A Time for Everything 



latter are not "made up" to with- 

 stand the glare of the solar spotlight. 

 I am willing to concede that a woman 

 glowing in blended pink and white 

 and crimson of her own — and espe- 

 cially if Nature has endowed her 

 mentally as well — is truly as great a 

 glory in the human gallery as any 

 perfect Premier or Columbia in the 

 florist's window. 



Something near i,ooo miles of dis- 

 tance separates the Biltmore, and all 

 it stands for, from the bird-bath in 

 the mint-bed underneath the big white 

 oak in the corner of the lawn at Dum- 

 biedykes. I confess that I can enjoy 

 the animated life of the one as well 

 as the sylvan charms of the other, 

 when in the mood for it. There are 

 times when the saxophone, the banjo 

 and the drum in syncopated harmony 

 strike a responsive chord, just as there 

 are other hours when nothing but 

 contact with open spaces and blue 

 sky will satisfy. Both serve us, and 



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