The Daily Ardmoreite. [volume] (Ardmore, Okla.) 1893-current, 1918-09-19

Charles Lamb mas put niinSelt on
record as mot much friend to out
of-door reading" but then, no one
would expect him to be. Lovablest
OF all Cockneys, we want him to be
nothing but himself. Yet, as DR..
Johnson, his jurisdiction lies entire
ly within the city limits, and no two
were ever so out OF court on the
subject of green fields" of which
no other than that adorable rascal
Falstaff "babbled' even in death.
so those OF us who like reading
out of doors need not let our hearts
be troubled. 1t is not necessary to
agree with great men all the time.
and, on this matter, we have no few
with us. Others, neither great nor
famous, but merely our familiar
friends and acquaintance tell us
that nature is good enough without
books. A book. say they, is as much
out-of-place in the fields as tobacco
smoke. TO sickly DER nature with
the pale cast OF literature is like
smoking strong cigar in lane per-
iumed with honeysuckle.
Still in this we have. a powerful
witness for the defence in Walt
Whitman. who, in one OF his prose
personals. tells us that he always
took a book out with him on his
walks, though, he added, he seldom
read it, Exactly, | amagine, like
most OF us. When we take a book
out-of-doors with us, it is not for
the purpose OF information. 1t is
merely to have with us a silent
spiritual companion to hold by the
hand. Usually it is book we
know by heart, one that we are sure
OF Ginning in with the mood of the
moment.
have never yet heard of anyone
taking Euclid thus out for a walk.
Certainly he would seem the strang-
est comparison to choose for quiet
hour i'll garden-but on the other
hand, how many books there are
that one can imagine reading no
where else than in a garden-Spen-
ser's Faerie Queene, for example,
book filled with pictures OF gar
dens; OF which here is one
There the most daintie Paradise on
ground
1t selfe doth offer to his sober eye.
In which all pleasures plenteous!y
abound,
And none does others happiness
enoye;
The painted flowers, the trees up
shooting hye,
The dale for shade, the hills tor
-- breathing space,
The trembling groves, the christall
running by
Theocritus is another poet to be
read in garden, and there is scarce
" another garden in books lovelier
than this is his twelfth idyll, thus
perfectly translated by Andrew
Lang:
Then he bent his way to the lett
and took the road to Pvxa, while |
and Emeritus. with beautiful Amyn,
tas, turned to the far moi Phrasi-
demus. There we reclined on deep
beds OF fragrant lentisk, lowly
strewn, and rejoicing we lay IN new
stript leaves OF the vine. And high
above our heads waved many pop
lar. many an elm tree, while close at
hand the sacred water from the
nymphs' own cave welled forth with
murmurs musical. On shadowy
boughs the burnt cicadas kept their
toll; far off the little owl
cried in the thick thorn bralle; the
larks and finches were singing, the
ring-dove moaned, the yellow bees
were fitting about the springs. All
breathed the scent of the opulent
summ... OF the season OF fruits;
pears at our feet and apples by our
sides were rolling plentiful; the ten
der branches, with wild plums laden,
were earthward bowed" ="
Poetry and romances are perhaps
the best books for the garden,
though certain inspiring or tran
QUILTING essayists are very much in
place there; but the book we read
in the garden, whatever its nature,
should always have a certain beauty
and dignity about it. If we leave
our book behind us on the marble
seat by the lotus-pond with the
rustling overhead, as some