6 7 



teeth, he strips it of all leaves, even to the 

 uppermost, and drops down to find another 

 stalk. Once in a field, there is no cure for 

 him. A deep trench, into which he may 

 fall, is the only prevention of him. Twice 

 a day it must be cleaned out, or the bodies 

 of the fallen invaders would make a bridge 

 for the enemy behind. He is a dull gray- 

 ish-brown fellow, stupid and harmless to 

 look at, yet Goth nor Vandal ever left be- 

 hind him a more desolate world than he. 



We will barely skirt the meadow where 

 clover and the grasses spread out their ten- 

 der mosaic. Tangled grass is the mower's 

 abomination, and footsteps must mat and 

 tangle the lush greenery that lies knee-deep 

 all over it. At the branch we will pause and 

 drink long draughts of its blossomy breath, 

 as well as mark the pink marsh-mallows 

 fringing the water's edge, or pluck a cluster 

 of the wild hydrangea. It is curious how 

 the shrub clings to its native spot, maybe a 

 hundred years after the sheltering woodland 

 has been cut away. As we make choice 

 from its wealth of bloom, a soft wind stirs, 

 and the whole world sings. "Rejoice," it 

 says "rejoice and be glad, O mortal ! that 

 God gives life, and lends sunshine and green 

 fields to sweeten it." 



