6 Singing Valleys 



and out between the girdled stocks the pumpkins lie like 

 fallen suns. The sun withdraws into his house of the south. 

 The darts of the wild geese pierce the sky, flying after him. 

 They dare not stop to glean, for the snow is on their tails 

 a scud of white flakes across the Black Hills. Then comes the 

 wind, echoing the long-drawn hoot of the great Arctic owl. 



The cornfields shudder and lie still. Over the face of them a 

 white sheet is drawn. Once more the ancient doubt uncoils in 

 the minds of men, "Is this the end?" 



"Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened unless 

 it die." Persephone must first descend into hell before she can 

 bring again the crocus and the shadbush flower. 



Already death is swallowed up in victory. Even while the 

 blizzards howl, the tall silos stand guard beside the barns. 

 Within them the cut green corn steams and steeps, giving 

 forth its rich juices for the beasts in the stalls. In the mills 

 the turbines turn hour after hour, day after day. The meal flows 

 out in a golden stream, and every grain of it is life. Men, 

 seated at desks in distant cities, men whose eyes have never 

 rested on the green cornlands, turn the harvest into figures 

 and gamble with them. Chemists in quiet laboratories sift the 

 golden grains through their retorts and read there a future the 

 sower never dreamed of. To factory workers it is employment, 

 to bankers it is dollars, to politicians it is votes, to the war- 

 makers it is men, guns, victory. 



For corn is bread and ham and eggs and milk and cream 

 and cheese. Corn is sugar and starch. Corn is clothing for men's 

 bodies and shelter above their heads. Corn is oil and wine. 



Corn is life. 



Its life is the life of men. Sown in weakness, it is raised in 

 power. It dies, yet it lives. It is eaten; and lo! of it there springs 

 a greater life. It is Isis. It is Demeter. It is that Queen of 

 Heaven to whom the women of the Hebrews offered little 

 cakes of their baking. It is the eternal Mother, at once benefi- 

 cent and terrible, on whose fecundity man must depend for 

 his existence, but of which he is forever deeply afraid. 



