The new era., 1909-08-26

area Of hedged fields and red-tiled
farmhouses where the Cheviots slope
to the Till. But those noted agricul-
turists. the brothers Culley, had more
appreciation of the homely turnip than
the burning bush." and 1t was
their grubbing and plowing that
transformed region so wildly pictur.
esque into a fruitful land. What 1t
was like before their operations be-
gan may be known from the appear.
ance Of the land that has proved ir.
reclaimable. How familiar and yet
how impressive the broom was may
which it finds a place in the old bal
lads. Long after its petals have fallen
to the ground in the south 1t contin.
ues in Highland strath and glen what
time the angler penetrates them in
search of trout.
There are several white flowers that
sweep past like visionary clouds in
the procession. First, the wee mod.
est crimson-tipped" one that spreads
over meadow and golf course till, in
the sunny days of May when the
nightingale is in full song. they rest
like sheets Of snow on the warm
ground. Following close upon them is
that truly English flower, the haw-
thorn 1t is unobtrusive in the thicket
and well-trimmed hedge; but when the
bushes have been allowed to grow tall
for the sake of shelter, or where In.
dividual trees abound, 1t assumes for
brief period an unquestioned do.
minion. The garlands of pure soft
white it hangs out make the color OF
the landscape while they last, and the
fragrance 1t diffuses has no equal,
save 1t be that of an orchard when
the apple trees are in bloom and
resonant with the humming of innum-
cradle bees. With the decay of the
hawthorn comes feeling of sadness
1t was with unmixed joy that we
hailed the early figures in the long
procession. The maids Of January
whitening the woodland while the
trees are bare are greeted as heralds.
cowslips in the meadow and primroses
on the steep sides OF the dene are still
but harbingers. We have no thought
of the end when the marsh-marigold
shines like fire on swamps and hol-
lows gray, nor when the faint sweet
cuckoo-fower" spreads nodding over
the low-lying meadows, till by force of
numbers its exquisite and delicate
shape and color master those of its
companions. But the fading of the
hawthorn tells of springs early ex-
piry, and when the wild rose has bios
nd for ttat
er pretty ring time" has been added
to the past. No other occurrence in
the year strikes an equal note of sad.
ness, especially among those of riper
years. 1t is the enviable privilege of
youth to live in the passing hour and
enjoy the mystic "Now," and to be
ever looking forward to some new dis
covery or adventure. But as we grow
old and lose our Illusions, we gain the
dismal knowledge thai the fight of
time is much more likely to discover
the disagreeable than the pleasnt, and
we also become more keenly alive to
the transient character of most things
We know that we also are only fig
ures in long procession Of men
vending from one dark point to an.
other, appearing as miraculously as
the flowers. and at the end, passing
like them once more to the soft arms
of earth" our Mother. And he who
realizes what is meant by ages and
aeons Of time recognizes that the diff
| ference between the lifetime of a flow.
er and of man is imperceptible
When you are facing eternity, a day
''is as a thousand years"