As the squirrels disappeared, the girl laughed--a low laugh of fellowship with the creatures of the wilderness--in complete understanding of their humor.

Then--as though following the path of a sunbeam--two gorgeously brown and yellow winged butterflies came flitting through the draperies of virgin's-bower, and floated in zigzag flight about the glade--now high among the alder boughs; now low over the tops of the roses and berry-bushes; down to the fragrant mint at the water's edge; and up again to the tops of the willows, as if to leave the glade; but only to return again to the vines that covered the bank, and to the flowers that, here and there, starred the grassy sward.
"Oh!"-- cried the girl impulsively, as the beautiful winged creatures disappeared at last,--"if people could only be like that! It's so hard to be yourself in the world.

Everybody, there, seems trying to be something they are not.

No one dares to be just themselves.

Everything, up here, is so right--so true--so just what it is--and down there, everything tries so hard to be just what it is not.