A little more than half a century ago I drew my first breath of life. It
was a day in early May, so I have been told: the sun was shining, the
birds were singing, and the early flowers were in bloom. It is not to be
supposed that my environment in life's early hour had any influence upon
the passions of my soul; nevertheless, from my earliest recollection I
have been an ardent lover of the esthetical in nature. Many of the days
of my childhood were spent wandering through the fields in the bright
sunshine, admiring and culling the flowers; rambling through the leafy
wood, listening with glad heart to the songs of birds; or sitting on the
mossy bank of the rippling brooklet delighted by the music made by its
crystal waters as they played among the rocks.
But the happy, innocent days of childhood do not last always: the sun
does not always shine, nor the birds sing; neither do the flowers always
bloom along our way. Oh, if we could only have been overlooked--many of
us have thought in the dreary days of after-life--by Father Time and
been left behind to be always in the green, sun-lit fields of childhood,
how happy we should have been! But it was not so; and now, since I have
found the riches of grace, I am glad it was not so. No one can escape
the onward-leading hand of Time. He will lead us, despite our protests,
into days where the sun has ceased shining, where the birds have flown
to a more genial clime, and where the flowers have faded. As our
much-loved poet has said,
"Into each life some rain must fall--
Some days must be dark and dreary."
My life has been a confirmation of these words.