1 84 



THE GUIDE TO NATURE 



GOING FORTH TO STAMFORD TO FEED THE HUNGRY. 

 Mr. Thurton on the first wagon. 



some points regarding the raising of 

 asparagus and squashes, or even cab- 

 bage heads, that you did not know at 

 that time." 



This seemed to appeal to Mr. Thur- 

 ton's sense of humor, for he laughed 

 heartily. "A man has to learn," he 

 said, "by dear experience ; I am no ex- 

 ception. I found that, much as I like 

 to raise vegetables, I had to learn how 

 to raise them, and then 1 had to work 

 to put my knowledge into practice." 



*r *r* 'fc *f* *P *r* -t* 



The moral is evident — find your 

 place in life, do the thing you best like 

 to do, work with all the energy you 

 possess whether you make money or 

 not. I believe that Mr. Thurton is at 

 heart really a naturalist and that some 

 people who are called naturalists are 

 not naturalists. A man who collects 

 insects is not necessarily a naturalist 

 any more than one who collects post- 

 age stamps is a postmaster. Collecting 

 may be a fad but so loving and under- 

 standing nature as to induce her to 

 yield her products and to reveal some 

 of her methods, entitles one to the 

 term, naturalist. The first thought of 

 many that read this article, especially 

 of those that know Mr. Thurton, will 

 be "Ho, ho! so The Guide to Nature 

 has a 'write-up' of a market gardener 

 this month." Yes, it has that, but it 

 has more. The public sees only the 

 surface of things, but the writer of 

 this article sees a love for plant life 

 and all its phenomena, a love for fresh 

 air and open fields, a love for the sun 

 shine, even for stone walls, cows and 

 horses, that induced this market gar- 



dener to leave the city to go into the 

 open. You may call him a market gar 

 dener, but I call him a nature student, 

 nature lover and nature worker. Ht 

 has the true principles of the AA. 



The Passing of the Troubadours. 



BY ANNE P. L. FIELD, SOUND BEACH, CONNECTICUT. 



Gray shadows veil the autumn sky, 



And gray mist hides the dreary sea, 

 Summer has vanished with a sigh, 



And winter's' reign is yet to be; 



There are no tunes in any tree, 

 For flocks are flying south by scores, 



And I watch long and wistfully 

 The passing of the troubadours! 



And as that cloud of wings sweeps by 



To its appointed destiny, 

 I ask of sad October "Why 



Could you not borrow June's decree 



And keep the song-birds here for me?" 

 But all my pleading she ignores 



To follow that swift mystery — 

 The passing of the troubadours! 



"An empty nest!" the children cry 



With ripples of exultant glee, 

 While I my desolation try 



To smother in a gayety 



I cannot feel, for Arcady 

 Is gone, and grieving earth deplores 



In requiems of minor key, 

 The passing of the troubadours! 



Envoy 

 Sweet minstrels! Would that I were free 



To seek those balmy southern shores, 

 Where I forevermore might flee 



The passing of the troubadours! 



