TIIl^. AGASSIZ ASSOCIATION 



355 



From The Farmer Poet of Stamford. 



So advantageously perched is Mr. 

 Crandall's httle fruit farm on a crest of 

 Cedar Heights, near the old Wire Mills 

 canon, that we do not wonder that he 

 continues to write poetry. We should 

 wonder if he did not write. He is sure 

 of an attentive and friendly audience 

 when he contributes a lyric to the Stam- 

 ford Historical Society's monthly pro- 

 gram as "At Dawning" was thus re- 

 cently presented. The poem has so di- 

 rect an appeal to nature lovers that we 

 gladly give it room in The GumE to 

 Nature. An amusing fact in connec- 

 tion with the verses is that the author 

 rose before daybreak to shoot the crows 

 that were stealing his neighbor's sweet 

 corn. To his great surprise he actually 

 brought down two of the black thieves 

 at one shot. Then he felt remorseful 

 as he had not shot a bird of any sort in 

 a decade or two. To assuage his grief 

 and to distract his thoughts from the 

 death of the crows, he sketched in 

 verse the beauty of the sunrise, and 

 here it is.— E. F. B. 



AT DAWNING. 



BY C. H. CRANDALL, STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT. 



To see the dawn suffuse the sky. 



And roll the pink across the blue; 

 To see the woodland shadows fly 



Before the light rays charging through 

 To see the nymphs of morning steal 



Along the stream-side and surprise 

 The hillside naiads where they kneel 



With dewy wonder in their eyes. 



To see the argosies of gold 



Spread canvas in the waking east 

 With gleaming prows and sails unrolled, 



So dumbly dazzling, bird and beast,^ 

 While scarce a leaf dare fright the air 



Before that miracle of light 

 That, smiling, fair, and still more fair, 



Halts the admiring gaze of night. 



Till, as the scene is fully spread. 



With saffron curtains, opal deeps. 

 And servitors in gold and red 



Around the throne where glorv sweeps. 

 Out steps the flaming King of Day 



In crimson grandeur, sweeping wide 

 His gaze across his destined way 



To greet the fair earth like a bride. 



And then to hear the silver throats 



Of winged life, that faintly hailed 

 The light's first advent o'er the moats 



And hedges where the radiance trailed. 

 Now burst into a choral song 



As if the Day King swung his rod 

 And led the joyous notes along 



In million-throated praise to God. 



Or, on the sea, to watch the lids 



Of that great sky tliat spans the world 

 Part slowly, as the Maker bids; 



"Let there be light," and so, impearlcd 

 With l^ands of lavender and rose 



And wondrous tints that change and grow. 

 The trembling ocean thrills and glows 



And wandering winds forget to l)low. 



This is to greet life face to face, 



In Eden beauty, new-arrayed. 

 Where all her forms of maiden grace 



Play o'er the landscape, unafraid, 

 So, Early faring, we shall reap 



The sweetest joys of nature's sway 

 And know, while luckless laggards sleep, 



The virgin beauty of the Day. 



A Man Asks, "What Is Your Favorite 

 Book?" 



BY BRUCE BARTON, EDITOR ''eVERY WEEK/' 

 NEW YORK, 



[Reprinted by Permission.] 



Of course, no man wants the same 

 book for every mood, any more than 

 he wants the saiue food for every meal 

 or the same medicine for every disease. 



But the book to which I come back 

 again and again was written several 

 lumdred years ago. 



It is called Ecclesiastes : yoti will find 

 it about the middle of the Bible. Fred- 

 erick the Great called it the "Book of 

 Kings," and said every monarch should 

 re-read it constantly. 



He should have said every fiian; for 

 every man is the monarch of his own 

 life. And this is the book of life, writ- 

 ten by a king who had everything that 

 life can give. It is the answer to the 

 eternal question: "What's the use?" 



What profit hath a man of all his labor 



Which he taketh under the sun? 



One generation passeth away. 



And another generation cometh: 



But the earth abideth for ever. . . . 



All the rivers run into the sea; 



Yet the sea is not full; 



Unto the place from whence the rivers 



come, 

 Thither they return again. ... 

 The eye is not satisfied with seeing, 

 Nor the ear filled with hearing. 

 The thing that hath been, 

 It is that which shall be; 

 And that which is done 

 Is that which shall be done: 

 And there is no new thing under the sun. 



In other words, life is not just one 

 thing after another. It is the same 



