But now they had met. It was no mere vision now, and the truth flashed upon her mind that that voice she had heard and thought a dream was not all a dream. And then she mused on as she was wont to do, and, after relating to us the incident, she said, "May it not be that much of our life that we have thought passed in dreamland, and therefore among unreal things, has been spent with actual existences? For what is an 'unreal thing'? It would not be a 'thing' had it no existence; and what is the 'it' that we speak of? Can we not then conclude that there is nothing but what is and must have an existence, though not so tangible to our senses as to enable us to handle it or see it? What we call 'imagination' may be, after all, more real than the hard stones beneath our feet-less indestructible than they."
Thus she spake, and her theory seemed very plausible to me, though my friend Jenks, who was an exceedingly precise, matter-of-fact man, could not see any foundation for the theory.
It was a late hour when Mr. Jenks and myself passed to our homes. The next day Evelina and her father were coseyly quartered at the house in which Egbert had boarded.
In the course of a a few weeks they arranged to go to the west, and locate in a flourishing town on the banks of the Ohio, not many miles above Cincinnati.
Mr. Jenks and myself accompanied them to the cars; and, amid our best wishes for their success, and their countless expressions of gratitude to us, the train started, and in a few moments the Disinherited was going to an inheritance which God had provided, and which lay in rich profusion awaiting their possession.
Our hearts went with them. We could truly say they were worthy God's blessing; yet we had not need ask him to bestow it upon them; for their very existence was a proof that he gave it to them.
THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL.
THE seasons all are beautiful,
There is not one that's sad,—
Not one that does not give to thee
A thought to make thee glad.
I have heard a mournful cadence
Fall on my listening ear,—
'T was some one whispering, mournfully,
"The Autumn days are here."
But Autumn is not sorrowful,—
O, full of joy is it;
I love at twilight hour to watch
The shadows as they flit,—
The shadows of the falling leaves,
Upon their forest bed,
And hear the rustling music tones
Beneath the maiden's tread.
The falling leaf! Say, what has it
To sadden human thought?
For are not all its hours of life
With dancing beauty fraught?
And, having danced and sang its joy,
It seeketh now its rest,—
Is there a better place for it
Than on its parent's breast?
Ye think it dies. So they of old
Thought of the soul of man.
But, ah, ye know not all its course
Since first its life began,
And ye know not what future waits,
Or what essential part
That fallen leaf has yet to fill,
In God's great work of art.
Count years and years, then multiply
The whole till ages crowd
Upon your mind, and even then
Ye shall not see its shroud.
But ye may see,—if look you can
Upon that fallen leaf,—
A higher life for it than now
The life you deem so brief.
And so shall we to higher life
And purer joys ascend;
And, passing on, and on, and on,
Be further from our end.
This is the truth that Autumn brings,—
Is aught of sorrow here?
If not, then deem it beautiful,
Keep back the intrusive tear.
Spring surely you'll call beautiful,
With its early buds and flowers,
Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams,
And gentle twilight hours.
And Summer, that is beautiful,
With fragrance on each breeze,
And myriad warblers that give
Free concerts 'mong the trees.
I've told you of the Autumn days,
Ye cannot call them sad,
With such a lesson as they teach,
To make the spirit glad.
And Winter comes; how clear and cold,
In dazzling brilliance drest!-
Say, is not Winter beautiful,
With jewels on his crest?
Thus are all seasons beautiful;
They all have joy for thee,
And gladness for each living soul
Comes from them full and free.
SPRING.
IT is early spring-time. The winter has passed with reluctant step, and even now the traces of its footsteps are discernible on every side. At noon of these bright days the sun looks down smilingly upon the soil it seeks to bless with its cheerful, cheering rays. The tiny grass-blades peep out, and stretch forth their graceful forms, as if to thank the unknown source from which their enjoyments spring. "Unknown," I said. Is it "fancy" that makes my soul withdraw that word, and suggest that it may be that even that blade of grass recognizes the hand that ministers to all its wants? I think not. I think that what we term "fancy" and "imagination" are the most real and enduring portions of existence. They are of that immortal part that will live after crumbling column and the adamantine foundations of earth have passed away, and lost their present identity in countless forms of a higher existence. Are not all the forces of nature unseen, yet are they not real? Most assuredly they are. But I am talking of spring. I hinted at winter's tardy withdrawal. Look you how that little pile of snow hides itself in yonder shady nook,—right there where the sun's rays never come; right there, as if ashamed, like a man out of place,—pity that it lingers. Here and there, at the side of the brook, a little ice is waiting to be dissolved, that it may bound away, bright and sparkling, over the glistening pebbles.