INTIOLLIGKNCK IN TKKKS. _L' I 



golden grains. For him the flocks and herds increase. The cow becomes 

 a chemical laboratory, turning crude material into streams of life. How 

 the patient fowls work for him. The hen is mightier than the sword; 

 her product and progeny — over two hundred millions of dollars worth a 

 year, are worth more than the output of all our mines of silver and 

 gold. For hiiu toil the patient ox and faithful horse and now we come 

 to another great toiling host which from spring till fall, work for him 

 with a persistence which excites our wonder. Let us think a moment of 

 tne laborers in the vegetable kingdom. 



There is no sound of saw or hammer, no call to toil, no laborers' song, 

 yet at the same time persistent, tremendous, quiet work on an immense 

 scale. 



"The labor of the olive," an imi)erial fact dressed in poetic garb. We 

 love the thought. It opens a wide door. When the warm winds thaw the 

 snow, and the genial sun ushers in the spring, an-l the frosts let go their 

 grip of the roots, it is like the call of day to the sleeping world, calling 

 them to breakfast and to work. Then the work begins. Behold the 

 lilies how they grow. They toil not, they spin not, according to human 

 view. That is, like man they do not card and spin and weave. They 

 use no pencil or paint brush. But consider how they grow. Down in the 

 silent earth the tiny rootlets wander, threads of life gather in sus- 

 tenance quietly, noiselessly, ceaselessly, day and night. Like tireless 

 servants they are reaching out for dainties to send up to that resplend- 

 ent flower which shame the glory of kings. Curious, is it not, how 

 they can in their knowledge of chemistry find just the material for the 

 making of each of those delicate tints, whose intricate tracery is the 

 despair of the artist. Spring has come and as with a bound of joy the 

 whole vegetable world springs into life and goes to work. There is the 

 peony. She sends up these leaves — flowers of themselves — foliage plants 

 of wondrous beauty — forerunners of the glory yet to come. These 

 roots search the earth for material to put into the radiant flowers, 

 whose smiles so cheer and enliven us. The rose is hard at work, new 

 wood must be formed for those dainty flowers, and the roots must 

 send up the choicest tid-bits to weave into beauty and fragance. Oh, 

 the wonder and the miracle of these yearly new creations! 



Here is a bed of columbines. They take the rainbow in pieces and 

 save every tint and color for garments of their own. Those roots never 

 get confused. The roots of the double blue do not send up material for 

 the white, and the reds never rob the purple of their coloring. Could 

 we work on thus without mistake? But here each one is paying par- 

 ticular attention to her own business, and each stands forth arrayed in 

 her own fashion, and no one ever thinks of borrowing a neighbor's 

 clothes. 



See that cherry tree. How busy! Unseen messengers are scurrying 

 here and there to hunt up material for that mantle of white in which 

 the tree is to be arraved. Then how^ busy the flowers are. The 



