Noon in the country is very still; the birds do not sing; the workmen are not in the field; the sheep lay their noses to the ground, and the herds stand in pools under shady trees, lashing their sides, but otherwise motionless. The mills upon the brook, far above, have ceased for an hour their labor; and the stream softens its rustle and sinks away from the sedgy banks. The heat plays upon the meadow in noiseless waves, and the beech leaves do not stir.
Thought, I said, was the only measure of the present; and the stillness of noon breeds thought; and my thought brings up the old companions and stations them in the domain of now. Thought ranges over the world, and brings up hopes, and fears, and resolves, to measure the burning now. Joy, and grief, and purpose, blending in my thought, give breadth to the Present.
—Where—thought I—is little Isabel now? Where is Lilly—where is Ben? Where is Leslie—where is my old teacher? Where is my chum, who played such rare tricks—where is the black-eyed Jane? Where is that sweet-faced girl whom I parted with upon that terrace looking down upon the old spire of Modbury church? Where are my hopes—where my purposes—where my sorrows?
I care not who you are—but if you bring such thought to measure the present, the present will seem broad; and it will be sultry at noon—and make a fever of Now.
EARLY FRIENDS
Where are they?
Where are they? I can not sit now, as once, upon the edge of the brook hour after hour, flinging off my line and hook to the nibbling roach, and reckon it great sport. There is no girl with auburn ringlets to sit beside me and to play upon the bank. The hours are shorter than they were then; and the little joys that furnished boyhood till the heart was full can fill it no longer. Poor Tray is dead long ago, and he can not swim into the pools for the floating sticks; nor can I sport with him hour after hour and think it happiness. The mound that covers his grave is sunken, and the trees that shaded it are broken and mossy.
Little Lilly is grown into a woman, and is married; and she has another little Lilly, with flaxen hair, she says—looking as she used to look. I dare say the child is pretty; but it is not my Lilly. She has a little boy, too, that she calls Paul—a chubby rogue, she writes, and as mischievous as ever I was. God bless the boy!