ppiness, though for no particular reason that I can think of. It
could not be simply because we were to go out for a visit to the
country and see new people and places, for I have already learned to
find that most new people are cut out on the same pattern as those one
already knows. It must have been rather because I awoke under the
impression of one of my lovely dreams--such dreams as I have only had
since I left my _grub_ state; dreams of space, air, long, long views
of beautiful scenery, always changing, always wider, such as swallows
flying between sky and earth might see, under an exquisite and
brilliant light, till for very joy I wake up, my cheeks covered with
tears.

This time, I was sitting on the prow of some vessel with lofty white
sails, and it was cutting through the water, blue as the sky, with
wreaths of snow-like foam, towards some unknown shores, ever faster
and faster, and I was singing to some one next to me on the prow--some
one I did not know, but who felt with me--singing a song so perfect,
so sweet (though it had no human words) that I thought _it explained
all_: the blue of the heaven, the freshness of the breeze, the
fragrance of the earth, and why we were so eagerly pressing onwards. I
thought the melody was such that when once heard it could never be
forgotten. When I woke it still rang in my ears, but now I can no more
recall it. How is it we never know such delight in waking hours? Is
that some of the joy we are to feel in Heaven, the music we are to
hear? And yet it can be heard in this life if one only knew where to
go and listen. And this life is beautiful which lies in front of us,
though they would speak of it as a sorrowful span not to be reckoned.
It is good to be young and think of the life still to come. Every
moment is precious for its enjoyment, and yet sometimes I find that
one only knows of a pleasure when it is just gone. One ought to try
and be more awake at each hour to the happiness it may bring. I shall
try, and you, my diary, shall help me.

This is really _no_ diary-keeping. It is not a bit like those one
reads in books. It ought to tell of other people and the events of
each day. But other people are really very uninteresting; as for
events, well, so far, they are uninteresting too; it is only what they
cause to spring up in our hearts that is worth thinking upon; and that
is so difficult to put in words that mostly I spend my time merely
pondering and not writing.