All around us on this common way are to be found marvels of delicate work that come from the soul of Beauty without thought of us, but that richly repay us as we give to them our thought—as we stand beside them in the harmony of the spirit of the whole.
Here, just overtopping the ragweeds, is a grayish, shriveled plant, bearing several pointed, oblong pods. The whole is wintry looking, as though it had prepared for long months of cold by wrapping itself in floss-lined garments. But if we examine one of these garments we shall find that before the first snow has scattered its crystals here, the silken wonder of this plant shall have drifted far on the winds of Autumn in the silent destiny of its renewal.
See how perfectly and how beautifully part ia adapted to part. How close these packed seeds lie in their satiny case, overlapping like brown scales, yet winged with silvery lightness. Lift one of the seeds from its bed and after a moment's exposure to the air the floss that was slightly damp and compact expands—every filament stands out, and caught by the winds, the seed is borne away on its own exquisite twinkling wings.
Through the Summer months, yes, from the first upspringing of this milkweed and from the beginning of its renewal life, how marvelously has Beauty worked through broad pale green leaf and purple flower—through butterfly and sunlight and rainboT —to bring this hidden silver to be revealed, to give itself to mellowing days and cooling winds in a new service.
THE BEAUTY AT OUR DOORS by Ingram Crockett