Between the Larch-woods and the Weir

by Flora Klickmann

Naturally, my inclination was to turn round there and then, get back home as soon as possible, and fall on his overcoat; but Virginia reminded me that there was no train returning that day, and if there were, we should probably only cross one another on the road—in accordance with my usual method of meeting people.

So I went on, a huge load having been lifted from my brain. I am sufficiently out-of-date and weak-minded to be profoundly thankful when the Head of Affairs steps in and re-adjusts my always-very-much-in-a-tangle affairs, and sets them on a business-like basis again: and knowing his capability to deal both with mind and matter, I didn’t worry another moment, though I was sceptical about any speedy clearing up of the mess!

And because my heart was lighter, I seemed to see so many things I had not noticed before. In every sheltered corner shoots were showing, and green things starting from the earth—and every shoot set one’s mind running on ahead to the things that were yet to be. I have heard people deplore the fact that human nature is so prone to anticipate events; I have been told that the reason animals live such a placid, contented life, is because they only concentrate on the present. It may be so; but personally, I wouldn’t be without my anticipations, even though it may mean a loss of placidity.

The commandment is to take no anxious thought for the morrow; there is nothing said against looking ahead for happiness.

And a wander among our hills and along our lanes on a mild February day, means that in addition to the loveliness of early spring, you sense the beauty of summer—and much more besides.

Every soft, grey-green shoot on the tangled honeysuckle stems sets you thinking of the yellow, rosy-tinged blossoms that will fill the long summer evenings with fragrance; every crimson thorn and bursting leaf on the wild rose, tells of far-flung branches that will arch the hedges and flush them with pale-pink flowers later on; the rosettes of foxglove leaves on the roadside banks remind you of the bells that will be ringing all along the lanes when summer sets in.

And although the fresh green of all the courageous little things that have braved the winds and peeped forth, is exquisite enough in itself to satisfy that eternal craving of the human heart for something fresh from the Hand of God, yet the promise that each proclaims carries one into further realms of loveliness, and conjures up visions that can never be put down in black and white.

One dimly understands how impossible was the task St. John set himself when he tried to describe the glimpse that was permitted him of the City not made with hands. He wrote of gold, and pearls, and crystal, and inexhaustible gems—yet these are but cold, lifeless things, and the list of them leaves us unmoved. With all the words at his command, with all the similes he could muster, nothing brings us so near a conception of that vision as his indication of the Divine understanding of poor human needs, and the promise of a fuller, richer life, freed from earthly disadvantages and with nothing to sever us from God.

At a time like the present, when souls innumerable are bearing silent sorrows, and the whole earth is scarred with the iron hoof of the Prussian beast, how much more to us than all the radiance of topaz, jacinth, sapphire and amethyst is the assurance—“There shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain . . . and there shall be no more curse: but the Throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and His servants shall serve Him: and they shall see His Face.”