* * * * *

Red tints of the sunrise brightened into yellow, then followed the
white light of an August day. Now the morning mist has gone; woods,
fields and river lie silent in the hot, bright, apathetic morning.
Peace reigns over the smiling fields where Plenty pours from her
golden horn. Here, on the ridge at the top of the cliff, the woods
stretch back half a mile to meet the prairie. Straight down from the
red cedars on the brink of the rock the river softly eddies round a
huge boulder,--the remnant of some cliff tragedy countless years ago.
In the rent of the rock from which it fell a turkey-buzzard often sits
and spreads her huge wings as the boats glide by. Storms have
scalloped pockets in the softer strata; in them still hang the
phoebe's nests, which were filled with young birds in June. Here
and there a swallow's hole may be seen in the rock; earlier in the
season the young birds often peeped out from these holes as if wishing
for strength to come speedily to their wings. Across the river there
is a wide beach where the low water makes ripple-marks in the sand.
Narrow leaves of sand-bar willows fringe the shore, and back of these
are the shining leaves of the oaks. Down the river there are glimpses
of the fields,--yellow stubble where the grain has been cut, serried
ranks of the green and tan where the far-flung guidons of the
tasselled corn stretch away up the slope like a mighty army to
demolish the cloud-castles of refuge on the far horizon where the
mists fled for safety from the pursuing rays of the sun. Overhead the
oak-leaves are motionless, like the comforting, brooding wings of
Peace. It is a time for rest and quiet joy in the beauty and the
fulness of the year. Now, in the grateful shade of some friendly old
oak, is the time to "loaf and invite my soul."