hanging moods,
so are the olive leaves in the blue southern air. I once read of an
artist who essayed to paint a group of olives and a cypress growing
before them. Against their silvery leaves its dark burnished form stood
finely mysterious, the contrasting grey lending it a depth of almost
sable colour; all was propitious for his work. Then suddenly, the air
being to all seeming quite still, the grey-green leaves began to shake
and quiver, until each olive tree was like a silver bonfire, tremulous
with a thousand waves of white flame flowing and following along the
branches. It was a revelation and swift effluence of life, perplexing
and full of charm. The brush was laid down, the moment of inspiration
gone, before the capricious leaves ceased their quivering to be robed
once more in grey, casting on the ground that translucent shadow which
tempers the sunlight only, and does not spoil it of its gold. In the end
the canvas was covered, but with a sketch far less true and beautiful
than the painter's first happy vision. Even so of all our children few
attain the perfection of our dreams. While we look, some influence comes
upon them and they are changed, some breeze, born we know not where,
stirs them to their heart of joy while we stand perplexed; innumerable
laughter of leaves, a rushing and a shivering in quick answer to a mere
breath, silence as swift when unperceived it dies away--these are their
replies to our silent invocations. We cannot follow the swift course,
but are quickened with a glad rejuvenescence, the true prize and guerdon
of parentage. They may grow old or die, or bring us sorrow; it is enough
that once they so lived and stirred a pride within us. Let Hedonist and
idealist dispute, let one worship pleasure and another wait on the
intangible joy, but in the fathering and mothering and the bringing up
of young children, of the flesh, the mind, or the spirit, lies the
natural happiness of men and women. It is a joy which outlasts
disillusions; it rests surely upon achievement and deserts which lie
ponderable in the archangel's scales. For it is certain that he who
creates as best he knows best serves God, the world and himself, and
what system of Ethics has conceived a more perfect rule?

All young life is instinct with such a beauty and trustfulness, that
though he himself may have no part or lot in its creation, and be dumb
or awkward in its presence, a man will be the brighter for having
passed, if b