See America First

O >> Orville O. Hiestand >> See America First

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Etext prepared by Lynn Hill, hill_lynn@hotmail.com

SEE AMERICA FIRST

BY ORVILLE O. HIESTAND

IN COLLABORATION WITH CHAS. J. HERR

To Mr. and Mrs. Chas. J. Herr whose kind beneficence and
interest in the Great Out-of-Doors made this book possible;
these Wayside Sketches are affectionately dedicated

"I see the spectacle of morning from the hill tops over against
my house, from daybreak to sunrise, with emotions which an angel
might share. The long, slender bars of cloud float like golden
fishes in the crimson light. From the earth, as from a shore, I
look out into the silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid
transformations; the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I
dilate and conspire with the morning wind. Give me health and a
day and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.

"To the body and mind which have been cramped by anxious work or
company, Nature is medicinal and restores their tone. The
tradesman, the attorney, comes out of the din and craft of the
street and sees the sky and the woods, and is a man again. In
the eternal calm he finds himself. The health of the eye seems
to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see
far enough."

--EMERSON.

INTRODUCTION

Scenery, as well as "the prophet," is "not without honor" save
in its own country. Therefore thousands of travellers are in
Europe today, gazing in open mouthed wonder at the Swiss Alps or
floating down the Rhine pretending to be enraptured, who never
gave a passing thought to the Adirondacks, or the incomparable
beauty of the Hudson, which perhaps lie at their very doors.

It is not our purpose to make the reader appreciate European
scenery less but American scenery more. "America first" should
be our slogan, whether in regard to political relations or to
travel. Many Americans do not know how to appreciate their own
natural scenery. Much has been written about the marvelous
scenery of western North America, but few have spoken a word of
praise in regard to the beauty of our eastern highlands.

The pleasure we take in travel as well as in literature is
enhanced by a knowledge of Nature. Thoreau, Burroughs, Bryant
and Muir--how much you would miss from their glowing pages
without some knowledge of the plants and birds. Truly did the
Indian say, "White man heap much book, little know."

To one who is at least partially familiar with the plant and
bird world, travel holds so much more of interest and enthusiasm
than it does to one who cannot tell mint from skunk cabbage, or
a sparrow from a thrush. Having made acquaintance with the
flowers and the birds, every journey will take on an added
interest because always there are unnumbered scenes to attract
our attention; which although observed many times, grow more
lovely at each new meeting.

We remember, in crossing the ocean, how few there were who found
little or no delight in the ever changing sea with its rich
dawns and sunsets or abundance of strange animal life. It is
well to have one or more hobbies if you know when to leave off
riding them, and you may thus turn to account many spare
moments. In the lovely meadows of the Meuse; along the historic
banks of the scenic Rhine; where the warm waters of the
Mediterranean lave the mountainous coast of sunny Italy; in the
fertile lowlands of Belgium; or out where the Alps rear their
snowy summits, we felt ourselves less alien when we could detect
kinship between European and American plants.

But to visit foreign lands is not our real need, for if we fail
to see the common beauty everywhere about us how much can we
hope to find in a strange land?

Most people take their cares along with them to the woods and
hills, but there is little use of going to the woods, lakes, or
mountains without going there in spirit. We must, like real
travelers, get rid of our excess baggage, as did the boys who
went over the top, if we would really get anywhere.

So many people consider it a waste of time to learn of some of
the wonders God has placed about them, yet, God loved beauty or
never would He have been so prodigal of it. If we really try, we
too can see wherein it is good. "Consider the lilies of the
field," for their consideration will in no way hinder your true
success.

Thoreau said: "If the day and night are such as you, greet them
with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet
scented herbs; is more elastic, more starry, more immortal--that
is your success. All nature is your congratulation, and you have
cause momentarily to bless yourself."

If the reader finds anything of merit in this rambling book of
travel it will be due to the various quotations interspersed
throughout it. If he is inspired to a greater love for the
beauty of God's creation, to be found in his own immediate
environment, or feels a deeper pleasure in listening to the
music of singing bird or rippling stream, we shall be truly
grateful.

CHAPTER I

WAYSIDE SKETCHES

In beginning on our journey we disregarded Horace Greeley's
advice and went east. True, the course of empires has ever been
Westward and the richest gold fields lie in that direction. But
the glamour which surrounds this land of "flowing gold" has
caused vast numbers to lose their interest in both worlds, until
they missed the joys in this and the radiant hope of that to
come.

"All that glitters is not gold,
Gilded tombs do worms infold."

The land of the rising sun is not less lovely than that of its
setting. There is a freshness and a parity in the early dawn not
found in the evening time, and the birds greet the purpling east
with their sweetest songs. No one may know how cheerful, how far
reaching, how thrilling the singing of birds may be unless he
has listened to them telling the gladness of the morning while
the last star melts in the glowing east.

Then, too, what a journey is this when we look forward to the
glad meeting with friends who knew the horrors of the World War
and whom a kind Providence permitted to return to their native
land. During those awful days spent in the halls of suffering
and death near Verdun there were found many golden chains of
friendship, and we thought--

"Better than grandeur, better than gold,
Than rank or title a hundred-fold,
Is a healthy body and a mind at ease,
And simple pleasures that always please,
A heart that can feel for a neighbor's woe,
And share in his joy with a friendly glow,
With sympathies large enough to infold
All men as brothers, is better than gold."

Gold has no power to purchase true friendship and only eternal
things are given away. So, what matters it whether we travel
east or west as long as our souls retain the freshness and
fragrance of the early morning's hours? We can be our own
alchemists, and through the gray vapors of our poor lives
transmute them into golden flowers of character that shall gleam
and sparkle as the evening of our closing days draw near, like
coruscating stars in the violet dusk of our twilight sky.

Nature seemed to have adorned herself richly for our departure;
no sky could have been more blue, no grass more green and no
trees more full of glistening leaves and singing birds. There
was an indescribable freshness and glory on the sunny hills and
shining sky. The breeze sifted through the trees and over the
rim of the circling slopes, causing the maple leaves to show
silver and wafting fragrance from a thousand fountains of
sweetness. At brief intervals the loud, rich notes of the
Maryland Yellow Throat and the high pitched song of the indigo
bunting resounded from the bushes near Glen-Miller park of
Richmond, Ind. A cardinal shot across the road like a burning
arrow, and his ringing challenge was answered by the softly
warbled notes of a bluebird; while down by the spring came the
liquid song of the wood thrush, pure, clear, and serene,
speaking the soul of the dewy morn.

We did not say our prayers, but paused reverently beneath the
broad leaved maple in the park to listen to the thrushes' matin
and knelt at the crystal flowing spring to fill our water
bottles. As we were thus employed a red squirrel, who had the
idea that the whole park was his, crossed and recrossed our path
to see what strange creatures dare intrude at his drinking
fountain. Coming nearer, chattering and scolding as only a red
squirrel can, he began a speculation as to our character in
rapid broken coughs and sniffs, pouring forth a torrent of
threatening abuse in his snickering wheezy manner; "but, like
some people you may know, his defiance was mostly bluster--he
loves to make a noise." Yet, unlike his human brother (while
being a busybody and prying into the affairs of his neighbors),
he is a most provident creature, laying up ample stores for
winter days of need.

Leaving the squirrel in undisputed possession of the park, we
followed the winding road past glowing beds of flowers, which
are worth considering like "the lilies of the field, for they
preach to us if we but can hear." Before God created man He
placed all necessary things for the development of that greatest
of undeveloped resources in the world, the human soul, and
beauty is not the least of these:

"All ground is hallowed ground,
And every bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes."

At all seasons there is a harvest of beauty for him who is
willing to pay the price. But "nature and art are veiled
goddesses, and only love and humility draw the curtains."

We turned away reluctantly from a scene so fair as that of the
charming homes of Richmond, with their well-kept lawns amid
their settings of vines, flowers and shrubs, doubly picturesque,
lying broad and warm amid their encircling hills. It was a happy
fortune for the city that White Water river, with its sinuous
course crowned with sycamore trees, passes it. If we are a part
of all we have ever met then our lives shall be richer for
having contemplated those lovely homes, among the lovelier
hills. If our environment helps make our character, then give us
more parks and quiet retreats among the hills, where from the
breezy uplands we get broader, clearer views.

What a contrast is here in this clean, well-kept American city
to European cities! There, ofttimes, we find narrow, crooked and
dirty streets, and what is worse thousands of children who never
knew the meaning of the word "home." Instead of filthy alleys
filled with smoke and foul smelling gases and profanity and
unclean jests from vagrant lips they should have, as the
children here, the benefits of grassy lawns, running brooks and
singing birds, the natural birthrights of every child. Oh! For
more great hearted men who are more considerate of the sorrows
and cares of others and less considerate of self, as that self
exists for others' good! We thought of the wonderful parks of
Antwerp, Belgium, where the land is so thickly populated, yet
where the love for the beautiful in Art and Nature is so
universal as to perpetuate these lovely parks, thus enriching
the lives of all who see them.

It is pitiful to see in the many smoky cities the little done
for this thirst for beauty, inherent in all. Even in the poorest
sections where many foreigners dwell one sees a broken pitcher
with its stunted geranium, a window box with ferns and vines or
a canary in a rude cage. As soon as a movement is on foot for
parks the seekers after gain will be there howling "the poor
must be fed!" Of course they must, but the body sometimes is the
least part of man that needs nourishment; the soul hungers and
thirsts for the beautiful. Nothing seems useless whereby we can
gratify that insatiable thirst for all that is pure, beautiful
and true in Nature, which draws us a little nearer the Master of
all truth.

We did not mean to preach a sermon this July day for we are not
ordained and therefore our discourse might not be accepted as
orthodox. We heard a few cannon fire-crackers, popping and
sputtering like distant machine guns, the last faint echoes of
the noisy demonstration that filled the streets the day before.
The noise soon died away and we thought how like the
politician's marvelous speeches and outward demonstrations! True
patriotism consists in something vastly more than the waving of
flags and eloquence, which the trying days of 1917 and '18
revealed. The orations were hot ones, and needed no fiery
remarks or burning glances from the eye to make them such, as
the mercury stood high in the nineties; yet some said they
enjoyed them. Perhaps they did, but as a fish might enjoy dry
land or an Esquimo the Sahara. Gladly we left it all for the
grand amphitheaters of the hills where Nature each day holds her
jubilees, filled with calm, serene enthusiasm that falls on one
as gentle as purple shades that linger about her wooded heights,
giving them that strange enchantment that is a part of their
real glory.

The sweeping hills were dotted with shocks of rye and wheat or
were covered with standing grain, and their acres shone like
gold in the level rays of the morning sun. Far and near the
farmers worked in their fields of corn and other grain, giving
vent to their joy by short snatches of song or loud, clear
whistling, as full and flute-like as the notes of the red birds
that sang in the trees which bordered them. The drought and
extreme heat had forced grain into premature ripeness and the
yield thereby was somewhat diminished. We passed men and boys on
the road going to some distant grainfield. They bade us good
morning with pleasant smiles. In like spirit we went to reap our
harvest. Theirs would feed the hungry, and they could at least
make out its value as so many bushels worth so many dollars and
cents. They saw in their vast yellow acres not the hungry their
grain could feed, but only a very small pile of gold. Watching
the mellow colors of the broadening landscape as we climbed the
long waves of earth we saw the yellow bundles of grain gleaming
like heaps of gold, and we seemed to hear Ruth singing as she
gleaned in the fields of Boaz and the lark carolling in the sky
above as sweetly as when we listened enraptured along the lovely
meadows of the Meuse or on the battle grounds of Waterloo. The
value of our harvest only Eternity may gauge.

As we watched the grain falling like phalanxes of soldiers cut
down in battle a nameless sadness filled our souls as we
thought:

"Though every summer green the plain
This harvest cannot bloom again."

Out where the land was broken by ravines and the woodbine hung
its long green ladders from the ironwood tree or made pillars of
Corinthian design of the gleaming sycamores which stood along
the banks of a stream, two boys were fishing. It was hard to
decide which made the more radiant picture: the softly
sculptured landscape or the glow of joy that beamed from those
shining boyish faces. How often had streams like this lured and
detained many well meaning lads who had only a bent pin for a
fishing hook and fish worms for bait, yet who had better luck
than many an older person you may know, for they baited their
hooks with their happy hearts.

Well do we recall how the siren songs of a little brook in early
spring, or it may have been the golden willows filled with
gurgling red wings, caused a court scene at school. The teacher
was one of that type who study the stars by night but never his
boys by day. He knew the golden willow not from the fragrance of
its early blossoms or the gurgling melodies of the red-winged
blackbird's song, but from the fact that they make excellent
switches which cut keenly, bend but do not break. The only time
he ever visited the brook was when he needed a new bundle of
switches. With a jury like that, little wonder the case went
clean against Willie.

Now Willie had missed school; that much was evident. So the
teacher called him up to his desk behind which he sat in his
revolving chair. Willie's face had been red, unusually so, and
glowed all morning like sumac seed against its green setting.
Willie came forward slowly. With downcast face he eyed a crack
in the floor near the teacher's desk while his right hand rested
tremblingly against his flushed forehead. "Willie, what makes
you tremble so?" asked the teacher in a gruff voice. "I-I'm
sick," came the feeble reply.

"Why did you miss school yesterday?" he repeated sternly.

"I-I fell into the creek on my way to school and got my feet
wet." As if to bring proof of what he said, he wiggled the toe
that the hole in his boot showed to best advantage. By this time
death-like silence reigned in the usually very noisy schoolroom.
Only the shrieking sound of a pencil toiling slowly up the steep
incline of a slate like an ungreased wagon up the Alleghanies
broke the silence. Strange it was that this sound, so noticeable
at other times, no one heard. Like a piece of grand opera music
this formed a sort of a musical prelude before the villain
appeared. But mark you the villain was not in front of the desk
but back of it, revolving like a pin wheel in an autumn gale.
Suddenly there was a wild waving of hands.

"John, what is it," roared a loud voice. "I can't get the fifth
example on page thirty-six." Now John had never worked so many
as that before and the rest of the class looked amazed. Lily,
remembering yesterday's lecture on cleanliness, washed her slate
three times with her hand and mopped it up with the sleeve of
her dress and yet it was far from clean.

Looking at Johnny now, it would not have taken a physician to
tell that something was seriously wrong with him. He was sick,
without doubt, and yesterday it was a double ailment he had. Any
diagnosis would have revealed spring fever incipient and trout
fever acute. Willie was perhaps thinking of the old saw mills
where cascades fall and the phoebe-bird sings and the high
banks, which the stream had worn deeply because it had some
obstacle to get around. Poor scared Willie! He, too, had an
obstacle to get around, so he said, "I slipped off of the foot
log and got my feet wet and had to go home."

Now, as every teacher knows, wet feet never daunted any boy from
achieving a purpose. The revolving chair swung around once more,
the teacher arose from his comfortable perch and stooped very
low in order to strike the trembling little boy who had heard
the phoebe-bird prophesying spring, and had found the first
hepaticas among the withered leaves and listened to the rippling
song of the brook.

Could the one in the revolving chair have known what he did
toward crushing the love of the true and the beautiful out of
the life before him, the chair would not have been at once
reoccupied. What had he to give the eager growing soul hungering
and thirsting for the beauty and freedom of Nature? Had he more
of the beauty and fragrance of the willow, so redolent of
spring, in his heart there were less need of willows above his
desk. A few of the fragrant buds in a vase would have had more
effect upon Willie and the whole school than the scattered bits
of golden pieces lying on the floor. Which is the greater
knowledge--to be able to feel spring open in your heart on
hearing the phoebe-bird, or to glibly repeat six times eight?

Our attention was drawn to a crowd of young and middle aged men
idly leaning against posts or sitting on benches in the shade of
trees at the famous roque court at a village in Ohio. The topic
of their conversation was probably government inefficiency, hard
times, lack of work, and perhaps many an hour was spent in
discussing capital and labor by those who have had no personal
acquaintance with either. How many are experts at various games,
yet how poorly they play the great game of life! Many have
failed to reach first base, and greater numbers have not yet
entered but still occupy the bleachers and side lines. Go to the
homes of those who clamor there is no work to be had and,
without trying, you will see where at least a few days could be
better spent than down at the rogue court.

Well has Holland said, "Idleness is the sepulchre of a living
man." Though a man has the wealth of Croesus he has no right to
be idle, if he can get work to do. A man who will not work is
not only a burden to society, but he buries his talents,
destroys his own happiness and becomes a nuisance. There are
always good, wholesome books to be had and "temptation flies
from the earnest, contented laborer, and preys upon the brain
and heart of the idler."

Greenville never appeared so marvellously beautiful as she did
in her holiday attire on that morning of July. We were thrilled
anew with the beauty of our flag as we gazed at its lovely folds
rippling in the breeze o'er the grand old men of the G. A. R.
Our hearts went out in gratitude to those noble veterans whose
loyalty, devotion and sacrifice made this great nation of ours
possible. We thought, how many of these heroes we beheld, had
defended the Old Flag at Gettysburg and Chickamauga, offering
their life blood, if need be, for the future welfare of a
nation. Alas! how many comrades they left upon the ghastly field
of battle. Right fitting it was for the hands of children to
bring the fairest blossoms to show their love and honor to those
who made it possible for our glorious banner to still wave o'er
a land from which had been removed the black stain of slavery.

Greenville, O., has the honor of being the home of Brigadier
General Siegerfoos, the highest commissioned officer from the
United States to make the supreme sacrifice. "He answered the
call of his country in the defense of Liberty, Humanity and the
cause of democracy." Branch of service, 56th Brigade, 28th
Division. He was wounded at Mount Blainville, near the Argonne
Forest and died at Souilly, France, October 7, 1918.

As if to join in this glorious celebration Nature unfurled many
a banner of rarest beauty. There was the deep red of the crimson
rambler, the blue of larkspur and clematis forming a wonderful
background for the golden stars of the daisy that nodded and
gleamed in the warm, clear light. For the white stripes of her
emblem she chose the hydrangeas and elderberry. True, they were
not arranged in order, like the colors of our lovely banner, but
seeing them singly brings out their meaning more clearly, for
there is much to contemplate in Old Glory, and we must analyze
one color at a time. (Again we thought of the G. A. R.
encampment in June.)

Among the many worthy veterans who honored Greenville with their
presence was the proud father of Warren G. Harding, of Marion,
Ohio. All were delighted with the lovely St. Clair Memorial
Hall, whose classic beauty makes it an elevating and refining
influence in the community. Then, too, the well kept library,
with its fine museum containing the old original treaty of the
Indians and many other interesting relics, will repay anyone who
visits it.

As we journeyed through the beautiful agricultural region of
Darke county we took a just pride in the well-kept homes with
their broad and sunny acres, stretching away in one vast expanse
of billowy grain or corn fields lying green and fair beneath the
summer sky. We found a restful charm in these pleasant rural
homes that recalled "A Song," written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

A SONG

Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?
Does anyone weep on a day like this,
With the sun above, and the green earth under?
Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

With the sun, and the skies, and the birds above me,
Birds that sing as they wheel and fly--
With the winds to follow and say they love me--
Who could be lonely? O-ho, not I!

Somebody said, in the street this morning,
As I opened my window to let in the light,
That the darkest day of the world was dawning;
But I looked and the East was a gorgeous sight.

One who claims that he knows about it
Tells me the earth is a vale of sin;
But I and the bees and the birds, we doubt it,
And think it a world worth living in.

Someone says that hearts are fickle,
That love is sorrow, that life is care;
And the reaper Death, with its shining sickle,
Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

I told the thrush, and we laughed together,
Laughed till the woods were all a-ring ;
And he said to me as he plumed each feather,
"Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing."

Up he flew, but his song, remaining,
Rang like a bell in my heart all day,
And silenced the voices of weak complaining,
That pipe like insects along the way.

O world of light, O world of beauty!
Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?
Yes, life is love, and love is duty;
And what heart sorrows? 0 no, not mine!

A NOBLE LIFE

In the northern part of Greene county, near the Little Miami
river, lies Yellow Springs. As we neared the quiet town with its
pleasant avenues of trees that sheltered peaceful, well-kept
homes we thought of the noble spirit of him who toiled so
arduously here that life might be richer and happier for all
humanity. Here for five years dwelt one of America's most
illustrious sons, who from a humble beginning of pitiful
struggle and nearly wageless toil evolved such a noble life. We
are told that he earned his first school books by braiding
straw. "I believe in rugged and nourishing toil," he said, "but
she nourishes me too much." Industry and diligence were the
noble keys with which this beneficent soul was constantly
unlocking rare treasure rooms of knowledge. The ruling passion
of his life was to do something worthy for mankind. The theme he
chose for his commencement oration at Brown University was: "The
Advancement of the Human Species in Dignity and Labor." With
such a motive, how beautiful the harvest of life: "This
wonderful man's diary revealed that during his time as a lawyer
he was unable for a period of months to buy a dinner on half the
days and lay ill for weeks from hunger and exhaustion by reason
of having assumed the debts of a relative." His was the
Herculean task of revising and regenerating the school system of
Massachusetts, and by so doing the whole U. S. The influence was
not confined to this country alone, but spread to Europe.

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