i 4 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



cares as little for his own life as for the life he is 

 hunting. It is the race, instead ; it is the moment 

 of crowded, complete, supreme existence for him 

 — "glory" we call it when men run it off to- 

 gether. Death, and the fear of death, are incon- 

 ceivable to the animal mind. Only enemies exist 

 in the world out of doors, only hounds, foxes, 

 hawks — they, and their scents, their sounds and 

 shadows ; and not fear, but readiness only. The 

 level of wild life, of the soul of all nature, is a 

 great serenity. It is seldom lowered, but often 

 raised to a higher level, intenser, faster, more ex- 

 ultant. 



The serrate pines on my horizon are not the 

 pickets of a great pen. My fields and swamps and 

 ponds are not one wide battlefield, as if the only 

 work of my wild neighbors were bloody war, and 

 the whole of their existence a reign of terror. This 

 is a universe of law and order and marvelous bal- 

 ance ; conditions these of life, of normal, peace- 

 ful, joyous life. Life and not death is the law, joy 

 and not fear is the spirit, is the frame of all that 

 breathes, of very matter itself. 



And ever at the loom of Birth 



The Mighty Mother weaves and sings; 



