THE LANDSCAPE BEAUTIFUL 



like the flaming sword of the archangel. 

 It is always the same physical landscape, — 

 the same quiet millpond, the same gurgling 

 rapids below, the same tall pines on the 

 bank beyond and the same old mill in the 

 foreground; — but it is a hundred different 

 pictures every month as the weather 

 changes. The kaleidoscope turns even 

 with the hours of the day, for the pines eire 

 dark in the morning, while they catch the 

 sun in the afternoon, and the millpond, 

 which is bright with the midday light, 

 gathers heavy shadows from the western 

 hills when the sun begins to sink. 



In a photographic club to which I 

 belong, prints are habitually submitted 

 marked with the dates showing when the 

 negatives were made. Occasionally an 

 artist makes an error in copying his data, 

 and marks December on a picture which 

 was really made in November. But such 

 mistakes are always quickly detected, for 

 the difference in the landscape is so great, 

 even between neighboring months, that any 

 ordinary photograph will show it. And a 

 picture might as well be untrue to the 

 clouds or the foreground as to distort the 

 calendar or be untrue to the weather. 



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