Some Summer Days in Iowa | Page 9

about them? In nature there is a noble indifference to everything
save the attainment of the ideal. Flattery aids not an inch to the growth
of a tendril, blame does not take one tint from the sky. In nature is the
joy of living, of infinite, eternal life. Her eternity is now, today, this
hour. Each of her creatures seeks the largest, fullest, best life possible
under given conditions. The wild raspberries on which the catbirds
were feeding today would have been just as fine had there been no
catbird to eat them or human eye to admire them. Had there been no
human ear to delight, the song of the woodthrush would have been just
as sweet. The choke-cherries crimsoning in the summer sun, the
clusters of the nuts swelling among the leaves of the hickory will strive
to attain perfection, whether or no there are human hands to gather
them. They live in beauty, simplicity and serenity, all-sufficient in
themselves to achieve their ends.
* * * * *
Let me live by the old road among the flowers and the trees, the same
old road year after year, yet new with the light of each morning.
Shirking not my share of the world's work, let me gather comfort from
the cool grasses and the restful shade of the old road, hope and courage
from the ever-recurring miracle of the morning and the springtime,
inspiration to strive nobly toward a high ideal of perfection. They are
talking of improving the old road. They will build pavements on either
side, and a trim park in the middle, where strange shrubs from other
states will fight for life with the tall, rank weeds which always tag the
heels of civilization. Then let me live farther out,--always just beyond
the last lamp on the outbound road, like Omar Khayyam in his strip of
herbage, where there are no improvements, no conventionalities, where
life is as large as the world and where the sweet sanities and intimacies
of nature are as fresh and abundant as the dew of the morning. Rather
than the pavements, let me see the holes of the tiger-beetles in the dirt
of the road, the funnels of the spiders leading down to the roots of the
grass and their cobwebs spread like ladies' veils, each holding dozens
of round raindrops from the morning shower, as a veil might hold a
handful of gleaming jewels. Let me still take note of the coming of the
months by the new flower faces which greet me, each taking their

proper place in the pageant of the year. Old memories of friends and
faces, old joys and hopes and loves flash and fade among the shrubs
and the flowers--here we found the orchis, there we gathered the
gentians, under this oak the friend now sleeping spoke simply of his
faith and hope in a future, sweeter summer, when budding thoughts and
aspirations should blossom into fadeless beauty and highest ideals be
attained. Let me watch the same birds building the same shapely homes
in the old familiar bushes and listen to the old sweet songs, changeless
through the years. If the big thistle is rooted out, where shall the lark
sparrow build her nest? If the dirt road is paved, how shall the
yellow-hammers have their sand-baths in the evening, while the half
grown rabbits frisk around them? Sweet the hours spent in living along
the old road--let my life be simpler, that I may spend more time in
living and less in getting a living. There are so many things deemed
essential that really are not necessary at all. One hour of new thought is
better than them all. Let the days be long enough for the zest and joy of
work, for the companionship of loved ones and friends, for a little time
loafing along the old road when the day's work is done. Let me hear the
sibilant sounds of the thrashers as they settle to sleep in the thicket.
Give me the fragrance of the milkweed at evening. Let me see the
sunset glow on the trunks of the trees, the ruby tints lingering on the
boulder brought down by the glaciers long ago; the little bats that
weave their way beneath the darkening arches of the leafy roof, while
the fire-flies are lighting their lamps in the nave of the sylvan sanctuary.
When the afterglow has faded and the blur of night has come, give me
the old, childlike faith and assurance that tomorrow's sun shall rise
again, and that by-and-by, in the same sweet way, there shall break the
first bright beams of Earth's Eternal Easter morning.
[Illustration: "THE FRAGRANCE OF THE MILKWEED AT
EVENING" (p. 54)]

VIII.--BY THE RIVERSIDE IN AUGUST
When morning broke, little