The Fruit of the Furrow 



And those are the three notes in his song that make its 

 music. 



I knew a pioneer who had learned the lark's song. I 

 am about to say a word concerning his farm. He built his 

 cabin-home under the cottonwoods. They were landmarks 

 that could be seen from far. In winter they broke the bliz- 

 zard's breath into long-drawn sighs. In early spring their 

 waxen plumules adorned the naked boughs with greenery 

 that glistened in the sun. At summer noontide their full- 

 spread leaves threw cooling shade on the cabin roof, and 

 many a bird with parted beak and hanging wings cooled 

 itself in the shadow. The glossy leaves of the cottonwood 

 fluttered in every vagrant wind that wandered across the 

 prairies; and then, like whirling flakes of yellow snow, fell 

 at autumn time in leafy drifts about the cabin door. To all 

 this poesy and beauty the pioneer's eyes were open. 



But years slip away more swiftly and silently than do 

 leaves from the trees, and the toil of the plowman is re- 

 warded at last. Where the plowshare first cut the virgin 

 soil are vineyards, orchards, and fruitful fields. The grape- 

 vine's foliage literally covers and hides, with its drapery of 

 green, the supporting tree. In the foreground of the vine- 

 yard is beauty, though not of tree or vine, whose charms 

 would captivate the most callous man alive. No man fore- 

 sworn to bachelorhood would dare to linger amid such scenes. 

 Beauty, youth, and spring all breathe in unison. One's 

 blood will flow the better for being much among them. 



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