"After all," I said to myself, "it is I that ought to be
ejected." Acting on this conclusion, and without waiting for the
service of process of formal dislodgment, I have let the fire go out,
opened the windows, locked the door, and put myself into the hands of
my old friend, Nature, for refreshment and society. I find that I have
come a little prematurely, although my welcome has been even warmer
than it would have been later.
"This is what I like," my old friend seemed to say. "You have not
waited until I have set my house in order and embellished my grounds.
You have come because you love me even more than my surroundings. I
have a good many friends who know me only from May to October: the rest
of the year they give me cold glances of surprised recognition, or they
pass me by without so much as a look. Their ardent devotion in summer
fills me with a deep disdain; their admiration for great masses of
colour, for high, striking effects, and for the general lavishness and
prodigality of my passing mood, betrays their lack of discernment,
their defect of taste, and their slight acquaintance with myself. I
should much prefer that they would leave my woods and fields untrodden,
and not disturb my mountain solitudes with their ignorant and vulgar
raptures. The people who really know me and love me seek me oftener at
other seasons, when I am more at leisure, and can bid them to a more
intimate companionship.
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