EARTIT COVERINGS 
283 
making confession in his secret soul—confessing 
to a feeling he cannot define. A little swale of 
grass, a thistle, and a rock—what is there about 
them that cheapens the city street and the tall 
building ? Is it anything more than that the 
one is natural and the other is artificial? We 
put blocks of stone together and try to create 
an impression of beauty such, perhaps, as 
nature produces; but the imitation falls far 
below the original. We rear spires and pinna- 
cles in the air, palaces in the sun ; but they are 
never so awe-inspiring as the mountains. We 
flatten the Fields of Mars; but they are not so 
impressive as the plains. We build baubles of 
form and color without number ; but how petty 
they seem by comparison with nature’s handi- 
work! A tree, a brook, or a hill—yes, even a 
flash of sunlight on a wayside flower—is worth 
them all. Honor to the work of man; honor to 
those who spin and carve and build; honor to 
the hand that rounded Peter’s dome; but what 
of the Hand that rounded the earth and estab- 
lished the blue dome of the sky, what of the 
work of the Great Builder ! 
And the wealth of color nature lavishes on 
the meadow and the pasture! With a prod- 
igal hand she sacrifices half a dozen hues to 
The natural 
vs. the 
artificial. 
The wealth 
of colors. 
