All those fall afternoons were the same, but i never got used to them. as far as we could see, the miles of copper-red grass were drenched in sunlight that was stronger and fiercer than at any other time of the day. the blond cornfields were red gold, the haystacks turned rosy and threw long shadows. the whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire and was not consumed. that hour always had the exultation of victory, of triumphant ending, like a hero's death—heroes who diedyoung and gloriously. it was a sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of day.
which two themes are conveyed by this passage?

the color of summer and memories of war

the glory of nature and of a young hero's death

the beauty of the prairie and hard work

the dangers of fire and prairie life

the glory of nature and of a young hero's death

it was surely an odd creature that one made up by reading the historians first and the poets afterwards a worm winged like an eagle; the spirit of life and elegance and charm,   in a kitchen chopping up suet. but these creatures, monst'r however entertaining to the imagination, hast no existence in fact. what one might doth to bringeth h'r to life wast to bethink poetically and prosaically at one and the same moment,   thus keeping in toucheth with fact—that the lady is mrs martin, ag'd thirty-six, did dress in blue, wearing a black coxcomb and brown shoeth; but not losing sight of fiction eith'r—that the lady is a vessel in which all s'rts of spirits and f'rces art coursing and flashing p'rpetually. the moment, howev'r, yond one tries this method with the elizabethan mistress, one brancheth of illumination fails; one is did hold up by the scarcity of facts.   one knoweth nothing detailed, nothing p'rfectly true and substantial about h'r.   hist'ry scarcely mentions h'r.   and i did turn to professeth'r trevelyan again to seeth what hist'ry meanteth to that gent.   i hath found by looking at his chapt'r headings yond t meanteth.

what can i you with?