)CT. 31 , 1908 .] 
1 the shimmering sunlight, so that to look 
1 its face was to suddenly remember Brown- 
| s lines, “God’s in His heaven, all’s well with 
Ll world.” 
jjtn such a day further north I have seen scar- 
of just such a burning intensity. Here, to- 
>! the only vivid red was in the sumachs. 
;y lighted their torches some time ago. 
racted by a great clump of them on the brim 
j 1 pond basin I crossed the road and glanced 
m. On the inner rim there were scores of 
m flaming in the sunshine. Away down in 
hollow in an open space some trees I did 
know waved feathery branches of bracken 
en, while nearby a stately oak flaunted 
ners of burnished bronze, 
here were few flowers. Here and there a 
ini of yellow indicated late blooming golden- 
; a dash of white the umbel of wild carrot, 
! a mass of purple the presence of a clump 
asters—but everywhere about lay Mother 
ture’s jewel case. Some of them empty, 
bed by the wanton winds; some still hold 
ir treasures and will till the prying fingers 
Jack Frost force them open or some strong- 
ker bird with the hunger of winter in his 
ast breaks them in pieces, 
vll the while as I walked the poplars kept 
Iding “Good morning,” “Good morning.” 
see them rippling in the sunshine was. like 
eting a smiling child or a cheerful friend, 
1 all involuntarily I called up to answer their 
eting. The willows, too, bowed low and 
rmured something as I passed the pond, 
lether they were speaking to me or whisper- 
to their graceful shadows I know not. In 
! ’ case it was good to see and to hear. 
Vriting of San Marco, that church which is 
glory of Venice, after describing its statued 
tiros, its splendid mosaics, its pillars of rare 
rbles, and its towers and arches whose 
sts “break into a marble foam and toss them- 
ves far into the blue sky in flashes and 
eaths of sculptural spray as if the breakers 
the Lido shore had been frostbound before 
y fell.” John Ruskin deplores the fact that 
Ise who pass beneath but rarely lift their eyes 
gaze upon its splendors. I understood his 
ling this morning. 
1 Tie business of life cannot stop because the 
: jeant of October is passing by, but so many 
■ re might have the enjoyment of it if they 
lly would. The Venetian is accustomed to 
T Marco and his eyes are dull to its glories, 
Inn as are those of the chamois hunter to the 
indeur of the Alps. We are much the same 
'ere the beauties of God’s out-of-doors are 
icerned. But there is another reason for the 
leral indifference to the gorgeous pictures of 
umn and the more delicate beauties of the 
1 ing and the winter landscapes, 
nurther on in the article quoted Ruskin truly 
i r s that to enjoy the interior of San Marco 
I ? thing is absolutely necessary—namely, the 
ssession of color sense. We often hear 
Aple speak of having or not having an “ear 
f music”; the perception of color is as truly 
[• gift—or to speak more correctly, a facultv. 
nry Ward Beecher had this color sense to 
degree that he found such pleasure in watch- 
t; the play of light on precious stones that he 
1 ‘d to carry a few unmounted in order to be 
: e to gratify his taste at will. I thought of 
i n as I stood under the golden umbrella of 
maple of which I have spoken. An artist 
jr, similar joy in a landscape, his trained eye 
ibling him to see color harmonies invisible 
most persons. There are other people who 
, e sensuous delight in pure color. The joy 
:h as one finds in a flaming sumach or a 
vering poplar is a mystery to another, and 
[ s other misses much of the beauty of the 
umn. 
Vhen the child begins to play upon a musical 
trument the fingers bring out but weak and 
vering tone; but by and by the muscles grow 
ong and the tone grows clear and steady. It 
i so with every sense and faculty. If we do 
■ t see, it is not our eyes that are holden; it 
that we are indifferent to our birthright—in 
I ier words, that we are too lazy to cultivate 
; seeing eye. So, I beg of you, do not be 
:-lazy.— J. M. W., in Kansas City Star. 
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