Lying all around our path;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff;
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of to-day;
With a patient hand removing
All the briers from our way.”
THE wind is playing with the long gray beard on the grand old live-oak over our heads; the air, soft and balmy, brings the slightest intimation of perfume from the orange-trees around us; the golden fruit, half hidden in the rich, glossy leaves, and here and there a bud just opening into the delicate blossom, give promise of another harvest before the first is fully gathered. Before us lies the beautiful St. John’s river, smooth and tranquil as a summer sea; but a steamer in the distance, like a graceful swan, approaches the wharf, and will soon disturb its calm, and toss the placid waters into merry ripples or foaming, sparkling waves. Only for a moment she touches the wharf, then glides away, and the river subsides into its wonted calm. Her coming and going have no interest for us, save that which a glimpse, however transient, of beauty, strength, and grace must always awaken. She brings none to greet us and claim the welcome, so gladly given by one far from home.
Everything around us is quiet. The inmates of the cottage are mostly out sailing. The gentle provider for the household comforts, “on hospitable thoughts intent,” is preparing for their return from this “toil of pleasure,” tired and ravenously hungry. We are entirely alone; and as we sit in this wonderful quiet, the little poem quoted above, “If We Knew,” stirs our heart with strange and solemn power.
Lives there one who does not, in moments of retirement or solitude, look back to the earliest hours of childhood, and recall times when, if he could have known the results, his actions would have been far different?