IT means so much to grow up 

 next to the ground. There 

 are no playmates like grass 

 and orchard trees., colts in the 

 pasture., chickens in the yard, 

 nor any story-tellers to match 

 the winds when they play 

 with the leaves, or dance a sword-dance through 

 fields of yellowing wheat. The fields too are rare 

 gossips, if only you take the trouble to under- 

 stand. The pity of it is that one can never 

 write down the charm of their living voices! 

 They have something almost epic in their gossip- 

 ing, yet always something new to tell. 



What follows does not claim to tell all the 

 field story. Who can put adequately into words, 

 the dew, the dawn, the quickening of springtime, 

 summer's golden heat, the subtile odors of ripen- 

 ing grain ? . But it is a record at first hand^ of 

 much that comes to pass between the time of 

 summer fallows and the gathering of next year's 

 corn. 



Idiosyncrasy is one charm of every countryside 

 — as one star differ eth from another in glory. 



