Fragrance of A Wheat Field by Agnes B. Laut
Take a look at the wheat field that has been brought up to perfection, as it stands! Yellow as gold, with the sheen of the sea, billowing from sky-line to sky-line like an ocean of gold, where the wind touches the rippling wave crests with the tread of invisible feet! In California, in Oregon, in Washington, in Dakota, in the Canadian Northwest, you may ride all day on horseback through the wheat fields without a break in the flow of yellow heavy-headed grain. Nofencelines! No meadow lands! No shade trees! No knobs and knolls and hills and hollows of grass or black earth through! From dawn til! dark, from sunrise in a burst of fiery splendor over the prairie horizon to sundown when the crimson thing hangs like a huge shield of blood in the haze of a heat twilight—you may ride with naught to break the view between you and the horizon but wheat— wheat! It is like the gold fields! It goes to your head. You grow dizzy looking at it. You rub your eyes. Is it a viirage? The billowing yellow waves seem to be breasting the very sky! You look up! The sky is there all right with the black mote of a meadow lark sailing the azure sea. He drops liquid notes of sheer mellow music down on your head, does that meadow lark; and that gives you back your perspective, your sense of amazing reality. You are literally, absolutely, really, in the midst of a sea of living gold. It is you and not the lark that is the mote. You begin to feel as if your special mote might be a beam that would get lost in infinity if you staid there long; and so you ride on—and on—and some more on— and by and by come out of the league-long, fenceless fields with an odor in your nostrils that isn't exactly like incense—it's too fugitive, too fine, too sublimal of earth. It is aromatic, a sort of attar of roses, the imprisoned fragrance of the billions upon billions of wheat flowers shut up in the glumes of the heavy-headed grain there. And that's the odor of the wheat.