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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 and complete, as we enter into their
life and comprehend it. The clouds above us are not mere reservoirs of
water for prosaic use. In their light, shade, and exquisite coloring they
are ever a reproach to the blindness of coarse and earthy minds.
The love of Nature is something that may be developed in every heart, and
it is a love that rarely fails to purify and exalt. To many she is a
cold, indifferent beauty. They see, but do not know and appreciate her,
and she passes on her way as if they were nothing to her. But when wooed
patiently and lovingly, she stops to smile, caress, and entertain with
exhaustless diversion.
In this simple home story I have talked, perhaps, like a garrulous lover
who must speak of his mistress, even though his words weary others. I
console myself, however, with the thought that my text has proved the
prosaic root and stem which have given being to the exquisite flowers of
art that adorn these pages. In Mr. Gibson and Mr. Dielman I have had
ideal associates in the work. They have poured light on a landscape that
would otherwise be dull and gray.
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