OUTDOORS 



clump of willows in a " slue " amid the fields 

 and not lift a leaf from the ground below. 

 They harvest the oak-leaves and the yellow 

 leaves of hickories and then disperse them 

 in flying windrows, sticking them in thorny 

 hedges or wasting them over the fields. 



But always to the keener sense of one who 

 loves and is familiar with outdoors there is a 

 mirage of harvest even on the gloomiest days. 

 There is sight of waving tassels of cornsilk 

 and bending sheen of wheat; there are buck- 

 wheat blossoms and dronings of the bee, 

 the flash of swallows in the sunshine, the 

 clatter of reapers on the hill. In the fence- 

 corners there are gay bits of color the pur- 

 ple of the thistle, the green of the hedges, 

 and the slate-hued shyness of a prying cat- 

 bird. There is music in many keys, pictures 

 from every side. So even now, with a harp 

 of wailing November breezes to mock the 

 vision, one can stand by naked meadow and 

 " scarecrow " guarded spaces and find Ely- 

 sium in the bare, brown fields. 



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