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ILLINOIS STATE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 



science, taught in all our schools, so that children might be interested in all they see 

 going on about them, in the fields and the woodlands, in this constantly recurring mira- 

 cle of life and death, and resurrection with each returning year. That each may inquire 

 for himself or herself how the bud forms the blossom, or the branch; why the blossom 

 sets its fruit, which the influence of the dew upon the leaves and the rain at the roots 

 swells into luscious or grateful fruit, kissed into blushes by the ever-blessed and radiant 

 sunlight. I would have them to know how and why the tiny seed carried its root down, 

 down, and its top up, up, giving us of its wealth of vegetable bounty, or, as the years 

 go by and generations pass away, what was but the acorn of the autumn nestling in the 

 moulds at length becomes a giant of the forest, in whose branches the crow may build 

 her nest when this civilization may have passed away, and another, and perhaps more 

 enlightened one, has succeeded it. Why not ? I have quoted it before and I may do so 

 here, to illustrate how our good horticultural poet, Hempstead, in a tribute to our good 

 horticultural friend, Edwards, said of the giant trees of California: 



Dazzle, O august Pantheon ! stone Athenian Parthenon ! 



Never nobler piles have slept beneath the kisses of the moon. 



With your gates of bronze, and flashing dome, and marble column. 



And your every work with phantoms of departed glory solemn ; 



Rise, O Monoliths of Luxor ! from your graves of yellow sand. 



And beside the Seine and Tiber tower above a wondering land. 



Yet, your domes or pointed columns, glittering shafts of polished stone, 



And there — but noisy rills beside the rushing Amazon. 



They were green when in the rushes lay and moaned the Hebrew child; 



They were growing when the granite of the pyramids was piled. 



Green when Prenic hosts at Cause bound the victor's gory sheaves, 



And the grim and mangled Romans lay around like autumn leaves ; 



From their tops the crow was calling when the streets of Rome were grass, 



And the brave three hundred with their bodies blocked the rocky pass : 



In their boughs the owl was hooting when upon the hill of Mars 



Paul rung out the coming judgment, pointing upward to the stars; 



Here, with loving hands transplanted, in the noonday breeze they wave. 



And by night in silent seas of silver around moonbeams lave. 



Now our young folks may be likened to a tree. If planted in good soil and care- 

 fully tended, they grow up vigorous and healthy. So our youth, with careful training, 

 grow up into noble men and women. It makes no difference what the station in life 

 be. Real happiness comes out of the inner self, and it depends upon culture received 

 in youth, and none are more truly happy than those who have lived their lives on the 

 farm, surrounded by the simple comforts their own hands have gathered about them. 

 They are above mediocrity ; owning the soil upon which they live, they call no man 

 master. Far from the vices of cities, they live innocent and pure lives. Their children 

 are happy, wanting but little and despising the gaud and glitter of false fashion. Their 

 labor is indeed exacting at some seasons of the year, but at the same time it is blessed, 

 and while resting at night, earth, air and water are working for them. There is one 

 thing indeed which all mankind have in common, a longing to get out in the green 

 fields, or into the deep woods. Day after day the railways of our cities carry out train- 

 loads of men, women and children to rusticate for a few hours under the trees in the 

 country. So the same spirit moves you, but with this difference: you have the trees 

 and the green grass, and the singing birds and beautiful flowers along with you. They 

 are natural and pleasant adjuncts of your pleasant life, and like our young folks always 

 beautiful. They are the most beautiful natural objects, these emerald meadows; waving 

 fields of golden grain ripe for the sickle; orchard lines of cultured fruits, yellow and 

 russet and crimson; and as satisfying to the taste as to the eye; great trees, spreading 

 their arms abroad, for herds to shelter under; gardens with their burden of vegetables 

 waiting to be gathered, and last, but not least, lovely pastures of beautiful flowers, 

 reminding us that horticulture has its poetry, just as with ourselves, the poetry of whose 

 lives is bound up in our young folks. * 



