Meadow and Mountain 



A wheat field is beautiful from the moment it stands 

 fresh and green in the drilled rows in autumn till, it is gath- 

 ered in ripe, yellow sheaves in summer. The wind-made 

 undulations that billow across an uncut field of full-grown 

 wheat are as beautiful as a sun-lit sea in summer time. It 

 is idle for him whose eyes fail to catch the glory and summer 

 sheen of that apocalypse to visit any of the world-famed 

 galleries. Beauty appeals in vain to sightless eyes and 

 sightless souls. Not even a shadowgraph can be silhouetted 

 on nothingness. 



There is no doubt that folks were happy in the olden 

 times, but people differed then as now. Some were sordid 

 then. Some are sordid now. Then some were sightless. 

 But some to-day are blind with eyes wide-open. Some eyes 

 saw beauty then, and some see beauty now. The world has 

 never been without its seer. It .will never be. 



The plow is the symbol of conquest and progress. It 

 stands for wealth and weal. Its beam points to the glad 

 future. 



"Out of the shadows of night, 

 The world rolls into light 

 It is daybreak everywhere." 



In the furrow of the plow trails the poesy of beauty. 

 Orchards with bloom-freighted boughs in the springtide and 

 fruit-laden boughs in the autumn. Vineyards of tangled 

 vines and purple grapes spring from the loam that the plow- 

 share cut. Wheat, oats, corn, and grasses, fallen in new-mown 

 hay, yield their harvests in the path of the plow. The 

 coming morrows will be better than the yesterdays. Beauty 

 is ancient, but her forms may be modern. Let us not miss 



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