Summer Meeting. 93 



Jill the cities of the plain, all the railroads, all the trains we saw in pass- 

 ing, all the great mines of coal and lead and zinc, all the thousands at 

 work that I might enjoy this wonderful beauty and I thought myself a 

 king with freedom to go and come as I pleased, to visit this city and that 

 country to call upon whomsoever I wished to do my bidding as we rolled 

 along over these beautiful lands which God has prepared for man's hab- 

 itation. Again I looked and all the beauty of the firmament above us, 

 all the beauty of the sky and cloud, of sunlight and sunshine, all for 

 me to enjoy and I thought myself a king. 



And not only myself but every other man on this broad land of ours 

 is a king likewise, a king for whom all these things are made, a king- 

 capable of enjoying all these gifts of God if he will; and T thought how 

 happy this nation of kings and queens should be with all these things 

 at this call. Surely America should be, and ought to be, a great nation 

 when all are kings. 



Did it ever occur to you that all the best things of this world, as 

 well as the world to come, are free for all of us. The air we breath, the 

 water we drink, the rain and dew and sunshine and storm, the beauties 

 of the field and landscape, the glory of the heavens above us, and the 

 gTandure of the earth beneath us. The happiness of home and friends, 

 the love of our neighbors, things that are free to all who will take them, 

 like the gift of God, of eternal life to everyone who is willing to accept. 

 All these gTeat gifts and beauties are ours if we will only make them 

 ours. And so I thought if I could only write what I saw and know and 

 understood I would let others know as well, but I could not. 



A DAY OF JUNE. 



I could write such a beautiful poem 



About this summer day, 

 If my pen could catch the beauty 



On every leaf and spray, 

 And the music all about me 



Of brook and breeze and birds — 

 But the greatest poet living 



Can not put them into words. 



So I may not write down the poem 

 As it came from the hand of God 



In the wonderful wordless language 

 He writes on sky and sod, 



