ON THE MANUSCRIPTS OF GOD 



theless be recorded: namely, the bray of the 

 donkey, the hysterical staccato of hens, the 

 metallic meditations of the guinea fowl, and 

 the voice of the turtle-dove, unsoftened by 

 scriptural association. But compare with 

 the deafening turmoil of any great city 

 the noble serenity of a forest, or the dreamy 

 murmur of grasses on the meadows and 

 plains. In the gentle andante of wind-blown 

 grasses, nature seems to be practicing mod- 

 ulations from pure silence into the first key 

 of audible music, though the faint sh, sh, 

 of falling snowflakes possibly comes before 

 the grassy measures in her chromatic scale. 

 Continuing her modulations from the 

 songs of the meadow grasses, nature passes 

 to the rustling cadences of the cornfield, 

 where she not only fills the ear with never- 

 to-be-forgotten melodies, but casts her spell 

 over the other senses as well. Waving her 

 invisible baton, she sets all the purple-tas- 

 seled heads bowing to each other, in stately 

 minuet, while the rustling of the long, 

 dry leaves carries out the illusion of the 

 rhythmic flutter of silken petticoats. This 



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