the glorious god of day looks with a
quiet smile, as though he loved to dwell upon a scene so replete with
home-breathing beauty! And that smile! how lovingly it rests upon the
lawn and the meadow and the brook! How it lingers upon the sweet
flowerets which have not yet brushed the tears from their eyes, until
those dewy tear-drops seem--as if touched by a fairy wand--to change
to radiant gems! How it peeps into every nook and dell, until the
silent places of the earth rejoice in the light of that glory-beaming
smile! The busy hum of countless insects--the soft chime of the
distant water-fall--the thrilling notes of the woodland
choristers--the happy voice of the streamlet, which hurries on ever
murmuring the same glad strain--the gentle zephyr, now whispering
through the leafy trees with low, mysterious tone, and then stealing
so gently, noiselessly through the shadowy grass, till each tiny blade
quivers as if trembling to the touch of fairy feet. These are Nature's
voices, and do they not seem on a day like this in the sweet
summer-time to unite and swell forth in one full anthem of harmony and
praise to the great Creator of all? And does it not seem, too, as we
gaze (for thou art sitting now with me, art thou not, gentle reader?
on the mossy bank beneath the noble elm which has for many years
stretched out its arms protectingly over mine own old homestead, while
I recount to thee this simple tale of "long ago") upon the scene
before us, so replete with quiet loveliness it is--that in every heart
within the precincts of our smiling village there must be a chord
attuned to echo back in voiceless melody the brightness and the beauty
around? Yet oh! how many there may be, even here, whose sun of
happiness hath set on earth forever! How many whose tear-dimmed glance
can descry naught in the far future but a weary waste--whose
life-springs all are dried--whose up-springing hopes all withered by
the blighting touch of Sorrow!

* * * * *

Dost thou see that little cot nestled so closely beneath the
hill-side? and covered with the woodland vine which hath enfolded its
tendrils clingingly around it--peeping in and out at the deserted
windows, or climbing at will over the latticed porch, or trailing on
the ground and looking up forlornly, as though it wondered where were
the careful hands which erst nourished it so tenderly. The place seems
very mournful--with the long grass growing rankly over the once
caref