86 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



babes in nature's arms, knowing only to draw at 

 her breasts and gurgle, or, the milk failing, to 

 kick and cry. Mother Nature ! She was only a 

 bottle and rubber nipple, only turnips and hay 

 and hens to them. Nature a mother ? a spirit ? a 

 soul? fragrance? harmony? beauty? Only when 

 she cackled like a hen. 



Now there is something in the cackle of a 

 hen, a very great deal, indeed, if it is the~cackle 

 of your own hen. But the morning stars did not 

 cackle together, and there is still a solemn mu- 

 sic in the universe, a music that is neither an 

 anvil nor a barnyard chorus. Life ought to mean 

 more than turnips, more than hay, more than 

 hens to these rural people. It ought, and it must. 

 I had come among them. And what else was 

 my coming but a divine providence, a high and 

 holy mission? I had been sent unto this people 

 to preach the gospel of the beauty of nature. And 

 I determined that my first text should be the 

 skunk. 



All of this, likewise, was previous to the period 

 of my hens. 



It was now, as I have said, my second Febru- 

 ary upon the farm, when the telltale wind brought 



