Behold, O God of seedtime,
Thy children, how they toil!
Scattering the seed before Thee
On the altar of the soil.
Thy little birds with music
Disport on joyous wing,
But we who feed the nations,
We are too tired to sing.
Behold, O God of harvest,
The burden of our days,
We gather in Thy bounty
And may not stop to praise.
Thy little birds around us
The spell of music fling,
But we who feed the nations,
We are too tired to sing.
O God of those who labour
In field and mill and mine,
With whirling wheels to drive us,
Lo, we are also Thine!
Thy little birds a-lilting
Come back to us each spring,
But we who feed the nations,
We are too tired to sing.
Aug. 8.—When it comes to appreciating the bounty of nature you should go to a city. That's where you hear the stimulating talk. When I was in Toronto last week I heard more downright blowing about crops than I have heard in the country in the past year.
"Say! I wish you could take a run out to my place and see my garden," exclaimed one enthusiast after we had shaken hands and I had proudly pressed my callous spots into his soft and ladylike palm. "I tell you it's great."
Having had a city garden of my own years ago, and farther south, I couldn't help asking a few leading questions.
"Are you going in for specialties or doing ordinary mixed gardening?"
"Oh, I have a little of everything," he replied with the jaunty air of a man determined to bluff it out. "Say! I had a tomato for breakfast out of my own garden this morning."
I looked properly astonished, and even went so far as to admit that all the tomatoes I had enjoyed so far this season had been bought in a grocery store.
"Yes, sir! And I have had a tomato for breakfast from that garden every morning for the last three mornings."