172 WITH EARTH AND SKY 
contentment and feast is the gracious logic of 
the day. 
I needed no Horatius Flaccus, poet of the 
Roman midday, to bid me “carpe diem.” I 
had a saying sweeter to my soul than his, saluting 
me. It was the voice of the great Chief Poet 
out in the open field as springtime when the 
winds were with swift compulsion bending the 
wild flowers into an ecstasy of prayer and laughter 
and adoration at the feet of the Great Gardener 
in praise of the Lord of the wind and flowers. 
Enjoy this day is Christ’s constant invitation 
set to song. I am ready and exuberant for the 
joy of the day. 
I had my lunch with me, to wit, a beefsteak 
and a loaf of bread and a pinch of salt; and there 
was the winding stream and the riot of fall 
leaves coming and going at the wind’s will in 
their desperation of delight. I knew there must 
be somewhere out of sight of anything save the 
sky and the nearby naked trees where I could 
scratch the match and light a fire and see the 
blue smoke curl and lie down on an innumerable 
company of russet leaves odorous and balmsy and 
watch the blue smoke curl from the fire, built 
from branches which the winds had hacked from 
the trees in profusion for my coming so I might 
cook a beefsteak on the very best culinary instru- 
ment in the world, namely, a dry forked stick 
which the winter and snow and rain and winds 
had sanitized. No city “chef” nor “café” nor 
