"First the blade . . ." 5 



August. The dog-star blazes in the southern sky. The corn 

 stands still. The sea of green breaks into a froth of pale tassels 

 and every thread of these is fringed with gold. Here is dust 

 richer than any Klondike yield; the wealth of Montezuma; the 

 treasure of the Gran Quivira which lured Coronado across a 

 thousand miles of desert. He saw the green maize fields of 

 Kansas and never knew that his eyes beheld a wealth beyond 

 Spain's greediest dreams. 



Now the silk-veiled, nubile ears lean out from the towering 

 stalks, at once eager and shy, waiting for the bridegroom's 

 coming. Down from the proud tassels floats the pollen. 



Under the cloudless August skies, under the still, hot moons, 

 through dusk and dawn, priested by the evening and the morn- 

 ing stars, the great marriage is made. For this the earth was 

 torn by plowshares and harrows; for this men bent the knee 

 and plodded after beasts through smoking furrows. For this, 

 frost, thaw, wind, rain, cloud, sun and a numberless host of 

 insects have worked together. Eternal male, eternal female; 

 forever seeking, finding, giving, receiving. . . . 



"After that, the full corn in the ear." Within the close- 

 sheathed green wombs the kernels form and swell. Deeper 

 into the earth drive the roots, urged on by the needs of the 

 new life which is to come. A hush falls over the world; the 

 hush that precedes birth. The corn gathers to herself all her 

 strength. Her time is close, now. 



September. The harvest moon rides into the eastern sky 

 and a billion, billion wombs deliver life. Out from the spent 

 cornfields it pours on the backs of men and beasts, in carts, 

 in trucks, in barrows. It fills the barns. It runs in a golden 

 stream along the highways to the towns. It brims the holds 

 of ships and barges. It pours over the sides of laden freight 

 cars. All these bear it away to the hungry mills. 



The harvest moon wanes; the Moon of Hunters takes the 

 sky. Frost sears the fields and sets the maples aflame. Bitter- 

 sweet blazes where the scuppernong lured the June bees. In 



