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diff --git a/old/65511-0.txt b/old/65511-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7e186cf..0000000 --- a/old/65511-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1525 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of This Then is Upland Pastures, by Adeline -Knapp - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: This Then is Upland Pastures - Being some out-door essays dealing with the beautiful things - that the spring and summer bring - -Author: Adeline Knapp - -Release Date: June 4, 2021 [eBook #65511] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIS THEN IS UPLAND PASTURES *** - - - - - THIS THEN IS - UPLAND PASTURES - - BEING SOME OUT-DOOR - ESSAYS DEALING WITH - THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS - THAT THE SPRING AND - SUMMER BRING ☘ ☘ ☘ - - - By ADELINE KNAPP - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - - Done into a book at the Roycroft Printing Shop in East Aurora, New York - - MDCCCXCVII - - - - - Copyrighted by - The Roycroft Printing Shop - 1897 - - - - - ❧ OF THIS EDITION THERE WERE - PRINTED BUT SIX HUNDRED COPIES - ☘ EACH BOOK IS SIGNED AND NUMBERED: - THIS BOOK IS NUMBER _101_ - - - - -When the warm rains succeed winter’s driving downpours, and the young -grass begins to mantle the meadows ❦ with tender green, is the time, of -all the year, to be out of doors ❧ All the woodsy places are cool and -dripping and dim and delicious. A month later they will be not less -beautiful, perhaps, but less approachable. The things of Nature grow -sophisticated as the season advances. In the early springtime they are -frank and confiding, and willingly tell the secrets of their growth to -him who asks ✪ They have time, in these first beginnings of things, for -friendly sociability: to show their tiny roots and bulbs, and let us -study the delicate, gracious unfoldings of leaf and bud and blossom. In -a few weeks they will all be too busy, keeping up with the season’s -swift march, to stop and visit with the lovingest of human friends. - -[Illustration] - -Do we forget, from springtime to springtime, how lovely will be the -year’s awakening? Each winter of our discontent I think that I remember, -as my longing imagination looks forward, the tender charm of the -springtime wonder, yet with each recurring year it comes to me as a new -and unknown joy ❦ - -The whole world seems to welcome the new year-child. Even before the -first growths appear there is a hushed awareness throughout Nature that -moves the heart to thankfulness and remembered expectation ❦ The hope of -springtime comes without stint, and without fail, bringing each one of -us the message his heart is prepared to receive, and quickening our -purest, least sordid impulses. The best that is in us seems possible, in -the springtime. Who of us does not then dream that this best will yet -gain strength to withstand the heat and drouth of summer’s fierce -searching? We turn to Mother Nature like children who long to be good. -The worshipping instinct that lies deep within each soul goes out to -her, vesting her in that personality which we have long since pronounced -unthinkable when applied to God. There is a suggestion in the situation -that is not without a certain saving humor to relieve it from -grotesqueness. We are not far from a personal god when we send our souls -out in loving contemplation of personified Nature, yet we still go on -asking if God is, and if He is Truth. Whom do we ask, and why does the -question rise? If God is Truth, He must be universal; and to be -perceived by each soul for himself ❧ If, then, I perceive him not, -either He is not the truth or else I am simple and sincere in desiring -the truth. If He is not the truth, do I then desire human persuasion -that He is? Or, if I am not simple and sincere, who can make me so? - - -Nature will help us if we turn to her. We have filled our lives so full -of complexities and problems that it is well for us to have her annual -reminder that even without our taking thought about it the real world, -that will be here when we, with all our busyness, shall have passed from -sight, has renewed itself, and stands bidding us come and find peace. - -For Nature keeps open house for us, and even when we visit her and leave -a trail of dust and desolation behind us, like the stupid, untidy -children we are, she only sets herself, with the silent, persistent -patience of her age-wise motherhood, to cover and remove it. Down in the -canyon, this morning, among the trillium and loosestrife and wild -potato, I found the inevitable tin can left by some picnicker to mar and -desecrate the landscape, but now completely filled with soft brown mold, -and growing in it a mass of happy green wood-sorrel ❧ - -This is better than going at things with a broom, gathering them up and -removing them from one place to another, which is about as far as we -humans have progressed in our science of cleaning up ❧ I was glad to -welcome the trillium. How one loves its quaint old name of wake-robin, -fitting title for this first harbinger of spring, that comes to us even -before the robin’s note is heard. Many of our common wild-flowers have -several names, but there is none with such invariably pretty ones as all -ages have united in bestowing upon wake-robin. Birth-root, our -forefathers called it, seeing the birth of the new year in its early -blossoming, and how many generations have known it as the -trinity-flower! But ’tis best known, I think, as wake-robin, and the -very breath of spring is in the name. - -[Illustration: ❦] - - - - -A member of the great lily family is wake-robin ☙ It loves damp, shady -places and moist, rich valleys. On the Pacific Coast we do not find the -typical Eastern variety, but we have a variety of our own, tho’ -unmistakably wake-robin. Its color varies from rich madder-red to -pale-pink, sometimes almost white. It grows from a thick, tuber-like -root, and the calyx has, surrounding its three red petals and three -green sepals, three broad, mottled-green leaves which, for some -unaccountable reason, our florists remove when they offer the flower for -sale. A strange whimsy, this. The poor blossoms, thus denuded, have a -bewildered, self-conscious air, such as may have been worn by the little -egg-selling woman of old, who awoke from her nap by the king’s highway -to find her petticoats shorn. Well may wake-robin thus question its own -identity. It is no longer the trillium of the forest: it is only the -trillium of commerce, a sad, unlovely object ❧ - -[Illustration] - -A bank where wake-robin lifts its bonny head is always fair to see. The -plant has certain boon companions always sure to be close at hand. The -Solomon’s seal is one of these, its roots bearing to this day the round -marks imagined by the early foresters to be none other than the seal of -Solomon, the son of David, (on both of whom be peace!) ❧ There is no -more exquisite green than the beautiful, shining leaves of this plant, -with its tiny white bells of flowers. It has a near relative almost -always growing near it, that, with singular paucity of imagination, our -botanists have called “False Solomon’s Seal.” - - -Now we reveal our mental habits through this trick we have of falsifying -plants. We say “false” asphodel, “false” rice, “false” hellebore, -“false” spikenard and mitrewort, but the falsity is in our own vain -imaginings. The plants are as true as the earth that bears them, or the -rain and the sunshine that bring them to perfection. The Solomon’s seal -is one lily, the “false” Solomon’s seal another. Man may be false, -“perilous Godheads of choosing” are his, but the wild things of the -woods are true, each in the order of its nature ❧ There are no -complexities or subtilities about wake-robin, here by the streamside. -You may see it at a glance, for its principles are brief and -fundamental, as wise old Marcus Aurelius bids us let our own be, and -yet, the plant has had its vicissitudes; has met and solved its -problems. Reasoning from analogies, time must have been when, like -others of its great family, it grew in the water, floating out its broad -leaves, lolling at ease on the surface of swampy, watery places and -still ponds. Times changed. Lands rose and waters subsided, and -wake-robin found itself in the midst of new conditions. The problem of -self-support confronted it, and the plant solved it by divesting from -its broad, sustaining sepals nutriment to enable the long, swaying stem -to meet the new demands upon it. It still loves water and seeks cool, -damp woods and deep canyons, growing beside little streams where it -lifts its face to greet the springtime. It is probably not so big as -when it rested luxuriously upon the water, but it is wake-robin, still, -and it does more than summon the birds: it calls each of us back to -Nature, bidding us keep our hearts and souls alive to see, with each -renewing of springtime, and to love afresh, the miracles of Nature’s -redemptive force. - -[Illustration: ❦] - - - - -The beauty of springtime, like the beauty of childhood, is always new. -All about me the things of Nature are still in the mystical, subtile -tenderness of their young, green growth. The golden days of autumn are -full of their own beauty. The grey days of winter’s mist and fog have -theirs, but there is something in the tender blue days of the rainy -springtime that sets the heart apraise, and ☙ brings out as nothing else -can, the meanings of leaf and bud, of flower and tree. It is raining, -now. Up above me, on the road, several picnickers who have been caught -in this April shower are hurrying to shelter ❧ They look down curiously -at me, here under the willow, and I have some misgiving as to whether -they are not setting an example that I should follow ❦ But I am sure -that it is a great mistake always to know enough to go in when it rains. -One may keep snug and dry by such knowledge, but one misses a world of -loveliness. There is, after all, a certain selective wisdom that sees -the desirability of taking the showers as they come. - - -There is something peculiarly tender and loving about an April shower. -One is so fully conscious, even while the drops are falling, that the -sun is shining behind the light clouds. And the drops themselves come -down so gently, tentatively offering themselves, as it were, to the -welcoming earth—pattering lightly on the leaves, and softly rippling the -surface of the little pool under the willows. That is a wonderful sort -of comparison the Hebrew poet gives us when he likens the teaching of -truth to the small rain upon the tender herb: the showers upon the green -grass ☙ - -The young colt in the stall, yonder, thrusts an eager head over the -half-door, and with soft black muzzle in the air, stands with open mouth -to catch the delicious trickle. The cattle on the hills seem glad of the -wetting. Even the birds have not sought shelter, and why should I? ☘ I -love to watch the leaves of the trees and plants, in the rain. They tell -us so many secrets about the life of which they are a part. Why, for -instance, does this pond lily spread out its broad, pleasant leaves upon -the water’s surface, while its cousin the brodeia has long, narrow, -grass-like leaves? Why do the leaves of the pungent wormwood, here, -stand rigidly pointing upwards, while those of this big oak are spread -out before the descending rain? - - -Watch the wormwood. See how the raindrops quiver for an instant on the -tips of the pinnate leaves, then follow one another in a mad chase down -the groove that traverses the center of each leaf. Notice that the leaf -itself rises from three ridges on the stem of the plant, and that -between these ridges lie shallow grooves down which the raindrops run to -the plant’s root. Now, we can tell from these signs what sort of a root -the wormwood has. I never pulled one of the plants, but I am sure that -if we were to do so we should find it to have a main tap-root, with no -branches. All such plants have leaves pointing upwards, and grooved -stems, admirably adapted to bring water to the thirsty roots. The beets -and the radishes afford us capital examples of this provision ❧ - -This alfileria has another arrangement of leaf, for this same purpose. -It is a widely spreading forage-plant, with an absurdly small root. It -needs a great deal of moisture, and so its stems are thickly set with -soft, fuzzy hairs, that catch the water and convey it to the root ❧ -Growing all along the bank is the little chickweed, with its tiny white -star of a blossom. If it were not so common we should wax enthusiastic -over its beauty, and seek it for our garden borders. It has a running, -thread-like root, which receives the raindrops caught by the stem in a -single row of tiny hairs along its lower side, and sprinkled gently -down. - -[Illustration: ❧] - -[Illustration] - - - - -When a plant has a spreading root such as the willow, yonder, sends -down, the leaves spread outward and downward, from base to tip, letting -their gathered moisture down upon it. When the plant grows under water -its leaves are long and thread-like; for the supply of carbon is -limited, and they divide minutely, that the greatest possible surface -may be exposed to absorb it. If the stem grows until the leaves reach -the surface of the water they broaden and spread out, for here they get -an abundant food supply which they may freely appropriate, as none of it -need be diverted to build up a supporting stem. The water affords the -leaves ample support ❧ The grasses grow in blades for the same reason -that the plants growing under water put out slender, thread-like leaves. -The air-supply would seem abundant, but the grass-leaves are many, and -low-growing plants are numerous. So they divide and sub-divide, that -greater surface may be presented to the sunlight and the air. In this -form the blades are fittest to obtain their necessary food supply and -thus to survive. We see this same tendency in the leaves of the wild -poppy, the buttercup and all the great crowfoot family. Across the road -stretches a line of locusts, just now in dainty, snowy, fragrant -blossom. The individuality of a tree is a constant and delightful fact -in Nature. The locust is as unlike the oak or the willow as can well be -imagined, yet like them in taking on an added and characteristic -loveliness in the rain. How delicately the branches pencil themselves -against the blue and silver of the cloudy sky and the dark green of the -orchard beyond them! The leaves have such a purely incidental air. The -lines of the tree were, themselves, lovely enough in their green and -mossy wetness, to delight the eye. To deck them so laceywise in an -openwork of leaf and blossom was beneficent gratuity on the part of -Mother Nature, for the pleasing of her children. - - -Down below, where the creek widens, the sycamores have grown to great -size. How they help the heart, these gnarly giants, with the white -patches against the greys and blacks of their rough trunks! ❧ How they -spread their patches against the sky and beckon and point the beholder -upwards. The sylvan prophet bears a promise of good, and demands of -every passer-by the query of the wise old stoic: “Who is he that shall -hinder thee from being good and simple?” - -Over the rounded hill, stealing softly, in Indian file, through the -mist, a row of eucalyptus trees climb, fringing up the slopes. These -ladies of the hilltop have a fashion of growing thus, and in no other -position is their delicate, suggestive beauty more apparent. The -eucalyptus is an original genius among trees, never repeating itself. It -stands for endless variety, for strong good cheer, for faith that seeks -and reaches and goes on, never wavering ❧ It blesses as well as delights -its friends. I love its wonderful, ever varying leaves, its up-reaching, -outstretching branches, and the annual surprise of its mystic -blossoming. Each tree is distinct and individual in its growth, yet -every one is typical of the genus. - - -It is a tree of the wind and the storm. See how those in yonder group -sway and courtesy, bow and beckon, advance and retreat in the light -breeze! And the rain does such marvels to them in the way of color, -tinting the leaves into wondrous things of glistening black-and-silver, -and bringing out exquisite, evasive greens and browns, red and rose -colors, tender blues and greys, from the trunks and branches ☘ All the -things of Nature are for man’s use and joy, but perhaps they serve their -very highest use when we return God thanks for their beauty ❦ - -Yes, I am sure that there is a wisdom wiser than the prudence which -sends us in out of the rain. The flowers and the grasses teach us more -than has ever been put between the covers of books. The trees bring us -the real news of the real world long before they are crushed into pulp -and made into the paper on which is printed our morning service from the -scandal monger and the stock broker. It was heralded as a marvelous -triumph of modern ingenuity when, the other day, a forest tree was cut -down and made into paper on which the news of the world was printed and -hawked along the streets within four and one-half hours from the moment -when the axe was laid at the root of the tree. Marvelously clever, that, -but shall we ever be wise enough to bring the trees themselves to the -city, instead? If we were but able to read the message they bear, the -newspaper might go away into outer darkness, whence it sprang. - - -[Illustration] - -There is a fearful moment of reckoning before us should it ever chance -that when all our trees shall have been sacrificed on the altar of the -patron-fiend of news, the newspaper supply shall suddenly be cut off and -we find ourselves some fine morning minus our tidbits of shame and -failure and disaster, left to the companionship of our own thoughts ☘ -Dante never imagined a terror like this ❧ - -But the sun has come out again. The rain is over and gone. Only the last -treasured drops chase one another along the leaves and down the stems of -the plants. Our picnickers are venturing forth ❧ The wet blades of grass -sparkle in the sunlight. Over on the bank a ruby-throated hummer is -flying back and forth across a tiny stream that patters and splashes -against a rock. These morsels of birds love a shower-bath and this -fellow now has one exactly to his mind. The clouds have drifted down the -sky and everything seems glad and grateful for “the useful trouble of -the rain.” - -[Illustration: ❦] - - - - -Once upon a time man conceived the belief that this universe, with its -many worlds swinging through space, was created for him. He fancied that -the sun shone by day to warm and vivify him; that the stars of night -were none other than lamps to his feet; that the other animals existed -to afford him food and clothing—and sport; that the very flowers of the -field blossomed and fruited and were beautiful for his gratification. In -fact, man conceived the belief that instead of being the wise brother -and helper of this creation amidst which he moves, he was the great -central pivot upon which all revolves ☘ - -[Illustration] - -A sorry lesson, surely, for man to read into the broad, open page of -Nature’s great book. Small wonder that to him in his meanness its -message came as “the painful riddle of the earth.” But it was the best -he could do: it is the best any of us can do until we have learned the -great lesson which the ancient Wise One has written out for us—which she -will teach us, in time, through death, if we will not let her teach it -through life: the lesson that use is not appropriation; that -appropriation sets use to groan and sweat under fardels of evil ❧ - -We are learning this lesson, with a bad grace, like blundering school -boys, fumbling at our hornbook, stuttering and stammering over the -alphabet of life, the while our minds wander stupidly off to the -playthings of our unholy civilization. Perhaps some day we shall spell -out something of this riddle which we have made so painful, and with the -lesson get somewhat of the humility that comes with knowing ❧ - -But now man does not read the book of Nature to much better purpose than -he reads those other volumes, written by himself, and bought by himself, -in bulk, to adorn his libraries: portly tomes to which he may point with -pride as evidence that at least his shelves hold wisdom, tho’ his head -may never. - - -I use no figure of speech when I say that we may now buy our books in -bulk. I saw, only this morning, the advertisement of a large dry goods -“emporium” (’tis laces and literature now) wherein is announced for sale -the bound volumes of a popular magazine. “Over eight pounds of the -choicest reading, bound in the usual style—olive green.” ❧ - -Nature has olive greens, too, in styles usual and unusual, and she has -marvelous messages for her lovers, but she cannot be bought in bulk, nor -put upon shelves, nor even carried in the head until she first be -received into the heart ❧ A little flaxen haired girl brought me, this -morning, a pure white buttercup on the stem with three yellow ones. - -“See,” she said, “Here is one buttercup they forgot to paint.” ❧ - -I took the flower from her hand. I could not tell her just how it -happened that this one perianth was white, but I explained to her -something of how the others came to be yellow ☙ What we call a flower is -not, usually, the flower at all, but merely its petals. The real flower -is the cluster, in the center of the calyx, of pistils and their -surrounding pollen-bearing stamens. Away back in the ages when man had -not yet developed his æsthetic sense, perhaps even before he had learned -to make fire, the primitive flower bore only these pistils and stamens, -with a little outer protective whorl of green petals. It was fertilized -by the pollen falling upon the pistils. - - -But this was not good for the plant. Those flowers that in some way -became fertilized by pollen from other plants of the same variety, by -cross-fertilization, in fact, were healthier and stronger than those -fertilized by their own pollen. In such plants as wind-blown pollen -reached this cross-fertilization was an easy matter, but the buttercup -is not one of these. It is forced to rely upon insects for -fertilization. So the plant began to secrete a sweet drop at the base of -each green petal. Such insects as discovered this nectar and stopped to -sip were dusted with the pollen of the plant and carried it to other -flowers, where it fertilized the pistils, the insect gathering from -every blossom a fresh burden of pollen to be carried along on his -nectar-seeking round. This was very good, so far as it went, but the -flowers were pale and inconspicuous, and many of them, overlooked by the -insects, were never visited. Certain ones, however, owing to accidents -or conditions of soil and moisture, had the calyx a little larger, or -brighter colored than their fellows, and these the insects found. It -happened, therefore, if anything ever does merely happen, that the -flowers with bright petals were fertilized, and their descendants were -even brighter colored. Thus, in time, the buttercup, by the process -which, for lack of a better name, we call natural selection, came to -have bright yellow petals, because these attract the insect best adapted -to fertilize it ☙ If man’s æsthetic sense is gratified by the flower’s -beauty, why man is by so much the better off, but that man is pleased by -the bright color is not half so important to the buttercup as is the -pleasure of a certain little winged beetle which sees the shining golden -cup and knows that it means honey ☘ In the same way the lupin, yonder, -with its pretty blue and white blossoms, has developed its blue petals -because it is fertilized by the bees. They seek it as they do other -blossoms, not only for honey, but for the pollen itself, which stands -them in place of bread ☙ The very shape of the flower is due to the -visits of countless generations of this insect. The bee is the insect -best adapted to fertilize the lupin, and when he alights upon the -threshold of a blossom his weight draws the lower petal down, and -entering to suck the sweets he gets his head dusted with pollen. If a -fly were to gain entrance to the flower, he would carry away no pollen. -He is smaller than the bee, and his head could not reach it. So -honey-seeking flies alight in vain; their weight is not enough to press -the calyx open, so they may not enter and drink of its sweets. Yonder on -a blossom of the mimulus, the odd-looking monkey-plant, a honeybee just -had this same experience. The bumblebee is the only insect that is large -enough to reach the pollen in this blossom, and so its doors will open -only to him. Botanists tell us that all this great family, to which -belong the various peas blossoms and their cousins, were once -five-petaled plants, but natural selection has brought about their -present shape, which is an admirable protection against the depredations -of small insects that could only rob but could not fertilize the -flowers ❧ - -[Illustration] - -Blue is the favorite color of the honeybee, and next to blue he prefers -red. So bee blossoms are blue or red. - - -Most of our small white flowers are fertilized by insects that fly at -night. This is the reason why white blossoms are more fragrant than -their bright-hued sisters. Bright colors could not be seen at night, but -the fragrance of the white flowers, always more noticeable by night than -by day, serves the same end—to attract the useful insects. This is an -essential part of Nature’s wonderful plan. The flower lives by giving ☙ - -There is an endless fascination in this page which Nature opens out -before us, in her upland pastures. A wise teacher once told me his -experience with a restless, unmanageable boy ☙ “I could do nothing with -him,” the teacher said, “until I got him interested in field life.” One -day this boy went off on a holiday tramp, returning the day following. -His teacher asked him what he had seen, and this is what he remembered -of his outing: “I camped in a field for the night,” said he, “and I saw -a bee light on a poppy and crawl in. The poppy shut up and caught him. -Next morning I woke up early and watched, and by and by the poppy opened -and the bee came out.” ☙ There are those who might have missed the -sacred significance of such a narrative, but that teacher was a very -wise man and he knew that the reading lesson given him then was a page -from his rough boy’s soul-life, and he conned it with reverent delight. -Life together was more real for them both after that day. - - -The keener our realization of the human love that is in the flowers, in -the trees, in all the wild life about us, the richer is our humanity, -the fuller our reception of life and love, the more thoughtful our use -of all the things of Nature becomes ❧ Once I saw an oriole weaving some -bits of string into his nest. He hung head downwards, by one string, -from a projecting branch, and worked, for nearly an hour, with beak and -claws. Then he flew away, triumphant. Later I saw his nest and -understood his action. He tied two pieces of string together in a very -respectable sort of knot: had wound the long cord thus obtained in and -out among the meshes of his nest and then, giving it a half-hitch about -a twig, had brought the free end up and tied it securely to another -small branch ❧ - -I felt grateful for what that bird had accomplished. All human -achievements seemed to me worthier after seeing him do this thing. -Nature teaches us so much if we will but keep still long enough to let -her: if we will only empty ourselves of conceit and knowingness, and get -rid of the notion that all things, Nature included, are made for us. We -are not the lords of creation. We are only a small part, albeit the -highest part, of it all, and the better we learn this lesson the better -men and women we shall become. - -[Illustration: ❦] - -[Illustration] - - - - -I was sitting here beside the stream, watching the bees swarm in and out -at the entrance to their hive, when Hercules passed by. “Come and watch -the bees,” I called as he passed. “They are interesting.” ☘ - -He stood and studied the busy workers, intent upon the business of their -miniature society ☘ - -“I wonder,” he said at last, “if our human reason shall ever evolve a -system half so perfect as the one that mere instinct has taught these -feeble insects.” As I was silent he continued: - -“Well, at all events, I can learn one lesson from the bees, and be about -my business. If society is ever to be freed from its burdens every soul -must do its full duty. One life wasted means a whole world hindered just -that much.” And Hercules was gone to his labors ❧ - -How fearful we all are of wasting our lives, yet so rarely fearful for -the results of the ceaseless activity with which we crowd them ❦ But -Hercules’ words are full of suggestiveness. Is our boasted human reason -really less adequate to the needs of our life than is what we call the -instinct, this thing that looks so much more reasonable than our reason, -of the lower orders? What if, after all, we are making a desperate -mistake in supposing that it is this faculty which we call reason that -distinguishes us from the brute creation? - - -It is because the bees and the other dumb creatures have nothing more -than this measure of reason which we call instinct, that it serves them -perfectly. Man has something else, that draws him higher; that prompts -him further. But alas for us! With the destiny to live perfectly as -human beings, we yet long for the restrictions through which we may live -perfectly as the beasts. We seek our lessons from the brutes while the -Eternal waits to teach us. We cannot live like the beasts. The divine -human spark within us will not let us. We must live higher than they or -we shall live lower, for our perfection of order is infinitely higher -than theirs, and our failure immeasurably lower than they can sink ❧ - -But we go on, we modern Athenians, seeking to ameliorate the conditions -we have brought upon society by our own stupid disobedience and -inhumanity, and only now and then do we have a faint suspicion that our -newest thoughts are but mere rephrasings of ideas old as thought -itself ❧ - -Men get these new sets of phrases and dress therein the ideas that -underlie the universe. We apply the terms of science to the old faiths -and think we have invented a new religion. We find new names for God -Himself, and believe ourselves to have discovered a new life-principle ☙ -Loving the neighbor becomes enlightened altruism, and lo, faith is born -anew, with a subtiler power to redeem the world. - - -[Illustration] - -Hercules is a Socialist. He always spells society with a great S, and he -declares in the present state of Society we can take no thought for -individuals ☘ “The individual may perish,” he says, in moments of -eloquence, “but the integrity of Society must be jealously -maintained.” ☙ - -I wonder, as I sit here watching the bees, whether Society might not, -after all, find easement from its ails if each individual of us, myself -and Hercules included, should pay strict attention to our individual -business of growing, or becoming humanized? ✪ - -Just here at my hand a bee has alighted and is burying its nose in a -clover blossom. Here is an example of a life that is lived only for -Society, yet so important is the individual in the opinion of this -highly perfected body social, that I have seen half a dozen bees, when a -laden worker has arrived at the hive opening, weighted down, too -exhausted to do other than drop, helpless, upon the threshold, rush to -its assistance, relieve it of its heavy load and help it to pass within -to gather strength for further effort. The strict individualist -complains, in turn, of the bees because they have no individual life; no -existence separate from the hive. This is true, but what higher -individuality can any creature desire than is comprised and summed up in -the divine opportunity to bring his individual gift to the common store? - - -I have picked the clover blossom that the bee just left. Beside it are -growing other blossoms, and I gather a couple. They are the veriest -wayside weeds—dandelion and dog-fennel—but they are important because -they are typical representatives of the largest order in the floral -kingdom; an order which, although it was the last to appear in the -vegetable world, has outstripped every other and leads them all today. -Botanists call it the Composite Order. Its members are really floral -socialists, just as Hercules and the rest of us who believe that -government is an order of nature, and good for the race, are human -socialists, whether we know it or not. - - -But most of us hold a mistaken idea about the relation of the individual -to the whole. We are apt to theorize that it is the duty of the -individual to keep the whole in order, and a good many of us are fully -convinced that the world owes us a living. So it does, and it behooves -each one of us to be faithful in discharging his individual share of the -aggregate debt ❧ Nature has a whole page about that in her wonderful -volume ❧ - -Take, for instance, this clover. What we call the blossom is, in -reality, many blossoms ☙ Look at the mass under a glass. You will see -that the clover head is made up of numerous minute cups in a compact -cluster. Each cup is a perfect blossom. As we now see it in the clover -it is a tiny tube, but it once possessed five slender petals which are -now united ☙ The little pointed scollops that rim the cup suggest these -petals. Now, the tiny cup is descended from a five-petaled ancestor, -growing upon its individual stem and depending upon insects for its -fertilization. The flower was small, however, and many of them must have -been overlooked by the insects ❧ - -But those blossoms that, growing very close together, formed little -clusters, were more conspicuous than the solitary ones, and were -discovered, visited for their honey and incidentally fertilized by the -winged freebooters. These blossoms bore fruit and their descendants -inherited the social instinct prompting them to draw together that each -might give the other its help and co-operation in attracting the -insects. So, by degrees, the co-operative habit became fixed in the -clover, and in many other plants, until the compositæ became a botanical -fact. In other words, the individuals formed a body social of their own, -growing from a compact cluster from a common stem, each giving and -receiving, constantly, its use and share in the common life. The -many-petaled flowers found it inconvenient to arrange themselves in the -composite order, and so, as we see in the clover, the petals have -pressed closely together and united to form a tube-shaped flower, and as -the tubular form is best adapted to receive fertilization by the bee, -which insect is the most useful to the clover blossom, that form has -been perpetuated in this plant. - - -Thus by the simple process of each individual giving itself to the -common life, the mutual protection and development of the whole, this -order of plants has become the largest in the floral kingdom. The -compositæ have circled the globe. They fill our hothouses and flourish -in our gardens; they greet us by the dusty road, and in the summer -woods. The lovely golden-rod, the sturdy asters, the aristocratic -chrysanthemums, the dainty daisies all belong to this great order. So -does helianthus, the big, beaming sunflower. - - -It is quite true that each blossom of the compositæ has given its life -to the race. But what if, after all, life with our fellows is a giving -instead of the receiving we are wont to think it? ❧ What if, after all, -the true outlook upon Society will one day show us that our neighbor is -put here that we may have the great, the inestimable joy of living for -him? ❧ - -All matter is made up of molecules, Science tells us, and there is -another Voice as of one having authority, which tells us that One hath -made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell upon the face of the -earth ❧ - -[Illustration] - -We humans are but larger molecules in the body social. We live only in -so far as the common life flows through us. We never fully, in our -plans, and by a wonderful provision of Divine Wisdom we cannot give one -another that which is really and unmistakably our own. No human thought, -even, ever traveled a straight course from one human soul to another and -was received exactly as it was sent. We live our lives each within the -molecular envelope of his individual body, and we can no more mix, in -reality, than the molecules mix. We live only in the flux and reflux of -the Life of all, and only as we pass this on have power to receive. - - -It is when life is fullest that we turn to our fellows. Those of us who -are true know that then we need them most, and so, our real drawings -together are in order that we may give. We know this in that secret part -of us where lies what most of us call our human weakness, but we are -faithless to the knowledge, and choose to live on a lower plane, within -that outer circle which we call knowing ☙ We think we come together to -receive, but who of us does not know the emptiness of death that lies in -such coming? We are all a little better than this. In secret we know -that it is more blessed to give than receive, but we are ashamed of the -knowledge ❦ - -We are less simple and true than the dandelion, the dog-fennel and the -sweet-clover here in the grass. The small common blossoms grow so -cheerily one is glad to come back to them. It is true that not one wee -tube or strap or head in any cluster could have much life outside the -aggregate blossom, but the integrity and perfection of each is an -essential factor in the integrity and perfection of the whole. The tiny -single flower that I can pull from this dandelion seems but an -insignificant speck, but, by and by, could it have been let alone, it -would, its ripeness and perfection attained, have taken to itself wings -and sailed fluffily off upon the breeze to renew its life perhaps a -thousand miles from here. Seeing it float through the air a poet might -have found it a theme for a sonnet. A scientist might have seen -universal law embodied in its structure, or a seer have reasoned from it -to life eternal. - - -[Illustration] - -Yet, but for the co-operation of its fellows in the body floral, it -could not have lived any more than, save for its fellows, what we know -as the dandelion could have lived. The law of co-operation, like all of -Nature’s laws, makes for rightness and fitness all along the line ⚜ She -teaches us, with ever-repeated emphasis, the lesson of independence of -kind. The isolated being is, everywhere, the comparatively helpless -being. The tree growing by itself in the open field often attains to -more symmetrical perfection and beauty than the tree in the crowded -forest, but woodmen tell us that the forest tree makes better timber ☙ - -We must live with and for our fellows, but he does this best who, in the -quiet order of the common life, opens widest his soul to the Source -thereof, and growing to the full stature of a man helps on to perfection -what should be that composite flower of the race, our human -civilization. - -[Illustration: ❦] - -[Illustration] - - - - -The little spring here gushes up and then sweeps away along a stony bed -overgrown with brakes and tares. On its margin, amid a tangle of wild -blackberry, I have come upon a forest of scouring-rush ☙ - -It is a quaint growth. I love to put my face close to the earth and, -looking through the rushes’ green stems, to fancy myself a wee brownie, -wandering among a ☘ dense wilderness of pines. The development of the -miniature trees is an interesting process ❦ First the ground is covered -with slender brown fingers ❧ thrusting up through the soil. These grow -rapidly, and in a few days spread out their brief, verticillate branches -to the breeze, as proudly as any great tree might do. Here is a tiny -finger just pointing upward; yonder towers the giant of the lilliputian -forest, fully half-a-foot high. “Scouring-weed,” says the farmer, -contemptuously, “they aint no good. Some call ’em horsetail.” - - -In fact, the queer, witchy little things have a number of names: -candle-rush, scouring-rush, horsetail, and their own proper appellation, -equisetum. I have gathered a number of the little trees and they lie -side by side in my palm while my mind tries to recall a few of the facts -that go to make up the plant’s wonderful history. Our grandmothers used -to strew their floors with it, that no careless tread might soil the -snowy boards. They used it, as well, for scouring, hence its name. Those -who seek correspondences between the natural and physical kingdoms find -the rush an emblem of cleansing, and this is precisely the office which, -since earliest creation, it has filled for the world. For our -scouring-rush was not always the puny, insignificant thing we see it. It -belongs to the carboniferous age. It has nothing to do with our modern -civilization. It had reached its highest perfection and entered upon its -downward career before man appeared on the earth. Its progenitors -flourished with the giant ferns, the great, rank mosses, and all the -rest of the carbon-storing vegetation. A mighty tree was our little rush -in those days, growing several hundred feet tall and spreading out its -huge whorls of branches in every direction. So we find it today, in the -anthracite beds of the eastern slope. What happened to it that we should -know it, living, as this degenerate creature of the bog? - - -In the carboniferous age the air surrounding the earth was much warmer -than at present, warmer than we find it in the tropics. The great mass -which constitutes this globe was not yet cool enough to support any very -high forms of life. There were no trees, as we now understand the word, -and there was very little animal life. Beetles crawled about, spiders -and scorpions, and salamanders big as alligators, but there were no -mammals, no birds ❧ The world was in twilight, reeking with moisture, -steaming in the warm air which it filled with all sorts of noxious -gases. It rained aquafortis and brimstone, and the sweating earth sent -these up again in deadly fog-banks of poisonous vapor ❧ - -[Illustration] - -These were the conditions that our big rush loved. Its huge spongy stem -and branches drank in life from the death-laden atmosphere. Its great -creeping rootstocks soaked it up from the morass beneath and the rush -grew luxuriantly. Its office was indeed a cleansing one, to purify the -atmosphere and make it fit to sustain animal life. In time, as the huge -primeval trees reached maturity, they died, and the mighty stems fell -back in the bog. Then came some great upheaval, some cataclysm of nature -such as we find everywhere recorded in her rocky books. The land rose or -sank, and the rocks and debris of the sea floor were thrown upon the -decaying vegetation. It was pressed and compressed beneath this weight. -The fronds of the huge ferns; the tall stems of the giant rushes; the -monstrous club-mosses, and the primeval forest became a peat-bog. Still -greater pressure—a longer lapse of aeons, and the peat became coal. - - -We burn them now, in our grates, the progenitors of these feeble things -lying here, limply, in my palm. Is it not, as I said, a wonderful -history the frail thing has. A degenerate stock, botanists call it. So -are its cousins the ferns degenerate, with no botanical Nordau to sound -warning against them. But degenerates tho’ they all are, they have still -the spirit of the pioneer. They dwell in the outposts of vegetable -civilization. We do not find them flourishing where Nature is in her -gentlest moods ❦ Once, down in the crater of an active volcano, -half-a-mile from any soil, growing from a sulphur-stained black-lava -floor, I found a clump of waving green ferns, as high as my head, -spreading out their broad fronds as though to cover and hide the -terrible nakedness of the unfinished earth. A thousand years from now a -grain-field may spread where now those frail green plumes have just -begun their gracious work. - - -This clothing of the earth and the cleansing of the air are the tasks -the giant rushes helped to perform for the young world. During the -process the rank gases of the atmosphere were gradually stored up within -their great stems. Liberated, now, in our grates and retorts they give -us heat and light. Then, the atmosphere becoming purer, the earth cooled -and life sustaining, new growths appeared. All the conditions were -improved, but the improvement meant death to the big rush. It was -starving. It could not find food in the thin air. Its roots could not -suck up enough moisture to sustain life. It became smaller and smaller. -Flowers and seeds it had never borne. It now gave up its leaves. Between -every two whorls of branches on the scouring-rush we find a little -brown, toothed sheath encircling the stem. In the days of the plants’ -prosperity each of these teeth was a leaf, but now the rush can maintain -no such extravagance as leaves, so there remain only these poor -survivals. The stem is hollow, and is divided, between the whorls of -branches, into closed sections, or joints. It has also an outer ring of -hollow tubes, through which moisture is drawn up from the soil, to feed -the branches. The rush is a little higher order of creation than the -fern, but it is a cryptogram; that is, a plant never bearing true seeds, -but propagating by spores ❧ - -And so, fallen upon hard lines, chilled, stunted by the cold, but having -a brief span of life when the spring rains have made the earth wet and -warm, and before the summer heat has come to wither it, we have our -scouring-rush only a few inches high. - -[Illustration: ☘] - -[Illustration] - - - - -And this branched stem which we see is not fertile. ’Tis enough for it -to support its waving green feather. The fertile stems are not branched. -They appear above the earth, pale and shrinking; put forth no branches, -but live a brief season, develop their spores and disappear ❧ - -The growth of the scouring-rush seems to me to show something beautiful, -as well as interesting. There is a certain light-hearted gaiety in the -waving, tree-like thing which makes one forget that it is a degenerate -stock, and doomed to destruction. Still a little work remains for it to -do: still some waste places and miasmatic bogs to be cleansed and -purified, and so the little rush grows on, the merest shadow of its once -opulent self. I am sure that the last horsetail to be seen on earth will -grow just as breezily, as greenly and as cheerily as any now waving in -this make-believe enchanted forest at my feet ❧ - -And who knows what may be the fate of that which was the real life of -that ancient plant—the forces of light and heat set free in our furnaces -and forges, to begin, again, their office of ministering use? ❧ - -Did the giant rush die? Does anything die? Ages have seen the rushes -fall and pass from sight, to wake to glorious light in the leaping -flames. We see leaves fall each year and turn to mold from which other -life-forms spring. There will be other poppies, next year, where yonder -orange-red blossoms nod in the breeze. The waving grain, already headed -out and bowing under its burden of raindrops, was but a few months since -a mere handful of dry kernels. They were cast upon the ground, and they -died, if that tossing sea of green is death. We see these things -recurring upon every side of us, yet we still go up and down the earth -demanding of prophet, priest and poet: “If a man die shall he live -again?” ☙ - -A far cry from the little sprigs of scouring-rush in my hand? But Life -is a far cry, from Everlasting through Eternity, and who shall say, of -the least of these, its manifestations, “It is no good?” - -[Illustration: ❦] - -[Illustration] - - - - -Down among the watercresses, an hour ago, studying the movements of a -mammoth slug, I was startled by a shadow that fell directly across my -hands. At the same moment there was an excited flurry and scurrying to -shelter, among a tuneful mob of song-sparrows who, all unmindful of my -presence, were teetering close beside me upon the tall mustard stalks -that swayed beneath their weight ❧ - -[Illustration] - -Looking upward I saw, between me and the sun, a pigeon-hawk soaring on -motionless wings in the freedom of the upper air. I watched him with a -joy that had no touch of envy, as he circled widely against the sky, -rising, falling, swerving, returning, with scarcely a dip of the strong, -outstretched wings ☙ High though he poised, my thought could reach him; -strong though his flight, my fancy could follow and outstrip him. He, -high above the mountain-tops, gazed downward to the earth. His thoughts, -his desires were here. To materialize them he mounted the air. With my -feet upon the earth; with no palpable pinions wherewith to climb the -ether, yet have I moments of being, more trusty than he, a creature of -the sky ☙ - - - - -Something of this ☘ passed through my brain as I watched the circling -hawk. Once, with a flash of his strong wings, he made a downward turn -and, swift and still, he dropped earthward ❧ Then, as if frustrated in -whatever had been his design, he wheeled again and climbed as swiftly up -the air ☙ - -I like that phrase as describing the flight of a bird. It is so -literally what the creature does. A bird is not superior to gravitation. -But for that force he would be the helpless victim of every little -breeze, like a balloon, which is unable to shape a course or do anything -but float helplessly before the wind. The balloon floats because it is -lighter than the air, but the air which the bird displaces is lighter -than he, and he only moves in it by virtue of his ability to extract -from it, by the motion of his wings, sufficient recoil to propel himself -forward. He rises, as do we humans, by means of that which resists him ❧ - -I love to watch the seagulls. They do this so perfectly, and seem to -delight to give us lessons in ærial navigation as they dip and whirl and -call about the steamers, on the Bay. Their wings are so easy to study -while in action. The first joint, to where the wing bends back and -outward, is strong and compact, cup shaped underneath. The second joint -tapers. The feathers are long and do not overlap so closely as do those -of the first joint, and at the free end they spread out and turn upward. -The upper surface of the wing is convex, the lower surface concave. In -flying the wings are thrown forward and downward. Flying is not a -flapping of the wings up and down, and if a bird were to strike its -wings backward and downward, as its manner of flight is so often -pictured, it would turn a forward somersault in the air. - - -Structurally the wing of a bird is a screw. It twists in opposite -directions during the up and down strokes, and describes a figure of 8 -in the air. The bird throws its wings forward and downward. The air is -forced back and compressed in the cup-shaped hollows of the wings, and -these latter, by the recoil thus obtained, drag the body forward ☙ This -resistance of the air is absolutely essential to flight. We who think -that, but for the buffetings of hard fate, we, too, might soar high and -fly free in the upper realm of endeavor, should watch the efforts of the -birds in a calm. We shall scarcely see them flying. If impelled to -flight, by necessity, the process is a most laborious one. There being -no resisting wind on which to climb (birds always fly against the wind) -the climber must, by the rapid action of his wings, establish a recoil -that will send him along. Watch the little mud-hen, flying close to the -surface of the water, ready to dive the instant its timidity takes -fright. Its wings vibrate swiftly, unceasingly, for it rarely rises high -enough above the water to have advantage of the air currents. For it -there are no long, soaring sweeps through the air; no freedom from the -labors of its cautious flight. It is a very spendthrift of effort -because of the timidity that never lets it rise to the sustaining forces -just above its head. To climb the sky is not for him who hugs cover. - - -To fly! The very thought sets the nerves atingle. It is joy to be -afloat, “with a wet sheet and a flowing sea and a wind that follows -fast.” It is a joy to be on the back of a swiftly running horse, with -the wind rushing away from your face as you ride, bearing every care -from your brain ❧ But to traverse the air—to fly! This joy we long for: -we have an indisputable, an inalienable right to long for it. To what -heights may we rise? This, after all, is the question that concerns us. -Sordid, creeping wights that we are, constantly referring our heavenward -aspiration to the desire of the mortal, we still - - “To man propose this test— - Thy body, at its best, - How far can that project its soul on its lone way?” - - -Our very protests, our kicking against the pricks that would incite us -to higher effort are but our blind fear lest, after all, they should not -mean flight. We are afraid of our moments of faith; ashamed of our -aspiring impulse, the upward impulse that throbbed through all life -since the world was born. We send forward our souls if haply they should -find God, while we remain behind to weigh and test their evidence when -they return to us—if they ever do, hugging the surface the while, lest a -sustaining breath of spiritual force lift us clean above the safe -shelter in which we may dive altogether should our returning souls bring -back news of the meanings of life, scaring us to cover, after all, by -the thought that we ourselves, are heaven and hell ❧ - -[Illustration] - -Usually we are content to grovel. We traverse our little round and -declare it to be destiny. We prate of the limitations of our humanity, -forgetful of that humanity’s limitless capacity to receive. With -insincere self-abasement we declare ourselves to be worms of the dust, -and the spirits of light who look upon us may readily believe our -assertions ☙ - -But there are moments when the scales fall from our eyes. We get -fleeting glimpses, then, of the meaning and the end of our human nature. -We know that it is in the skies. We know that we have ourselves -fashioned the chain that binds us to earth. We know that we were made -for flight, and we know that we know all this. Still afar in the sky the -hawk soars, with downward gaze seeking his desire. Still, tho’ my feet -are upon the earth, my spirit fares upward in its flight toward its -desire, above and beyond its strong wings’ farthest flight. - -[Illustration: ❧] - -[Illustration] - - - - -I wonder whether the restless impulse that sends city folks hill-ward in -the springtime is not a part of the Divine Plan that would lead us all -to lift up our eyes to the hills whence our help cometh. They flock up -here, the city folks, during these first spring days, to eat their -luncheons by the roadside and to fill their hands with the poppies and -wild hyacinth, the blue-eyed grass and pimpernel that everywhere dot the -young meadows’ glowing green. I hear, at night-fall, mother’s voices -calling the little ones to prepare for home-going, and I love to see the -contented parties go wandering down, the tiniest tired climber usually -sound asleep in his father’s arms with the sun’s last rays caressing the -small face. It is good for them to be here. There is, in the dumbest of -us, a faint stirring of recognition that the hope and promise of life -are in the young year. This love of the childhood of things is the best -thing our human nature knows: the best because there is in it the least -of self. It is a different thing from the love of new beginnings. It is -not new beginnings, but first principles that the soul seeks, now, and -so we climb the hills, as naturally as the daisies look upward, leaving -behind us the pitiful aims that end in self and belong to the dead -level. - - -In the springtime love awakens, born anew in the green wonder of the -season’s childhood. Yonder where the road climbs the hill the sunlight -is sifting in long bars through the eucalyptus trees, making a brown and -golden ladder all along the way. In everything is the fresh, tender -suggestion of a Sunday afternoon in the springtime. The air is full of -the scent of swamp-willow and laurel, and the breath of feeding cattle -on the hills ❧ - -By the roadside He and She walk shyly apart. They could scarcely clasp -hands across the space that separates them, yet one seeing them knows -their hearts are close together. The blue sky arches over them: the soft -clouds pass lightly above their heads: the sunbeams bring brighter -rounds for the brown and golden ladder his feet and hers tread lightly. -They are palpably “of the people.” Her hands are roughened and red from -toil. His shoulders are bent by the early bearings of heavy burdens. -Neither He nor She is over twenty years old, and they are poor, as some -count riches, but to them, together, has come the sweetness of life, and -He and She are walking on the heights ❧ - - -Yesterday they were but a boy and a girl, but today He to her is -Manhood; She, to him, is Womanhood, and in this great human wilderness -they have reached out and found each other. Could anything be more -wonderful than this? Could anything exceed in beauty this secret of -theirs that he who runs may read in every line of their illumined -faces? ❧ - -Students versed in the ’ologies: sociologists, philanthropists, -economists and progressionists of every sort, we know all that you would -say. We have heard your arguments time and again. We have listened to -your statistics and watched the shaking of your head over these unions -of the poor. But the wisdom of life is wiser than men, else He and She -would do well to listen to you instead of walking together here on the -hill road. They do not know these things that we are seeking to reduce -to what we call social science; and if they should know them, what then? -Are they not of more value than many sparrows? ❧ - -[Illustration] - -The afternoon shadows lengthen. Home-going groups are beginning the long -descent. The voices of little children calling to one another silverly -over the hillside. He and She are not hastening. They have loitered -along to where a bend in the road affords a wide outlook upon the city -below, the gleaming bay, the white-winged ships coming in through the -Golden Gate, the distant hills. In her hand are some poppies which he -gathered. - - -Down to the western horizon sinks the sun. The gold has faded from the -road, leaving it a winding ribbon of grey. The crests of the hills and -the gently swelling uplands are flooded with crimson light. It touches -the eucalyptus trees into glory and flames in splendor along the western -sky. It lights her face and his as they stand transformed before each -other. They do not know that the crimson light has made them beautiful. -They think the beauty each sees is the other’s, a part of their -wonderful discovery, and who shall say that either is wrong? It is we -who are blind, and not love. Indeed, love, alone, sees clearly. -External, temporal conditions have made his body less than noble; have -crossed his face with dull, heavy lines. They have narrowed her mental -horizon and imprisoned her soul in a poor little cage, but He and She -are held above these, now. They have been touched by the finger of God, -and have seen each other’s beauty, the beauty that is their human right; -that once seen is never, again, wholly lost. - - -The crimson has faded to rose, the rose to ☘ wonderful green—the green -has turned to ❧ white. The early moon has come out to light the hill. -Hand in hand they are passing down the road. Hand in hand they are going -through life, toiling together, bearing together the burdens Fate brings -to them. They know not what these may be. It is not given them to know -the future, or by taking thought to lighten its ills or explain the -blunders that have heaped these up. They have no strength or power, but -to them has been given love ❦ - -Will love be theirs when Spring is gone and the summer drouth is upon -them; when Autumn’s harvest time is passed them by and Winter’s breath -has chilled their blood? Will love be theirs when, hand in hand, in the -uncertain white light, they journey down the hill of life? ❧ - -The cynic smiles at the question. The scientist deprecates it. -Philanthropist and sociologist shake their heads ⚜ - -Let it pass. Love is theirs now. The universe is theirs, for each to -each is universal. The Life of the universe is in them, and in the -shimmering radiance that lights the way, silvering the city and making -long, shining paths across the distant water as they go walking down the -hill road. - -[Illustration: ❦] - -[Illustration] - - SO HERE THEN ENDETH UPLAND ☘ - PASTURES BY ADELINE KNAPP AS - PRINTED BY ME, ELBERT HUBBARD, - AT THE ROYCROFT PRINTING SHOP - IN EAST AURORA, NEW YORK, U.S.A. - -[Illustration] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. - 3. The author often used the small plant symbols as end of sentence - punctuation. - 4. 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