on autumn hills, if there is one { do not love, | wonder which it is. 
Homely flowers, half weed and more, and scant in color, or lacking in 
form, impress me as homely women—I am sorry for them; but their 
attempt at beauty pleases me. And the flowers, there are Maud Mul- 
lers, barefoot and tanned, but they are dear to me. I like their rustic 
simplicity. I will not choose so much as | will gather and enjoy all the 
flowers which tangle in Nature’s garden through the bewildering year. 
I am so with the seasons. No one shall decoy me into expressing 
vreference now. What I may do later is immaterial. To-morrow I 
may, but it is not to-morrow now. This is to-day. To-day is to-mor- 
row in bud, and buds bloom if the frosts do not scar their immature 
loveliness. But this I hold to as to the dirty, chubby hands of my little 
children; by and by I shall hold their hands as youths, and still further 
on, if God shall loan me so many days, I shall hold their hands as man 
and woman. Which shall I love the more? the baby hands or the 
lad’s hands or the scarred hands of manhood? I will not answer, 
whether I could is inconsequent. I will hold their hands all these 
154 
