274 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



otherwise would have broken their shells on som*? 

 Arctic waste, with only the snowbirds to admire, 

 and to be watched with greedy eyes by the Arct.c 

 owls. 



A haze on the far horizon, 



The infinite tender sky, 

 The ripe, rich tints of the cornfields, 



And the wild geese sailing high; 

 And ever on upland and lowland, 



The charm of the golden-rod — 

 Some of us call it Autumn, 



And others call it God. 



W. H. Carruth. 



