Norwich bulletin. [volume] (Norwich, Conn.) 1895-2011, 1910-07-16
FROM THE HEART OF THE HAY.

long and ling ering as a. sea syren's
golden hair. TRULY, you can never see
the twilight sky to know it intimately,
except from our hay meadow lying low
in marsh, and you yourself sunk in the
sweet-scented depths of new-mown
hay.
A moment ago | said that to step
into our hay meadow seems like en-
tering into a different world, re-
moter civilization. From the heart of
the hay, the. village looks unreal, and
the houses look like paper houses,
paiatial only in pretense. They are
like dream houses. or like toy in
habitations In which live the dearest
little paper people. all intensely alb
sorbed in their pretty little paper-doli
affairs, chiefly the spreading of tables;
perhaps laboring and toiling for what
they will not be able to keep, perhaps
only singing and dancing and idlfng;
but all of them, whatever they may be
doing, always on tiptoe and fiutter-
ing. From the hay meadow the pala-
tial paper houses show pathetic, while
all the hustling and bustling of the
paper doll activities seem unnecessary
quite as though IL need not be and
its fruit were nothingness. For down
in the lowliness of the hay meadow
where nature is still and serene.
bountifully blessed while bountifully
blessing, there is a deep repose that
nothing can disturb. Not a. stones
throw from the dooryard, from the
daily bee-buzZing' and hen-cackling.
lies this other country, this land OF the
real, this heart of the eternal, teach
ing by true living the deep truths OF
being.
Here, in the silent places, we learn
that we need not live in pathetic paper
houses nor permit ourselves to become
absorbed in puerile affairs. We that
must eat our bread by the sweat of our
brow may pursue our outward routine
in the dust and heat of the village.
and yet be of the meadow and akin
air to sing. Even in villages like
Champion there are numberless
thought currents for men and women
to dwell in. and there is no one of US
but may choose the roof that shelters
him, whether 1t shall be of paper per
ishable, or of that substance that is
eternal in the heavens. To pass from
the CRIME and glare of the village
green of the meadow is to rise in
thought above all that is petty and
mean and sordid, all that seems not
worth while to the upper air where
love and joy and Feace are the ever
present harmonies and life is eternally
worth the living It is to look at our
daily routine from achanged point of
view, to apprehend that we are where
we are for a purpose, that the paper doll
are but the outward nothingnesses
which vanish before the holy of holies.
the Utmost sanctuary in which the soul
dwells serene. Like the blue of the
sky, and the gold of the sunlight, and
the steadfast shining of the stars, the
innermost essence that is the real and
eternal self of us is unapproachable,
not to be stirred nor Jared nor dis
turbed never to be debased by the
petty OF the ignoble always working
out its own salvation in higher air,
and with clearer vision. Knowing this.
and rejoicing in our ever onward
march, We shall not hesitate to turn
from the familiar dooryard and step
out of the dust of the Travelled road
into the cool, sweet land of the real
where we may see things not as they
seem, but as they are.
THE RECLUSE.