ost buoyant. That, to my thinking, would be a
better arrangement than to grow old, even if we live on until we
stumble at last from mere infirmity into the grave, looking forward in
discontent one half of our lives, and backward in equal discontent
the other."

"You remind me," said Spalding, "of a little incident, simple in
itself, but which, at the time, made a deep impression upon my mind,
and which occurred but a few weeks ago. Returning from my usual walk,
one morning, my way lay through the Capitol Park. The trees, covered
with their young and fresh foliage, intertwined their arms lovingly
above the gravelled walks, forming a beautiful arch above, through
which the sun could scarcely look even in the splendor of his noon.
The birds sang merrily among the branches, and the odor of the leaves
and grass as the dews exhaled, gave a freshness almost of the forest
to the morning air. On the walk before me were two beautiful children,
a boy of six and a little girl of four. They were merry and happy as
the birds were, and with an arm of each around the waist of the other,
they went hopping and skipping up and down the walks, stopping now and
then to waltz, to swing round and round, and then darting away again
with their hop and skip, too full of hilarity, too instinct with
vitality, to be for a moment still. The flush of health was on their
cheeks, and the warm light of affection in their eyes. They were
confiding, affectionate, loving little children, and my heart warmed
towards them, as I saw them waltzing and dancing and skipping about
under the green foliage of the trees. "'Willy,' said the little girl,
as they sat down on the low railing of the grass plats, to breathe for
a moment, and listen to the chirrup and songs of the birds in the
boughs above them, 'Willy, wouldn't you like to be a little bird?'

"'A little bird, Lizzie,' replied her brother. 'Why should I like to
be a little bird?'

"'Oh, to fly around among the branches and the leaves upon the trees,'
said Lizzie, 'and among the blossoms when the morning is warm, and the
sun comes out bright and clear in the sky. Oh! they are so happy,'

"'But the mornings aint always warm, and the sun don't always come up
bright and clear in the sky, Lizzy,' said her brother, 'and the leaves
and blossoms aint always on the trees. The cold storms and the winter
come and kill the blossoms and scatter the leaves, and what would you
do then? I shouldn't like to be a bird,