Norwich bulletin. [volume] (Norwich, Conn.) 1895-2011, 1910-07-16
written for the Bulletin,

Champion is never lovelier than now.
in these hottest of midsummer days,
when leaf and twig and grass blade
are thirsty for rain, while the. sky
burns piulessly blue. Crampto4 is
| never lovelier than now, for all the
world is a glamour of sunshine, and
little fieece-fiecked clouds heighten
and soften the blue blaze Of a sky that,
brilliantly luminous and infinitely to
be loved. The haze that is over every
thing is part of the burning dazzle of
sunlight, with every pebble of the
dust transformed into a crown jewel,
with nature out-shining and out
wing herself revealing in her
green's and blues her tints of amber
and violet and amethyst rejoicing in
all the mingled scents and fragranceS
of the air. in blended sounds of hum
ming and buzzing the whirr of insect
wings, the call of the cicada. the hop
skip and-jump of green things in the
grass. the wonderful everythings that
fill the air rs grasses fill the meadow,
thick-growing innumerable, singing,
swaying, not one too many where a
million throng, indescribable inde-
Unable, alluring, enticing, bewilder-
mg-grand old natures prodigal ex-
penditure of riotous living.
After the brea thlessness of a sunlit
day, when for hours the air has been
visibly pappitating, when not even n
little cloud like a mans hand has
softened the burning of the blue what
can be more luxurious than to sink
down into the depths of a mound of
new-mown hay2-letting pillows OF
grasses rise up on both sides like arms,
and pillows more spring up about your
shoulders like cushions for the head,
while the feathery fragrance intoxi-
Gales all your memories of when you
were a child and YOU rolled in hay in
the pure abandon of your birthright as
natures own.
To 90 into our bayfield, is like go
ing out into a new world. Though but
a stones throw from our door step,
in stepping into the field we enter up
on wholly different and remoter
civilization. Naturally we live in the
village, with neighbors to right and
left of us, with glowing gardens on
either side and bouldered hills at the
back. But our hay field lies low. In
deed, to call it field" is to nis-name
meadows. the home of meadow larl1s,
with a brook meandering through it in
which dogs delight to drink and splash
and on whose banks hugh green bull
frogs croak their evening chant. The
village trees never look so towering
and so heavily foliage-laden as from
our hay meadow; nor our village
houses so palatial AS for the sky,
tenderest and most familiar of friends.
it never seems nearer to us than when
we gaze from a billowing hay-rick up
and up and up into the brooding
mystery of it, glad it is never self
revealing. glad of the depths of it's
deep reserves, glad that in with hold
ing. it yet gives itself to us and to
every one who loves it. Not more
possible than to number the stars is
ii to count the colors and gradations
of color that entrance the eve. Blue is
a word too definite for all the soft
blue greys, blue gOlds, blue-amethyst, I
blue pearl. that blend and deepen into
the blue OF wood violets while across
the blue come drifting and glistening
old-rose and rOse-pink and golden
rose and amber all together softening
into the shimmering silver of some
fairy crown, or cleaning in waves /