_By Alice C. Weitz_
There stands recorded in the Book of Time a fascinating legend of the
Sun, whose golden throne allured but for the day; and when the day was
ended in great glee he hurried forth beyond the broad horizon toward a
secret trysting place. All his impassioned love, it is said, he poured
upon the idol of his heart, the boundless plains. Long years were they
alone, the Rolling Prairie and the Golden Sun, until at last they found
themselves spied upon by curious Man, who, captivated by the beauty of
the two, remained and blessed the tryst thereby.
Here Sun and Soil and Man wrought out a work of art; and here Dame
Nature smiled as was her wont, and brought rich gifts and blessings
manifold. In sweet content Man's children toiled and wrought until upon
the bosom of the sunlit plains there nestled close great fields and
prosperous abodes.
And since that time a ceaseless music steals throughout the land in
wooing cadences, now crying out in weird and wandering tones, now
softly soothing in sweet rhythmic chant.
'Tis the music of the wind within the corn--Iowa's Prairie Gold.
It sang itself into the lonely heart of the pioneer with its promise of
golden harvest; it became the cradle song of restless souls that even
in their youth longed but to free themselves in verse and song; and
down through all the prosperous years it steals like a sweet sustaining
accompaniment to the countless activities which have builded a great
commonwealth.
He who has stood upon the hilltops in his youthful days and listened to
the soft, alluring rustle of the wind-swayed leaves retains the music
ever in his soul. It draws upon the heart-strings of the absent one,
and like the constant singing of the sea insistent calls upon him to
return.
Today in spirit come we all to Time's sweet trysting place with story
song and jest, to add sweet comfort to the braver ones whose paths lie
wide before them, and whose return lies not within our willing. God
grant that even in their pains their troubled souls may yet to music be
attuned, may know again the solace of that sweetly floating song, the
rustle of the wind within the corn.