274 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



otherwise would have broken their shells on some 

 Arctic waste, with only the snowbirds to admire, 

 and to be watched with greedy eyes by the Arctic 

 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. Cabrttth. 



