es from the point of
sight. Life presents to them neither foreground nor background,
principal figure nor subordinates, but only a plain spread of canvas,
on which one thing stands out just as big and just as black as another.
You classify your desagrements. This is a mere temporary annoyance,
and receives but a passing thought. This is a life-long sorrow, but it
is superficial; it will drop off from you at the grave, be folded away
with your cerements, and leave no scar on your spirit. This thrusts
its lancet into the secret place where your soul abideth, but you know
that it tortures only to heal; it is recuperative, not destructive, and
you will rise from it to newness of life. But when little ones see a
ripple in the current of their joy, they do not know, they cannot tell,
that it is only a pebble breaking softly in upon the summer flow, to
toss a cool spray up into the white bosom of the lilies, or to bathe
the bending violets upon the green and grateful bank. It seems to them
as if the whole strong tide is thrust fiercely and violently back, and
hurled into a new channel, chasmed in the rough, rent granite. It is
impossible to calculate the waste of grief and pathos which this
incapacity causes. Fanny's doll aforesaid is left too near the fire,
and waxy tears roll down her ruddy cheeks, to the utter ruin of her
pretty face and her gay frock; and anon poor Fanny breaks her little
heart in moans and sobs and sore lamentations. It is Rachel weeping
for her children. I went on a tramp one May morning to buy a
tissue-paper wreath of flowers for a little girl to wear to a
May-party, where all the other little girls were expected to appear
similarly crowned. After a long and weary search, I was forced to
return without it. Scarcely had I pulled the bell, when I heard the
quick pattering of little feet in the entry. Never in all my life
shall I lose the memory of those wistful eyes, that did not so much as
look up to my face, but levelled themselves to my hand, and filmed with
disappointment to find it empty. _I_ could see that the wreath was a
very insignificant matter. I knew that every little beggar in the
street had garlanded herself with sixpenny roses, and I should have
preferred that my darling should be content with her own silky brown
hair; but my taste availed her nothing, and the iron entered into her
soul. Once a little boy, who could just stretch himself up as high as
his papa's knee, climbed su