From Pillar to Post 



foliage. The line of beauty is older than the 

 world. Doubtless there was more beauty in 

 Adam's garden than in my own, but not greater 

 beauty. We have perfection at hand when we 

 can discover no blemish, and so, this blessed 

 October day, the meadow is a Garden of Eden, 

 and I have no regret that the site of the older 

 one has been long forgotten. The cursing of 

 the grounds beyond its confines was local, not 

 circumambient. Were there better things here, 

 man would have to be better to enjoy them. My 

 meadow hickory meets all my needs ; within the 

 range of its refreshing shade the world is 

 Edenic, I am not troubled because Adam lost 

 his garden. That was so long ago, regret no 

 longer dims the sunshine of the soul ; and here 

 I have a garden that calls for no improvement. 

 Content transfigures the desert. 



It is not within the range of descriptive pow- 

 er to make plain to another all that goes to the 

 making of a perfect day. What, indeed, is a 

 "perfect day"? The Eskimo would curse 

 roundly at many such as we consider nonpareil. 

 The tropic islander pictures Sheol as a land of 

 ice. Where, I would ask, is the imperfection of 

 any day? The cyclone is an ugly thing to meet 



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