The soft summer wind stirs the redwoods, and Wild-Water ripples sweet cadences overits mossy stones. There are butterflies in the sunshine, and from everywhere arises thedrowsy hum of bees. It is so quiet and peaceful, and I sit here, and ponder, and am restless.It is the quiet that makes me restless. It seems unreal. All the world is quiet, but it is thequiet before the storm. I strain my ears, and all my senses, for some betrayal of thatimpending storm. Oh, that it may not be premature That it may not be premature *
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