THIRTY-SEVENTH ANNUAL REPORT. 113 



Oh, Where's the heart that fails to feel the touch 

 Of Nature's kindly hand upon this earth? 

 And who could hold within his selfish clutch 

 The means to mar life's beauties and their worth? 

 Yet, there are those who fail to realize 

 That pleasant, happy homes come not by chance 

 And these same souls lay claim to share earth's prize, 

 Yet block the forward march in earth's advance. 



I want to see the farm and city homes 



Of this industrial pulsing state of ours 



Draped out in all the pleasing changing chromes 



That Nature spreads in tinting fields and flowers. 



Aye, wherever childhood voices float the air — 



These future hopes that grow to earth's recruits, 



I want each one a happy home to share. 



Enshrined midst love, and flowers and luscious fruits. 



Our homes may not be perfects of our dreams, 

 Our lives may fail to match our high ideals; 

 Yet, if we strive to do our best, it seems 

 That we get closer to high heaven's appeals. 

 It takes but little time to plant a rose. 

 Yet what a wondrous revenue it yields. 

 It's beauties please the eye, it's fragrance flows 

 Beyond our border lines to other fields. 



I have no word of praise for those who shirk 

 These small redeeming duties round the home; 

 We're given brains and muscles for the work, 

 While heaven supplies the sunshine, rain and loam. 

 So, if I fail, I've no one else to blame; 

 My home stands out an index of my deeds. 

 So, rather than to fail in life's great game, 

 I'm going to raise the rose instead of weeds: 



'Tis true, that winter's rigor now holds sway. 



That summer lies asleep neath earth's chill crust. 



Yet evolution soon will bring the day 



That gives us back our summer, held in trust. 



'Tis true that neath earth's heaven spun robe of white, 



Are hidden all our faulty homes and farms. 



So let us plan, while summer spends her night, 



To lend our aid when she returns her charms. 



This Horticultural Society 



Has plans that reach beyond man's selfish greed. 



It gives to rich and poor an earnest plea 



To plant about our homes redeeming seed. 



It aims to drape the hills with clustering vines, 



To bring to e^'ery home some fruiting tree. 



It strives to teach each heart to so incline 



Towards crowding earth the nearer heaven's decree. 



We've come to Battle Creek to join with you 

 In weeding out the tares among the sheaves; 

 To sweep away the trash where thistles grew 

 And place instead a wreath of shimmering leaves. 

 We're here to kindle hopes in broken hearts. 

 To scatter sunshine down the paths of gloom 

 To lift the Uds of eyes where tear drops start — 

 To roll away the stones from living tombs. 



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