THE MASTER HAND 



;35 



garden this prodigal treatment. Thou- 

 sands of tulips have been planted to 

 secure this effect, and hundreds are ad- 

 ded yearly to fill the spaces which oc- 

 cur, no matter how carefully gardens 

 are watched and cared for. 



The planting about the bird pool is 

 entirely of iris of different varieties 

 blooming in their turn. 



Darwin, Rembrandt and Breeder tu- 

 lips add new tones which are scattered 

 through the rose gardens and borders. 

 As a background great masses of ever- 

 greens and flowering shrubs afford a 

 proper setting and divide the vegetable 

 gardens from those devoted wholly to 

 flowers. 



This year Mrs. Ladd is devoting the 

 most of her time to raising vegetables, 

 planning to can and store the products 

 of her garden for winter use. She is an 

 active member of both the Greenwich 

 and the New Canaan Garden Clubs. 



The Master Hand. 



BY HAROLD GORDON HAWKINS, WESTFIELD, 

 MASSACHUSETTS. 



My soul is a constant questioner. 

 From early youth it has sought to learn, 

 That which will be denied it to know 

 Until, perhaps, that final, fulsome day 

 When it shall learn that mystery of myster- 

 ies — 



Death. 



T t V ^ ^F 



Enshrouded in the silence of the mystic 

 night, 



When the heavens are glorious with count- 

 less stars 



And the silver moonbeams sleep on the 

 murmuring river, 



I stand enwrapped in its absorbing beauty. 



And in my soul the eternal question rises : 



What master hand hath fashioned 



this, and why? 

 ***** 



Full often doth the path I follow lead me 

 Through the dim recesses of a mighty for- 

 est. 

 And there I see a thousand majestic trees 

 Rearing their hoary columns up 

 To the arching vault of heaven that bends 



above. 

 And rendering with the wind that breathes 



among their boughs, 

 A mighty harmony that swells within my 



soul 



Into the ever insistent query: 



What master hand has fashioned 



this, and why? 

 ***** 



And beside the path that through the for- 

 est leads 

 There grew a tiny flower, delicate and small. 

 Having the blue of heaven in its eye 



That caught my wandering gaze, and stoop- 

 ing low 



I saw the trace of that same master hand 

 that fashions all. 



And again in my soul the same unanswered 

 question rose. 



***** 



With the first blush of spring there came a 



bird 

 Into my garden, and melodiously and low, 

 He sang a strange sweet song of wondrous 



joy. 

 A song of melting tenderness, of beauty 



and of love 

 That thrilled my heart with its ecstatic glee. 

 And caused my soul again to ask: 



What wondrous power hath caused 

 this joy, and why? 

 ***** 



And in this same bright month that brings 



the birds. 

 I stand beside the waters of a swollen 



stream 

 That rushes in tempestuous fury from the 



North 

 Down to the surging waters of the sun-kissed 



sea. 

 And its mighty power inspires in me an awe 

 That prompts again that ceaseless question 



in my soul. 



***** 



And in my daily life a thousand scenes; 

 A thousand signs of life, of strength, of 



power 

 Of wonder and of beauty, cause within my 



soul 

 That everlasting and unanswered thought 

 to rise: 



What master hand hath fashioned 

 this, and why? 



****** 



Yes, my soul is a constant questioner. 

 From early youth it has sought to learn 

 That which will be denied it to know 

 Until, perhaps, that final, fulsome day 

 When, learning life's greatest mystery, — 



Death, 

 It shall also learn the mystery of the uni- 

 verse. 

 Shall learn WHAT master hand hath fash- 

 ioned it, and why. 



British authorities recommend for 

 civilian families during the war time 

 limitation to four pounds of bread, two 

 and a half pounds of meat and three- 

 quarters of a pound of sugar, per per- 

 son per week. 



For such is the fleeting character of 

 all exquisite things. Nothing that is 

 beautiful stays. As each sweet flower 

 passes it is gone from us. Like a 

 flower, the emotion belong to the 

 hour. — Abram Linwood Urban in "My 

 Garden of Dreams." 



