an ocean steamer sometimes leaves a
straggler on an uninhabited shore. I felt like sending forth a call
that should give my bearings and bring back a boat to the rescue. I
groped my way down the steps, and, following an intuition, sought the
station. Ahead of me I heard muffled steps, yet saw no form. But
suddenly a doorway opened in the east and out strode the sun. In the
air above and about me, behold, the wonder of diamond domes and slender
minarets traced in pearl! The wayside banks were fringed with crystal
spray of downbeaten weed and bush that sparkled like the billows of a
sunlit sea. The tall elms here and there towered like the masts of
returning ships, slow sailing from a wintry voyage back to summer lands
and splendor. There was no sound in all the air, but the whole
universe seemed singing as when the morning stars chorused the glory of
God. More and more widely opened that doorway in the east; step by
step advanced the great magician, and over all the world the splendor
grew, until it seemed too much for mortal eyes to bear, when lo! a
touch dispelled it all and commonplace day stood revealed.

VI.

THE CIRCLING YEAR--A CLOCK.

The circling year is a clock whereon nature writes the hours in
blossoms. First come the wind flowers and the violets, they denote the
early morning hours and are quickly passed. The forenoon is marked by
lilacs, apple blooms and roses. The day's meridian is reached with
lilies, red carnations, and the dusky splendor of pansies and passion
flowers. Then come the languid poppy and the prim little 4 o'clock,
the marigold, the sweet pea, and later the dahlia and the many-tinted
chrysanthemum to mark the day's decline. Lastly the goldenrod, the
aster and the gentian, tell us it is evening time, and night and frost
are close at hand. The rose hour has struck already for '93. The
garden beds are full of scattered petals and the dusty roadways glimmer
with ghostly blossoms too wan to be roses, and wafted by a breath into
nothingness. With such a calendar to mark the advance of decay and
death the seasons differ from the mortal race which substitutes aches
and pains for a horologe of flowers, and grows old by processes of
physical failure and mental blight.

VII.

SOMETHING BETTER THAN SURFACE MANNERS.

There are days when my heart is so full of love for young girls that as
I pass them on the street I feel myself smiling as one does to walk by
a garden