ON THE MANUSCRIPTS OF GOD 



ebb of leafy tides brings the "sweet odor 

 of decay." Dying, the leaves and frost- 

 touched ferns (notably the Dicksonia, or 

 hay-scented) fill the air with a subtle mel- 

 low fragrance, which stirs alike the embers 

 of the past and the still glowing hopes of 

 the future. 



Baffled by the sweet mystery of it all, one 

 marvels yet again how nature from her 

 same old mixing-bowl of brown earth, 

 stirred by long sunbeam fingers, can produce 

 a million different odors. And though for 

 aeons and aeons she carries on her sweet nec- 

 romancy under our very eyes nay, more, 

 under our very noses we still know as little 

 how she does it as the first man who ever 

 yielded to the enchantment of a rose. 



