The Harvester was the rustling of autumn leaves, there one minute, gone the next.
The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools.
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The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools.
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Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness. Even winter _ the hardest season, the most implacable _ dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.
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Once upon a time, there was a man as great as the gods_But even the great can tremble with fear.Even the great can fall
Grace will meet you in the valley, and her song will carry you home on the wind to another sky filled with ethereal beauty unfolding and love everlasting.