132 MISSOURI STATE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 



Bat, it is October. The wizards and the fairies have been at work, 

 they are still at work. Come with me to my home among the hills of 

 Holt county. At sunrise we will go to the hill top above my house. 

 Look toward the coming sun. An oak covered hill is between us and 

 him. Stand still and see the colors of the crown that hill top wears. 

 The dew and the shadows are there, and the beauty is the beauty of 

 morning. We will go again when the glory of the sun at noon is upon 

 that grove and the hills around us — the beauty is the beauty of mid 

 day. The sun has descended well toward the horizon. All is still. The 

 Indian summer's dreamy haze is in the air. The tlood of mellowed 

 light from the setting sun creeps through the haze and falls upon the 

 grove and the hills. Thousands of trees, with millions of leaves are 

 massed within that view. All the world beyond is hid, and the land- 

 scape glows with a thousand shades of purple and scarlet and crimson, 

 and gold. Ah, now sweeter, grander, more georgeous than before, is 

 the read oak of the Loess Hills. 



Why do we, of the Missouri hill countrj^, bring so many of our 

 shade and ornamental trees from afar while the red and the scarlet and 

 the burr oaks, the solid, grand old sugar maple, the trailing, waving 

 red elm and the ash, almost as beautiful when naked, are all around 

 us? Why do we ransack the globe for fruits to be experimented with 

 here and leave our own pawpaw and persimmon undeveloped ? Why 

 do we pass almost unheeded the wild vines that run upon our bushes 

 and fences or climb our trees? Does this earth produce a shrub fairer 

 to gaze upon than our own sumach? 



All these are easy of propagation, and safe to handle. They are 

 almost exempt from injury by any insect. Heat nor cold, flood or 

 drouth, has not destroyed them — never will destroy them. They were 

 here centuries ago and they are here still. For a time not even guessed 

 at, our aborigenes, perhaps the predecessors of our aborigenes, have 

 hunted the game and slaughtered each other among all of these. Many 

 pioneers saw in the trees only the rails and the material for cabins. 

 Other many, having eyes, saw and loved Missouri as nature made her, 

 for what she was. Some of these are yet with us, and their posterity 

 is here. The yawhoo still yells his, drunken shout, or howls his 

 wretched attempt at a song among all that is beautiful in Missouri. But 

 they are passing away. Take courage. Better people are here, and 

 more are coming. Here's to the retiring shadow — may they ever grow 

 less. Here's to the coming sunshine — may it increase. 



Mr. Speer — The paper is beyond my depth, but I think we have 

 some members in this society who can do this subject justice. 



