Theirs Would Feed The Hungry, And They Could At Least
Make Out Its Value As So Many Bushels Worth So Many Dollars And
They saw in their vast yellow acres not the hungry their
grain could feed, but only a very small pile of gold.
the mellow colors of the broadening landscape as we climbed the
long waves of earth we saw the yellow bundles of grain gleaming
like heaps of gold, and we seemed to hear Ruth singing as she
gleaned in the fields of Boaz and the lark carolling in the sky
above as sweetly as when we listened enraptured along the lovely
meadows of the Meuse or on the battle grounds of Waterloo. The
value of our harvest only Eternity may gauge.
As we watched the grain falling like phalanxes of soldiers cut
down in battle a nameless sadness filled our souls as we
"Though every summer green the plain
This harvest cannot bloom again."
Out where the land was broken by ravines and the woodbine hung
its long green ladders from the ironwood tree or made pillars of
Corinthian design of the gleaming sycamores which stood along
the banks of a stream, two boys were fishing. It was hard to
decide which made the more radiant picture: the softly
sculptured landscape or the glow of joy that beamed from those
shining boyish faces. How often had streams like this lured and
detained many well meaning lads who had only a bent pin for a
fishing hook and fish worms for bait, yet who had better luck
than many an older person you may know, for they baited their
hooks with their happy hearts.
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