To the left, lay broad fields of grains and grasses, bending timidly before the fervent caress of August zephyrs; gardens of unfamiliar fruits and vegetables stretched before us; to the right rose tier after tier of grassy knolls dotted with low, spreading shrubbery; while farther up the slope, ideal groves of magnificent Maples, seemed beckoning to the pleasure-lovers.
Perfectly developed humanity supplied the Highlights for the fascinating picture. The grassy knolls swarmed with babyhood, whose rosy-cheeked mothers in gay colored, tunic-like garbs, busied themselves among the rustling foliage;—pruning, training, planting and cultivating.
One could hardly believe that work, considered by us as too laborious,—nay—positively injurious for womankind, was being accomplished by this band of merry-makers.
When we could distract our attention from the bewildering scene, the guides were saying: “These fields are tilled and the crops harvested by the mothers of the Yearlings, as you see.”
“Who owns or controls the fields and pays for the labor?”
“It is government land.”
“—and the government?”
“—is officered by citizens who have outlived the parental term and successfully graduated into full citizenship three or more children.”
After our mumbled comment, “A premium on parentage, at last,” we asked: “Who takes care of the ‘Yearlings,’ as you have called them?”
“Their mothers;” with a puzzled look at each other—“with a little help from the Applicants after noon.”