying, but plodding along day by day. Is the journey long? Yes, but pleasant, and we would not shorten 1t if we could. Are we foot-sore and weary? Yes, sometimes, perhaps. But the bare. brown old earth is warm and soft and mother We know her well and are at home with her, for she it is that cradles and warns and feeds us, and tucks us in. The plodding is good while plodding it must be, even as the soaring flight will be good when it comes. And the day by day plod- ding along is not without hope, when we can feel our bird wings growing.
 THE RECLUSE.