DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



'STUCKS' 

 OF CORN 



more golden in these days than any others. It 

 may be due to the absence of haze that, on these 

 brilliant autumn days, the greens are yellow-greens, 

 and the browns are golden-browns. Perhaps the 

 sight (one of Nature's grandest masterpieces) of a 

 field of waving grain, ' ripe unto harvest,' or of those 

 unique and fascinating rows of sheaves (' stucks ' we 



call them in the 

 west), spreads as 

 it were a golden 

 sheen o'er all, 

 and gives a glory 

 to the latter har- 

 vest days ; all too 

 short and few. 



Sometimes it 



seems too sad that Nature in all her full-grown 

 greenness and teeming insect life should now halt, 

 that the same warm touch that waked her from 

 her sleep and wooed her into such productive- 

 ness, should bid her cast aside her mantle of green 

 and lead her into the silence of rest and sleep -a 

 sleep from which some of her children arise and 



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