MY NATIVE HORIZON
flakes of humanity melting under the sun of life, and flowing in the valley of love and hope, between the deep canyon-walls of pain and joy, to reach the shore of the Eternal. (Now, this is pompous and overwrought, but the Mara of my Arabic is on me—and on my race.)
And I would that the seasons of the year were a fitting background to the human symbol; but what hope is there for a race that lives so close to Nature and profits not by it? Cattle huddle together in a storm. The birds in their migrations follow their leader. Even the bees, even the ants—but the proverbial wisdom of the ages is as futile as the warning of Nature. My poor, proud, distressed and distracted little race, now in its autumn days—will it survive the approaching storms of the coming winter? Will it ever regain the glory of its ancient springs? Will its children, who are still pagans at heart, ever realize again the beauty of art in Nature and the power of Nature in art? Scattered in every continent, looking in every direc-
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