Natures Serial Story

Nature's Serial Story

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Nature's Serial Story, by E. P. Roe
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Title: Nature's Serial Story
Author: E. P. Roe
Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6412] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on December 8,
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THE WORKS OF E. P. ROE
VOLUME ONE
NATURE'S SERIAL STORY
[Illustration: UNDER THE MISTLETOE]

PREFACE
"I am getting very tired," said a hard brain-worker to me once. "Life is
beginning to drag and lose its zest." This is an experience that can
scarcely happen to one who has fallen in love with Nature, or become
deeply interested in any of her almost infinite manifestations. Mr. and
Mrs. Clifford of my story are not wholly the creations of fancy. The
aged man sketched in the following pages was as truly interested in his
garden and fruit-trees after he had passed his fourscore years as any
enthusiastic horticulturist in his prime, and the invalid, whose memory
dwells in my heart, found a solace in flowers which no words of mine
have exaggerated. If this book tends to bring others into sympathy with
Nature, one of its chief missions will be fulfilled.
A love for the soil and all the pursuits of outdoor life is one of the most
healthful signs in a people. Our broad and diversified land affords
abundant opportunity for the gratification of every rural taste, and those
who form such tastes will never complain that life is losing its zest.
Other pleasures pall with time and are satiated. We outgrow them. But
every spring is a new revelation, every summer a fresh, original chapter
of experience, and every autumn a fruition of hopes as well as of seeds
and buds. Nothing can conduce more to happiness and prosperity than
multitudes of rural homes. In such abodes you will not find Socialists,

Nihilists, and other hare-brained reformers who seek to improve the
world by ignoring nature and common-sense. Possession of the soil
makes a man conservative, while he, at the same time, is conserved.
The culture of the land is no longer plodding, ox-like drudgery, nor is
the farm a place of humdrum, brainless routine. Science offers her aid
on every hand, and beauty, in numberless forms, is ever present to
those who have eyes and hearts capable of recognizing it. The farmer
has a literature of his own, which every year is growing in proportions
and value. He also has time for the best literature of the world. It is his
own fault if he remains akin to the clod he turns. Is it not more manly
to co-work with Nature for a livelihood than to eke out a pallid, pitiful
existence behind a counter, usurping some woman's place?
Nature is a good mother, after all, in our latitude. She does not coddle
and over-indulge her children, but rewards their love abundantly,
invigorates them if they dwell in her presence, and develops mind and
muscle, heart and soul, if they obey her laws and seek to know her well.
Although infinitely rich, she has not the short-sighted folly of those
parents who seek to place everything in the hand of a child without cost.
On the contrary, she says, "See what you may win, what you may
attain." Every crop is a prize to knowledge, skill, industry. Every
flower is a beautiful mystery which may be solved in part; every tree is
stored sunshine for the hearth, shelter from the storm, a thing of beauty
while it lives, and of varied use when its life is taken. In animals, birds,
insects, and vegetation we are surrounded by diversified life, and our
life grows richer, more healthful