THE quiet murmur of insects on a summer evening—the smell of the air before a rain, and of fresh-plowed earth in the spring —the soft patter of rain on the roof—getting stuck in the mud on the way to Sabbath school—drenching sweat from repairing a leaking plastic waterline—the lovely, innocent perfection of a Turk's-cap lily, finally found two hundred yards from home after searching for five years—a bobwhite quail's nest in the back yard, so filled with eggs it seems impossible for the mother to cover them adequately—the pulse-quickening loveliness and heady perfume of wild azaleas blooming before other trees have leafed out.
A Sabbath-afternoon walk with the family through towering long-leaf pine forests—quiet meditation on a secluded knoll covered with hickories and oaks—pine cones looking as if they had been run through a buzz saw from the squirrels' efforts to get at the tiny pine nuts—all the family shelling purple-hulled peas on a summer afternoon—Sabbath morning in the little chapel in winter, oak logs blazing in the big cast-iron stove.
Trying to get an obstinate chain saw started—the thrilled expression of pure joy on the children's faces as they bring in radishes and tomatoes grown in their own gardens—painstakingly nurtured garden peas sheared off to the ground by rabbits —splitting hardwood logs with wedges and sledge hammer—the children climbing the huge persimmon tree to pick delicious golden fruit—the persistent and insistent call of the summer oriole—the whole family working together to peel and can luscious peaches—nursing fire-ant bites and wasp stings—the taste of a watermelon grown in your own garden.
The gradual replacement of my children's harsh, competitive spirits with cheerful obedience and self-reliance—the soft lowing of the neighbor's cows in the distance—the crested fly catcher nesting in the clothesline pole—Orion blazing in the summer heavens—pure, delicious, soft water from a well more than four hundred feet deep.
Surely God has reserved His choicest blessings for those who will heed His admonition to move out of the cities into the country.
