284 THROUGH LIBRARY WINDOWS 



sheafs standing amid its own crimson stubble; 

 the broad pastures with their russet shimmer 

 of feathery grasses; the quiet flocks and herds 

 feeding and fattening; the Blue jays noisy in 

 their thievish feasts — how deliciously it all 

 melts into the soft haze and forms an ideal pic- 

 ture. Summer is still haunting us, not in actual 

 presence, yet everywhere is the odor of her gar- 

 ments and the fruitage of her genial and sunny 

 days; some of it has gone into mountains and 

 deeper hued the seamy rocks; some of it has 

 gone into life and thought and passion, and 

 lives on and shall forever. Nothing is lost for 

 Nature is an economist, her wealth accumu- 

 lates, she stores for future use and foretokens 

 the roll of centuries. Seasons are ministers of 

 a higher good and soul takes on color and 

 power. Everything means something and 

 works and wins. Creation is no accidental or 

 haphazard affair. A painstaking Creator is at 

 the head and centre, ordering and supervising 

 His orders. 



Late last night I sat at my library window 

 and looked out on the garden, and into the 

 skies; the garden was changed, but the skies 

 unchanged. The household was asleep. The 

 mignonette sent up its rich fragrance, the pun- 

 gent odor of faded leaves was distinct, now 



