I smell fresh mushrooms on a sudden gust of wind. They're coming fast after the first fall rain. Their scent is pungent—earthy—rich with the fatness of the teeming soil.
How good life is! I'm glad for simple joys—the daily beauty of this outflung robe of God—the heartening ties of sweaty work, warm evening food and dancing babies. For all the little voices that are set to sing against the weary wailing of a blundering world.
Foothill Fall By Elsinore Robinson Crowell
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