ind. The whole office of Matter is to feed life--to
feed the green rushes, and the roses that are about to be; to feed the
swallows above, and us that wander beneath them. So much greater is this
green and common rush than all the Alps.

Fanning so swiftly, the wasp's wings are but just visible as he passes;
did he pause, the light would be apparent through their texture. On the
wings of the dragon-fly as he hovers an instant before he darts there is
a prismatic gleam. These wing textures are even more delicate than the
minute filaments on a swallow's quill, more delicate than the pollen of a
flower. They are formed of matter indeed, but how exquisitely it is
resolved into the means and organs of life! Though not often consciously
recognized, perhaps this is the great pleasure of summer, to watch the
earth, the dead particles, resolving themselves into the living case of
life, to see the seed-leaf push aside the clod and become by degrees the
perfumed flower. From the tiny mottled egg come the wings that by-and-by
shall pass the immense sea. It is in this marvellous transformation of
clods and cold matter into living things that the joy and the hope of
summer reside. Every blade of grass, each leaf, each separate floret and
petal, is an inscription speaking of hope. Consider the grasses and the
oaks, the swallows, the sweet blue butterfly--they are one and all a sign
and token showing before our eyes earth made into life. So that my hope
becomes as broad as the horizon afar, reiterated by every leaf, sung on
every bough, reflected in the gleam of every flower. There is so much
for us yet to come, so much to be gathered, and enjoyed. Not for you or
me, now, but for our race, who will ultimately use this magical secret
for their happiness. Earth holds secrets enough to give them the life of
the fabled Immortals. My heart is fixed firm and stable in the belief
that ultimately the sunshine and the summer, the flowers and the azure
sky, shall become, as it were, interwoven into man's existence. He shall
take from all their beauty and enjoy their glory. Hence it is that a
flower is to me so much more than stalk and petals. When I look in the
glass I see that every line in my face means pessimism; but in spite of
my face--that is my experience--I remain an optimist. Time with an
unsteady hand has etched thin crooked lines, and, deepening the hollows,
has cast the original expression into shadow. Pain and sorr