ever" must be deleted, makes question
of the "afterwards," and looks through to the old age of bereavement
and sorrow, when the two must again be parted.

But I would have every one who cares to establish a wise economy of
life and joy, cultivate, by all means in his power, a sympathy with and
a delight in nature. We tend, in this age of ours, when communication
is so easy and rapid, when the daily paper brings the whole course of
the world into our secluded libraries, to be too busy, too much
preoccupied; to value excitement, above tranquillity, and interest
above peace. It is good for us all to be much alone, not to fly from
society, but resolutely to determine that we will not be dependent upon
it for our comfort. I would have all busy people make times in their
lives when, at the cost of some amusement, and paying the price perhaps
of a little melancholy, they should try to be alone with nature and
their own hearts. They should try to realize the quiet unwearying life
that manifests itself in field and wood. They should wander alone in
solitary places, where the hazel-hidden stream makes music, and the
bird sings out of the heart of the forest; in meadows where the flowers
grow brightly, or through the copse, purple with bluebells or starred
with anemones; or they may climb the crisp turf of the down, and see
the wonderful world lie spread out beneath their feet, with some
clustering town "smouldering and glittering" in the distance; or lie
upon the cliff-top, with the fields of waving wheat behind, and the sea
spread out like a wrinkled marble floor in front; or walk on the sand
beside the falling waves. Perhaps a soi-disant sensible man may see
these words and think that I am a sad sentimentalist. I cannot help it;
it is what I believe; nay, I will go further, and say that a man who
does not wish to do these things is shutting one of the doors of his
spirit, a door through which many sweet and true things come in.
"Consider the lilies of the field" said long ago One whom we profess to
follow as our Guide and Master. And a quiet receptiveness, an openness
of eye, a simple readiness to take in these gentle impressions is, I
believe with all my heart, of the essence of true wisdom. We have all
of us our work to do in the world; but we have our lesson to learn as
well. The man with the muck-rake in the old parable, who raked together
the straws and the dust of the street, was faithful enough if he was
set to do that l