284 AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



their swords into plowshares, and their spears into 

 pruning hooks," and so, in Shakespeare's fine old line, 



"To reap the harvest of perpetual peace." 



And it is another of the promises, and one of the most 

 beautiful of all in its simplicity, that, with the bow in 

 the cloud as the token of the covenant, 



"While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold 

 and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night, shall 

 not cease." 



Whittier has left "A Song of Harvest," and I 

 knov/ of no more fitting sentiment with which to close 

 these random observations than his beautiful stanzas: 



"O Painter of the fruits and flowers ! 

 We thank thee for thy wise design 

 Whereby these human hands of ours 

 In Nature's garden work with thine. 



"And thanks that from our daily need 

 The joy of simple faith is born: 

 That he who smites the summer weed 

 May trust thee for the autumn corn. 



"Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; 

 Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall ; 

 Who sows a field, or trains a flower, 

 Or plants a tree is more than all. 



"For he who blesses most is blest; 



And God and man shall own his worth 

 Who toils to leave as his bequest 

 An added beauty to the earth. 



