92 What Birds Have Done With Me 



in an ethical point of view, the "Pot-hunter" is a 

 Prince and a King, when lined up with the mere 

 KILLER, who does it for fun. 



Let us suppose that yonder, beneath some 

 mighty dome, is hung a splendid canvas Art 

 holding Beauty captive and they together, tell- 

 ing the story of heroic deeds. Across the face of 

 even such a painting, I do not hesitate to hang a 

 picture of Autumn a word painting from a fa- 

 miliar poem asking you to look at mine, instead 

 of the triumph of Art that it but half conceals. 



"A haze on the far horizon, 

 The infinite, tender sky, 

 The ripe, rich tint of the corn-fields, 

 And the wild Geese sailing high, 

 And all over upland and lowland 

 The charm of the goldenrod, 

 Some of us call it Autumn, 

 And others call it God." 



This is as sweet and tender as the Dawn; here 

 we find Hope and Fruition hand in hand a 

 golden fancy mixing the pigments and an infinite 

 hand wielding the brush. Autumn is its own 

 artist; October, as a painter, shaming the old 

 masters by producing only perfection. The pic- 

 ture would be incomplete, imperfect were it not 

 for the indispensable element of life supplied by 

 the flock of birds sailing across the sky. Their 

 mystic V is emblematical of splendid victory 



