on autumn hills, if there is one I do not love, I wonder which it is. 

 Homely flowers, half weed and more, and scant in color, or lacking in 

 form, impress me as homely women I am sorry for them ; but their 

 attempt at beauty pleases me. And the flowers, there are Maud Mul- 

 lers, barefoot and tanned, but they are dear to me. I like their rustic 

 simplicity. I will not choose so much as I will gather and enjoy all the 

 flowers which tangle in Nature's garden through the bewildering year. 



I am so with the seasons. No one shall decoy me into expressing 

 preference now. What I may do later is immaterial. To-morrow I 

 may, but it is not to-morrow now. This is to-day . To-day is to-mor- 

 row in bud, and buds bloom if the frosts do not scar their immature 

 loveliness. But this I hold to as to the dirty, chubby hands of my little 

 children ; by and by I shall hold their hands as youths, and still further 

 on, if God shall loan me so many days, I shall hold their hands as man 

 and woman. Which shall I love the more ? the baby hands or the 

 lad's hands or the scarred hands of manhood? I will not answer; 

 whether I could is inconsequent. I will hold their hands all these 



154 



