The Winding Path in Nature

The Winding Path in Nature By D. C. Retslaff Have you ever left the wide open highway to follow a winding path? A little, narrow, half overgrown path, twisting between granite boulders, running under overhanging branches, winding around sharp ledges and dipping into grassy hollows? A little old crooked path that ends you know not where, but whose every abrupt jog gives delight to both mind and eye? The straight road with its end plainly in view, has nothing in common with the crooked path hiding a surprise at every turn. The winding path, the crooked path, is full of expectations and bristles on every side with hints of curiosities. It leads to sylvan dells where musical brooks tinkle, where birds carol, grasses nod, and flowers bloom all undisturbed. The more overgrown — the more rock strewn, the greater the pleasure in pursuit and the keener the desire to follow its wind- ings. What is just beyond the point around which the path dis- appears? What is on the other side of the pebbly brook, which you cross on half submerged stepping stones, to follow its crooked wanderings? What tales of adventure, romance and heartache the wind- ing path could tell. It may follow the rugged contour of the land and end in a lone canyon at the sunken shaft of an aban- doned mine. It may follow the meandering banks of a purring stream to a patch of timber and the deserted cabin of a home- steader. It may even pass the cabin and end on the hillside, at a rude fence whose hand-split weathered pickets bravely pro- tect, though long years have passed, the little mound of red brown earth, from the hoofs of cattle that sometimes range the hills. The lure of the winding path is far greater than that of the paved highway. The smooth road speaks of easy grades. It speaks of speed and the effort to get to a given point at a given time. The crooked path whispers gently, softly, low, of peace and repose. Most of us hurry through life. We rush madly here and there, stopping only long enough to gather breath for the

THE WINDING PATH IN NATURE 813 next wild dash that leads to fagged brains, nervous disorders, bucking stomachs and soured dispositions. Let us forget the wide, paved highway. Let us leave cares and worries behind. Let us follow the overgrown windings of the winding path. Let maple leaves or pine needles make our mattress. Let the smell of a camp fire permeate our clothing. Let God and Nature show us the sweetness of the early morn- ing; the beauty of the evening sunset and the wonders of the star-studded night. Let us Gypsy for a month or even a day and then count how much of heaven we've found by following a winding path. San Diego, Calif. Utah Land of the golden sunrise, Land of the snow-crowned heights, Land of the blue bird's message, And the rippling stream's delights; Land where the breeze is laden With the boon of joyous health, Land where the hills are teeming With treasures of unmined wealth. Land that the hand of Nature Has molded well and strong, And there with her potent chisel, Has carved a name that long Shall praise her and proclaim her The master soul of Art; Land, my land of Utah! Where the sparkling rivers start From springs of pristine pureness, Set deep in Nature's heart! Land of the purple vintage With its banishment of thorns, Land of the bounteous harvest, Of wheat and fruits and corn; Land of the many handicrafts, Utah, the land of song, Of sculptor, painter, writer — - Utah, where all day long, Like the bee, mankind is working, To make the hive more great, For who, with a thought of shirking, Can build up any state? Land of the mighty canyons, Whose wonders e'er increase, Where the majesty of mountains Bids the wgrlcftworn man to cease

814 IMPROVEMENT ERA From his toil of worthless striving, And points to the higher goal, That in seeking for attainment, Shall exalt him, mind and soul. Land of the sego lily, With its promise of peace, Land where the search for knowledge, Knows no limit nor surcease; Land of those vast cathedrals Never hewn by mortal hand, Where before the Master Teacher, Each receptive soul may stand And be filled with inspiration Not obtained from man's word hoard, Being taught the law as Moses, Truth and wisdom from the Lord. Land of Utah, how I love thee! Mountains, vales and inland sea, Rocks and brushwood, birds and blossoms, Are all dear, most dear to me! Provo, Utah. . Grace Ingles Frost. Sunflower Roads By Delia Morrell Very often, in literature, we find reference made to the "Mormon" people. The following paragraph is taken from My Antonia, by Willa Sibert Cather. (Houghton Mifflin Co.) It is the story of a Bohemian girl, who, with her family, gave up a comfortable home in the old country for the struggle with a desolate farm in Nebraska. The tale is told by Antonia's friend, Jim Burden. There seems to be no other knowledge of this story, but regardless of that, the sheer beauty of the thought should appeal to every Latter-day Saint. "I remember that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me, there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the 'Mormons'; that at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered sunflower seeds as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm his story, but insist that the sunflower was a native of those plains. Nevertheless that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower- bordered roads always seem to me the roads to freedom." Logan, Utah.