GREEN FIELDS 



iHEY are civilization's hall- 

 mark, and make you more in 

 love with Mother Earth than 

 even the wooing stateliness of 

 woodland. Especially in May 

 the " merrie month of May " when winds 

 are all of balm, and the golden sunlight 

 drips down through tender new leaves. The 

 world is vocal then. All the birds sing 

 love. Each little runnel tinkles a fairy 

 chime. Sound of all sorts takes on a 

 curious vital resonance, and nowhere more 

 than in the green fields, the breadths of 

 grain and grass. There is a story in each 

 wind that blows through their green, small 

 spears. If you do but have the fine ear to 

 hear, you shall learn wondrous things. As 

 truly as all flesh is grass, there is a marvel- 

 lous individuality in the things which sup- 

 ply the staff of life. Rye, for example, is 

 the grain of paradox. Plunge into this 

 field of it, a breast-high sea of gray-green, 



