Songs of the Fields 



derstand why the term is suitable as none other. 

 Even if the Almighty did give the earth to the 

 children of men, it scarcely seems fair to Him to Nature's 

 efface every picture and hush all song. It is dim- 

 cult to realize just what would happen were most 

 men farming by this method. But we still have 

 left some degree of comfort because there are so 

 many of nature's gentle men: men who see the 

 pictures, hear the songs, and wish to perpetuate 

 them for their children. 



I know a farm that has been for three genera- 

 tions in the same family, passing from father to 

 son. The home mark the word is on a little hill 

 in the middle of the land, obscured by surround- 

 ing trees from the road and its dust and travel. 

 The quaint old house is a story and a half, and a 

 porch extends the length of the front and both 

 sides. That home even turns its back to the road. 

 The front porch and door face the orchard in the 

 center of the land, "where father always sat when 

 he rested, so that he could hear the birds and bees 

 sing," the son told me. 



There are old beehives under the trees, and the 

 grass is long and fine. One could look at that 

 orchard in mid-winter and tell to a certainty just 

 what music would swell there in June. The blue- 

 bird would claim the hollow apple tree, the catbird 

 the plum thicket, the robin, jay, and dove the ap- 

 ple trees, and the ground sparrow the earth. The 

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