The iron has flowed like
blood from the hills. The fire of the ground is being given to the air.
The sky is filled with smoke. The soil is being carried into the sea; it's
precious dust of nitrogen and phosphor blown to the ends of the earth. The
fresh lands are no more. There are no mines to be had for the asking. The
frontier has become as the centre, the new as the old.
But it is not a hopeless prophecy--an unconstructive, pessimisstic,
lamentation. The way of reparation is made clear.
If I were to speak only of what has been done under the inspiration of
that prophecy, I should have little that is definitely measurable to
present, but in making a catalogue of the averting advice of that
prophecy, I am giving intimation of what will in all probability be done.
For the people of that valley are not wittingly going to give their once
fertile lands as stones, even to the sons of others who ask for bread, nor
their streams as serpents of pestilence to those who ask for fish.
These are some of the items of their constructive conservation programme:
_Coal.
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