THE MEADOW LARKS ris 
still, no retardation, no ebb; only onward, seri- 
ously, serenely onward with a resolution which 
nothing can invade. This stately river’s onward 
pictures without obscurity the no standstill in 
the world of God. Calm is a myth while we 
pitch our tents on a sphere which speeds along 
a roadway we dimly trace at the pace of a mil- 
lion miles the day and past. We are at journey. 
We are in haste. The whole wide, wise world 
refuses slumber. No opiate can put nature to 
sleep for long nor some of nature asleep for a 
minute. Somewhere the bird ever waketh and 
the sea is forever at climb of shore or resolution 
for the windy deep. 
So, on one day in my home at the south porch 
of this land of ours, the sky was deep abundant 
blue. The sunshine was at flush of triumph. 
The world was wizarded over by the sunlight. 
And can anyone evade the fresh miracle of sun- 
light? Can a soul fall so dead asleep as not to 
answer to the outrush of the light where in trans- 
parent skies and near the south the sunshine 
has its way and even midwinter if the sun can 
break through the sullenness of cloud, the sun- 
shine warms the heart and the window, blithe 
as the backtalk of the birds? 
In this Oklahoma weather, if the sun has 
his chance, we who love the lure of the sun- 
light and court freckles can have a springtime 
holiday. 
And this day was wild with light. The sun 
