Will you wander with me through the fields where the blue-fringed
gentian blooms with the pink bell-heather, and the bridal torch
nods from the brook-side, bending its stately head to the west wind
that sweeps ever in from the sea with touch as soft as of a woman's
hand? Flat and uninteresting? Yes, if you will. If one sees only the
fields. My children saw them and longed back to the hills of Long
Island; and in their cold looks I felt the tugging of the chain
which he must bear through life who exiled himself from the land
of his birth, however near to his heart that of his choice and his
adoption. I played in these fields when I was a boy. I fished in
these streams and built fires on their banks in spring to roast
potatoes in, the like of which I have never tasted since. Here
I lay dreaming of the great and beautiful world without, watching
the skylark soar ever higher with its song of triumph and joy, and
here I learned the sweet lesson of love that has echoed its jubilant
note through all the years, and will until we reach the golden
gate, she and I, to which love holds the key.
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