Dr. Conwell has a profound love for the country
and particularly for the country of his own youth.
He loves the wind that comes sweeping over the
hills, he loves the wide-stretching views from the
heights and the forest intimacies of the nestled
nooks. He loves the rippling streams, he loves
the wild flowers that nestle in seclusion or that
unexpectedly paint some mountain meadow with
delight. He loves the very touch of the earth,
and he loves the great bare rocks.
He writes verses at times; at least he has written
lines for a few old tunes; and it interested me
greatly to chance upon some lines of his that
picture heaven in terms of the Berkshires:
_ The wide-stretching valleys in colors so fadeless,
Where trees are all deathless and flowers e'er bloom_.
That is heaven in the eyes of a New England
hill-man! Not golden pavement and ivory palaces,
but valleys and trees and flowers and the
wide sweep of the open.
Few things please him more than to go, for
example, blackberrying, and he has a knack of
never scratching his face or his fingers when doing
so. And he finds blackberrying, whether he goes
alone or with friends, an extraordinarily good
time for planning something he wishes to do or
working out the thought of a sermon.
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