We seem to be travelling along an ever-turning and changing road. Now we wander over pavement easy to the feet, —no ragged edges here,—and on every side the whirl of glorious emotions touches us. Grand mansions of thought surround us, and we are oft dismayed at the elegance of these structures.
We admire, we exclaim, but we cannot linger here. The moving throng is ever pushing us before it. We must go on,— on. We cannot stand still.
Now we find ourselves quietly pushing our way across sweet, green meadows. Everything tells of rest; and the fragrance of tender hopes comes to us in our quiet.
