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and wan, strides wide-armed and gaunt. Squirrels kindly pile their nut chaff about his feet as a peace offering for their depredations, and, too, lest unimpeded he wraith-like might vanish in the shadows of the coming winter's night while they slept. Standing aloof, alone, above his fellows, he is the minor note of the hillside, but the buds heed not-they sleep. Even the long in and out weaving of the bright milk-weed butterflies, up and down. the canyon, as they flutter through the alders, over the mullens, across the hazel and the brook, does not awaken them. Indeed, these butterflies, these "winged flowers," seem drawing the sunshine and shadow threads closer and closer in their wanderings, and the mystery, the spell, seems deeper for their silent motion. Across myriad mystical nature-harps of pine, chapparal, cascara and oak, comes no awakening note. All the long summer days the grasses nod, bend and bow to each ripple of air, and rain down their treasures, more polished and as full of promise as the gold that glistens like a new moon along yon miner's pan. The bumble bee drones over the tar-weed. The vireo says "sweet so sweet," overhead the jay scolds; yet through it all, these quiet buds are nodding, sleeping, dreamingdreaming of their coming day-of ages, lashed by the storms of eons, almost overwhelmed by the slow creep of glacier and the onrush of those up-heavals and erosions that put the ancient canyons and river beds on the summits of our present hills, they hold the secrets of the past.

Think of them there when the lava came. See them clutching for life when the glacier grew, and see them triumphantly growing along its fringes when it drew back the icy fingers. It decked the hillside when the stones were re-made; those hieroglyphics hewn, chiseled, moulded, melted, scored conglomerated. cuneforms of nature! The large handwriting that none can quite decipher.

The

Could we unroll and read, in patient unfolding, these scrolls of time, we would find the unity of the wheel of world-fortune; that which seems like a broken spoke or a slowing down would prove but the opportunity for a new impulse on the lines of a new upbuilding.

Gather a handful close to your heart,

dream of the atmosphere of that other. day; know that yesterday and to-day are one, that where thought and plan are, time is not!

Listen! Across this canyon and that mountain, with their changed lines and levels echoes the great nature anthem that all down the centuries has rung out. Do you not still hear it come beating, pulsing on across this placid day?

Superior to all accidentals strikes the key-note of divine harmony; we forget the passing discord in the final resolving cadence.

To-day's little scrolls keep peeling off, reeling off. Sitting here beside them, with the flush of beauty about us, with closing eyes and inbreath from every leaf and flower, and vibrating life about us, dreamily we feel that, as they hold yesterday's impenetrable shadows, so, too, they hold yesterday's sunshine, its personality, its life, its inspiration. "Tis but a step of retrospection to sit there beside them in that long-gone day. That they were there, that we know them here to-day, gives us a sense of comradeship, and who dare say just where we may have paused and parted to share this hour!

Across the haze of centuries blurs almost as a memory-image the song-broken quiet of our communing; the consciousness of being, the self, bridging the past, linking you and me in a sympathy wider than days is all there, mirroring our sunshine, our life, its charm, its import.

Silently, even as they have pattered through the years, the scrolls fall. Dream again-the day is long. The mid-day songs are hushed, the heat flutters. and vibrates, and even the leaves sleep. Dream on! We scarce dare open to read these new scrolls, but see! trailing out across the future, in inspiration glistens the new path-way, the to-morrow that is to-day, that sleeps. Close to the earth we listen for the message of the eternal now that holds the prophecy of the awakening, and in the burst of song that comes in the eventide, we find the overtone, the over-soul that unites this day, our personality, creation with yesterday's, to-morrow's lifeonly, just as the buds are sleeping, we sleep to our perfection.

It is autumn. Shoulder to shoulder, closely ranked, stand Our manzanitas.

Their funnel-shaped manner of growth, however, leaves them free-footed. They are mazed beneath with footways for for wood-folk, and air-ways of breezes, or the odor from their sandal wood striplings is indeed of a place blest. Their leaves that through the long, hot, rainless days have turned and twisted to present their edges to the sun, are now careless of their poses. Like drops of life-blood oozing from the mahogany red branches, hang the red berries life indeed to the birds.

The rustle of wings, and the scurry of feet, tell of the feasts. Robins fly back and forth in filmy streaks across the morning and evening sky, going happily, songfully from sleepy-hollow to berrycrowned ridge. The abundance lasts well through the winter; a roadhouse for the migrant, or a store house for the year-long resident.

In those days of garnered strength, of consummation of spring activities visible in fruit and berry, and flutter of newfound wings; in this great pause, in this Nirvana of the year, this brooding spirit of attainment, our buds are still sleeping. With all their hidden potency they still sleep.

Lo the turn of the sun on his springward trip. Subtle change of sun-slants too delicately poised to be sensed, perhaps, by a grosser plant, but though 'tis midwinter our buds feel the impulse earlier even than the silk-tassel shrub, that hillclimber of the woods who flaunts his flying tatters to the wind. Slowly, steadily, they lift their drooping bud-heads through storm and sunshine and foretell the coming spring. From that waking moment until their perfection at summer's dawn. there is joy to the hill lover, for the season is long.

Trace them over the hill where the forest fire has devastated; you will find a new drove of them out-cropping, covering the stony, seared barrenness like a band of feeding sheep; low-crouching, with rounded backs. A veritable rejuvenator for mother earth, saving the loam and adding to it by their annual shedding.

Wander with the blossoming ones. The soft rotundity and color suggesting carvings of jaspar, marble, daintily tinted shell, chalcedony or cameo; or the stauesque firmness of branch, or Rodin-like

poise of leaf, will crave your heart to be painter, potter or sculptor. Their symmetrical irregularity is a synthesis of being that only the nature master hand could bring to harmony; angularity, rotundity, ruggedness and daintiness, color and flat tone are all there. You feel that you are in the presence of a two-sided nature, but its resolving is as elusive as the honeyed fragrance flung to the varied breeze.

Tramp with them from warm, favored nook to open sweep of hill crest. There will be days and weeks of development, and happy trailings in happy quests.

Seek them from the very edge of the bee gardens to piney hill slopes; there will be months of joy that lead finally along the path of many bird-songs and many nestings, until incense-borne we come to know that flowers are the halos of the life-spirit they hold, and that the "essence of life is divine."

Banked against the forest green a morning shaft of light-glints across Sierra snows to find in them a replica; cool, quiet, scarce trembling with the oncoming day. At high noon they are bursts of honeyed fragrance, the focus of bee life, the very emblem of high noon activity, a sort of apex of energy. At eve, the hour when the low-slipping sun reveals all their wonderful picturesque anatomy is the hour to love them. Then shadows mystical creep from serried shoulder to shoulder, now this one, now that upheld, rounded, blotted out. As the dusk falls, the long purple shadows rise and fall, glow and sink into the grey that is so fraught with hidden color that it almost seems to vibrate.

Shadow-colors, the elf-children of light, calling out: "We are all here;" a roll call of dying color, of the dying day. In the misty light and shadow shiftings, and settling down under the night cover, rich red branches blend into the red earth, and the garden above, alone floats in the after-glow.

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See that outstretched, low-lying branch; it was no doubt borne down by an extra burden of snow. From earth to tip it is the essence of a perfection no art can hope to exceed. Round red branch extended at an inimitable slant; with every supporting branchlet and every staccato leaf just consummation one of another; then,

when all is crowned with the marble carving of flower forms-well! have you ever heard the lark sing, and almost seen the notes fall through the sunshine? Have you ever been thrilled by the greatest lines of beauty that art or life have brought you; have you ever known character so fine that through the taut lines of hardship could weave bright silken meshes of loving kindness, patience and nobility? Ah, then you are of the blessed. Then you

can interpret that manzanita perfection. Some day the sculptor will arise who, by subtle balance of line and insight, can embody its entirety; no copying will do. Then we shall know the unseen toward which all art, all science gropes.

We knelt before to read the scrolls, and found that from the scarring of old-world times come the bee-gardens, the goldtreasures of to-day: and the path led on. Now, with uplifted head we catch a gleam from the long ago, shafted along the flower-way that makes us pause before these "lilies of the field," "Lest we forget," lest we be unconscious of our halos. We learn that from our heart scars come our spirit treasures: that we are building day by day, thought by thought, the true flower of our being.

Across the chasms of the yesterdays comes this flower laden with the prophecy of to-day, telling us that within the past was the present, and contains all time: within chaos and struggle is order, and holds all perfection; that from sleep comes awakening, and binding all these like the season's fulfillments is the fine thread of God's plan.

The sunshine strikes the glistening bells -it is more than sunshine, purer even than it came, reflected, illumined, enhaloed. The leaves bear up the pink or white flower clouds, and they are more than leaves; inspired! Dream! Poised in the sunshine, long

misty paths curve into the twilight of the past, and out again into the new light. Trail them, hill-lovers; they are there for you. Follow their faintest suggestions. In this great out-doors we can pulse into the world-beat.

Listen! Along the curve of that bird song as it falls to earth, among the rustle of the leaves, the creep of zephyr along the pine needles, the drone of bees, the whirr of wings, we can hear the drift of star-mist, know the building of worlds, and know that about us lies the vibrating

unseen.

The powers of heaven are fast becoming the powers of men, and in so much as we learn to be close to the earth, so do we touch the stars.

The lines that now bind are the releasers that swing to the infinite. Inspiration is but the borderland. All life, the universe is in one bird song, the drift of one thistle-down. Naught is so great that it exceeds creation, nor so small but it contains the whole. In that word, "Let there be light!" is contained the ultimate. Each pathway, when we really find it, is illumined. No true pathways are dark, and no great truths but interchange and lead to light. No path lies so surely along illumined ground as this one with the flowers, and the pines, down the canyon, over the heights.

In the long sleeping buds we find the simile of our undevelopment, also our possibilities. Our awakening like theirs trembles at the impulse of the new light that fore-gleams. The new-old race rises from the tatters, the debris of the ages. Their raiment, is to be truth. Along the flower-way we find the nature spirit-way that out-fathoms the sea, out-circles a changing, dying world with light, life infinite.

Oh, my manzanitas of the hills, ye have spoken.

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A NORMAL MEASURE OF VALUE AND

MEDIUM OF EXCHANGE

BY ELIAS LOWE MCCLURE

M

ONEY IS THE greatest factor in the development of civilization. It acts like a vital fluid in its constant service to mankind as a measure of value and medium of exchange. Defective money interrupts prosperity by its instability. But scientific money will release the latent power of sound money and give it free scope to do its perfect work, like heart-beats in its regularity.

The control of money supply (made possible by a defective money measure) is the greatest power in the world. Money is the valuable consideration that completes all transactions, whether great or small, and is generally believed to be a fixed standard of value; but in fact money fluctuates in value with the changes from redundancy to stringency in money supply, which creates or destroys prosperity by making prices of all wealth rise or fall as the manipulators dictate, whether it be for their interest to either buy or sell.

A subtle secret (jealously guarded in the financial holy of holies, and never revealed to any one but the initiated) makes money power invincible. All Governments ignorantly fix the measure in gold, at the dictation of financiers; which they transmute by secret knowledge into omnipotent power, invisible and incomprehensible to all but the initiated. They resort to every art and artifice to guard the secret from all the people. Truth is perverted and falsehood instilled into the public mind by promulgating inspired doctrines of subservient economists "on 'change," in school and out of school, until all recognized precedent and authority authority sustain

them.

Belief in the accepted economic theories is a test of sanity and safety, and to doubt

or question any of these, their fallacious theories would be heretical and unpardonable. "Money is a fixed standard of value." "Fluctuations in value are caused by changes in supply and demand.” “The scarcity of gold and its intrinsic value make it the natural money metal." "And change in the value of money is imperceptible, because the world's stock of gold is approximately a fixed quantity."

Equality and justice have no examplars (like the bee in insect life) either in law or custom, church or State, public or private life. Because money power transcends law, and circumvents justice by evasion, technicality and fraud; supplants emulation by competition, and invests political officers with authority as rulers, instead of public servants, as part of the unlimited machinations making greed supreme, and is responsible for the fact that has no exception, no one is good but God.

The almost omnipotent power wielded by financiers, through the control of the distribution of wealth by money manipulation, perpetuates inequality and injustice, poverty and slavery-withholds from labor the natural opportunities for the production of wealth, and even the possibility of sustaining life. The power of might is the sole arbiter of every final contest, and there is no higher court of appeal. Life and strength are preliminary to all contests, and wealth is necessary to maintain life. The measure of value fixed in gold gives financiers in control of money supply absolute power over the wealth of the world. The Government, like the individual, is helpless without money. And the money king, by his subtle power, can create demands at will exceeding money supply, or he can make money supply so

abundant that all financial institutions will be compelled to use every effort to get rid of superfluous money.

The machinations of money power have successfully dictated the laws and customs of the world, creating and protecting special privileges in the production and distribution of wealth. And it has been its immemorial custom to nurture greed into the dominating instinct prerequisite to success, by fixing well known consequences for the sin of poverty, to influence all individuals and organizations, which are more effectual than written laws; while it keeps the struggle for existence an universal menace (by controlling natural opportunities), to discredit goodness, which it punishes by the inexorable penalty of poverty.

Life is dear to all. Death ends life. Existence beyond is spiritual and incomprehensible to physical beings. The abomination and fear of poverty, want and possible starvation intensifies acquisitiveness, until goodness is generally looked upon as wholly impracticable and ridiculous, when the penalty of poverty is inevitable. Greed is the sole foundation of money power. It would become inoperative under the rule of natural law. Religion has falsely taught that the will of God was ruled on occasions by anger and vengeance, substituting fear for Love as the guide to truth. No environment has ever existed that was favorable to the development of goodness, and no human individual worthy to be called good has ever lived. The greatest The greatest leaders of the world, who fearlessly fearlessly preached the simple truth and became a menace to the unjust laws and customs of their times, have been killed by the power of might, that the rule of greed might not be disturbed.

A fixed standard of value will destroy money power, and the power of might will be right, because conscience will rule. And Love will govern greed absolutely when the power to manipulate value is regulated by natural law. Financiers who manipulate money supply and change the measure of value at will are invincible under existing financial systems; they hold Governments as well as the people subservient to their will, and the secret of their power has been so successfully concealed that the learned of every age very generally unite

in upholding the theory that the evils arising from the unequal distribution of wealth are the result of man's imperfection and the operation of immutable law. The demonetization of gold and the adoption of scientific money, is the remedy that will emancipate the toiling masses from domination by malefactors of great wealth, and tend to supply the desideratum an equality of opportunity.

A subtle law enacted by every Government gives the money king power to change the value of money at will. Financiers who cause the fluctuation in the value of money are able to make the price of all wealth fluctuate correspondingly by this nearly omnipotent power, and unperceived absorb the wealth of the country without the waste of destroying armies; and vest the title in themselves, sustained by the forms of law, and protected by the whole power of the State. Repeating the familiar spectacle of oppression by subtle laws, more abominable than if they conquered the country by military occupation and took the wealth of the people by force of arms.

A dollar is a measure of value as a pound weight and yard-stick are measures of quantity. But the legal gold dollar is not a fixed measure of value like the pound and yard are of quantity. It is merely a fixed quantity of gold which fluctuates in value with the changes in supply and demand as all other commodities do. The dollar, therefore, fluctuates in value with the rise and fall in the quantity of money in circulation. This defect in money produces illimitable evils, and the subtle power it creates is so far-reaching in its effect on mankind that it dominates everything. The private ownership of the air we breathe would not be so insidious, because the air-lord could be located and blamed.

The stability of the yard-stick and. pound weight makes transactions safe as to quantity. But if a power was created that could change the pound and yard at will, and such power was exercised by men concealed from view of law or public, it would seem impossible to do business under such conditions; yet price is far more vital than quantity in the dealings of men, and the money measure of value that fluctuates all prices can be

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