I fancy a young ear of corn would not be unacceptable. A young, green, succulent ear of corn. So come here you plumed chieftain, “lend me your ears,” or rather, plumed chieftain! I will take you by the ears. I will cut off your ears, plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as thou art. Yea, verily will I, plumed chieftain! so here goes. I tear off the emerald sheath and lo! the silver ear—pearly rich art thou, silver ear of the plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as he is, and I don’t think thou wilt be less rich when the red fire shall make thee tawny and fit for the teeth.
But we leave the corn-field, with its infernal pumpkins, and once more merrily wend our way along the moonlit road. Ah, here is the path diverging to the “camp-meeting ground.” We are bound to enter, and so we do. How sweetly quiet is the little glade with the forest sleeping in a silver calm around it. Does not the echo now repeal the loud enthusiastic “amens” that then awoke the air at the last “camp meeting,” and the struggling agonized prayer of that gray-headed old man “that God would blot out his sins for they had been many?” Does it not now, even now, seem to thrill amidst those slumbering leaves? And the low music of that lovely maiden’s commune with her God, as if he were her earthly father, so tender, so affectionate—ah, her prayers were known in heaven. The seraphs knew them as the prayers of one, pure as themselves, the Son knew them as the usual breathings of a spotless soul, and the Mighty Father knew them too, and loved and accepted them. Heaven is made of such pure souls, oh, sweet and prayerful maiden!
And the loud triumphant singing—the halleluiahs of the throng. Oh, how they sprung from the earth—oh, how they spread their wings—oh, how they flew up to glory! Oh how they sprung—oh how they spread, oh how they flew up to glory! Burning songs—burning songs, oh how they flew up to glory!
But we leave this moonlight picture of peace and serenity and seek once more our homeward road. We ascend the hill, and beneath us, slumbering in the magnificent moonlight, lo! our beautiful village. Sleeping in the moonlight, lo! our quiet, our peaceful, our beautiful village.
See, how the church steeple rises, soaring up, soaring up, in the solemn and silvered heavens, with its vane sparkling like a dew-gemmed lark hovering over the steeple. Hark! from that silvered steeple, soaring up, soaring up in the solemn and silvered heavens there seems to come a song, thrilling along the hushed and listening air, like the song of that same dew-gemmed lark when he springs triumphant upon the highest cloud of the morning. Hark! I hear the song, it trembles through my soul. Listen, listen, listen to the moonlight song of the praising and soaring steeple.
Art thou a seraph from heaven, thou sweet pure moonlight!
That thou comest in thy garb of dream-like and delicate beauty?
Dost thou bear the splendor of the “Great White Throne” near which thou dost touch thy lute, dost thou bear it on thy glittering and pearly wings!
Seraph!
For thou dost change all to a white and wondrous lustre,