6o 



THE GUIDE TO NATURE 



time he answered the letters, especially 

 when I enclosed a stamped and self- 

 addressed envelope, but as it is now a 

 year and a half since he made the last 

 report on those repairs, I judge that 

 mill is either in a state of collapse, or 

 else that he has joined my first miller 

 in a conference beyond time. 



In the heart of the country at an old 

 homestead I found a man that said, "I 

 know just what you want," and smack- 

 ing his lips continued, "My, but I can 

 remember those hominy pies even to 

 this day." "That is it. You have got 

 it right," I said. "Pies with luscious 

 raisins and a custard, all made of the 

 real old hominy." "Well," he contin- 

 ued, "I do not know as you can get it 

 in stores nowadays. We have discon- 

 tinued it in the North but they are not 

 quite up to us in the South and they 

 still have hominy." "You mean," I 

 said, "they are far ahead of us if they 

 still have hominy and we have not." 

 "I will give you a few addresses," he 

 said. I wrote to several including a 

 famous old gristmill in Richmond, 

 Virginia. One man was kind enough 

 to write, "We have the real hominy," 

 and to send me a liberal package. Im- 

 agine my disappointment when I found 

 it was nothing but such as is sold at 

 department stores. 



John Greenleaf Whittier, why do you 

 not come back and reprimand some of 

 these grocers for using your classic 

 "bowl of samp and milk" as a misuse 

 of the name samp? It is about as near 

 what you had in mind as huckleberries 

 are to peas. 



Went to visit a man in New Jersey. 

 He said, "We have here an old-fash- 

 ioned gristmill. They have just what 

 you want." Gleefully I alighted from 

 the automobile and accosted the man 

 at the desk, "Give me a peck of hominy, 

 will you?" The man at the desk laugh- 

 ed and said, "I know what you want. 

 We have not p-r^f ;t I have heard my 

 grandfather te.ll about it." Then I 

 realized that I had grown beyond 

 youthful years when a full-grown man 

 like that had to refer to his grand- 

 father ! ! 



A young friend in the back country 

 of Connecticut known as Columbia, 

 tried to sing not only "Hail Columbia," 

 but "Hail Hominy" as having discov- 

 ered the desideratum. She told me 

 where to write to sfet all I needed. 



Residt, loss of another two-cent stamp 

 and the stenographer's time. 



Isn't it strange that the human race 

 will let drop out of use such a delicious 

 food ? Where is the wholesale grocer 

 that will make fame and fortune by put- 

 ting up the real material and placing 

 it on the market? He need not try to 

 palm ofif on us any white hominy grits 

 or any hulled corn similar to that made 

 from lye over wood ashes. Nor need 

 he try to convince any one that those 

 white particles are the real thing. I 

 fear that the making of hominy is a 

 lost art. That is my reason for singing 

 this gastronomic epic, "In Memoriam 

 Hominum." 



"Proofs" that Disprove, or, Arguments 

 That Do not Argue. 



I want to prove to you that an oak 

 tree is more beautiful than a lily of the 

 valley. Listen carefully and catch the 

 force of the logic. Let us consider this 

 important question as to the relative 

 beauty of an oak tree and a lily of the 

 valley. I am sure that you will recog- 

 nize the force of the indisputable argu- 

 ment, because the robin is a beautiful 

 bird and pulls earthworms from the soil 

 among the lilies of the valley under the 

 oak tree. 



"Quod erat demonstrandum" — with a 

 flourish of trumpets as if the whole thing 

 were therefore conclusively proved. 



"What nonsense !" exclaims the reader. 

 "What has a robin under an oak tree 

 among the lilies of the valley got to do 

 with proving that an oak tree is more 

 beautiful than a lily of the valley?" That 

 is your question, and you must answer 

 it or I must refer you to those who have 

 used that kind of logic. 



In the month of March, I sat in a 

 schoolroom in a town of Maine. The 

 room was packed with school-teachers 

 who were listening to a talk about the 

 rural interests of Maine. The speaker 

 was trying to prove that Maine is the 

 most beautiful and most interesting place 

 on earth, or, as it seemed to me, he was 

 trying to console them for the misfortune 

 of having to teach school under the rural 

 conditions in Maine. 



The most conclusive proof that that 

 particular place in Maine is the most 

 beautiful and most interesting spot on the 

 earth would have been to tell the teachers 

 to look out of the rear window over one 

 of the most beautiful landscapes that I 



