298 MISSOURI STATE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 



was then I realized why they were so rich in flavor. But why pursue 

 the subject! every one knows that Nature sends the chilling blast that 

 freezes the very marrow in our bones, then turns around and melts the 

 frost and marrow both. Then there are the chinch bugs, two kinds, 

 potato bugs, mosquitoes, flies that tickle our noses and do lots of other 

 things very reprehensible, fleas that won't flee, for they are always 

 right close to you. Oh, no ! I never make any effort on my part to let 

 nature take her course. I find she can do that without my consent or 

 approbation. If we could, as it were, put a ring in nature's nose, and 

 teach her to lead pretty well, I do not deny that quite frequently she 

 could be made useful. But the horticulturist that lets nature have 

 her course without any remonstrance, is going to get badly left. 



But hold ! why there's another side to this picture that I had not 

 noticed before. Here are deep, shady woodlands, and waving fields of 

 golden grain, yonder the silvery sparkle of the distant river as it winds 

 through fertile valleys and around the base of wooded bluffs and 

 up and beyond, silently guarding this fair scene, stands the rugged 

 mountain grand, whose beatled crags break the floating clouds that 

 would hide his frowning brow. Millions of. brilliant gems hang spark- 

 ling on leaf and blossom, to charm the eye of him who would breathe 

 the glorious freshness of the morning air. Silver frames are seen en- 

 circling the clouds that float lazily across the midday sky. A thousand 

 beautiful evening tints spread over orchard and meadow, across hill- 

 top and forest, which no artist's brush may ever hope to capture. 



And as twilight deepens from out the limitless firmament above, 

 comes the twinkling light of numberless beautiful stars, whose brilliance 

 only fade before the cold pale face of the changeful moon, which, mov- 

 ing slowly up over the eastern hills, spreads a new and silvery beauty 

 over leaf and flower and dewey grass. 



Is it music, sweet music you would hear ? then listen to the mur- 

 mer of running brooks, the humming of busy bees among sweet flowers, 

 the sighing of summer winds through the rustling, quivering leaves. 

 Hark ! Across the woodland hills from distant pasture land, where 

 sleek herds graze, comes the faint, peaceful sound of tinkling bells ; 

 from out the gloomy forest glen comes the deep-toned voice of the bay- 

 ing hound who tireless and persistent with unerring scent, seeks out 

 the lightest footfall of the frighted deer. 



The lively rattle of the yellow-hammer on yonder deadened snag 

 as with horny bill he carves out a home for self and mate, is music to 

 the ear, because it brings to memory the sights and sounds of boyhood 

 days, and so with the cheerful call of Bob ! Bob- white ! as it rings out 

 sharp and clear on the morning air, and the joyful shouts of happy 



