A SPRING REVERIE

Winter has at last unlocked the portals of his icy castle and ushered into our presence the very queen of all the seasons. Let us fling open the doorways of our hearts and give a generous welcome. How silently she moves among us, and yet our finer ear may hear her in the springing grass and opening blossoms. We feel her magic touch in everything about us. She whispers, and the slumbering earth awakes to new life and beauty. Would we might sing her praises with hearts as full as the happy, joyous birds.

I wonder, if we would, we could not make our daily lives fuller of praises and thanksgiving-songs; clothe wearying, unlovely care, with beauty? And I wonder, too, if we are not ourselves to blame, if in the pleasant walks of life we gather not enough of sunshine up to last through cloudy weather? And yet, we must dream our own dreams and live our own lives.

The hearts of little children drink in the spring sunshine as freely, even, as the birds and flowers. And are not their voices sweeter than the song of birds and their lives dearer than all the blossoms?

A maiden sits and dreams, and in her fancy she weaves the golden meshes of a nest that will one day be her own, and if her morning and evening carol shall be sweeter than the bird’s it is not strange, for is not her nest dearer and her love deeper?

In the spring sunshine a mother muses, and her thoughts have flown backward. She sits ’mid blasted buds and voiceless birds, in a springtime of long ago; and though her whole pathway is strewn with flowers, it is not so much to her as to know that on those little graves the violets are come again. She tends them with a loving care, for they speak precious promises unto her soul.

The aged couple number over and over again the many springtimes their lives have known in light and shadow. They drink not in the full sunshine of these delicious days, for their nest and nestlings are all gone, and they are waiting for a more glorious springtime yet to come—waiting for eternal sunshine and perpetual blossoms.

Upon the faces of men of great crime, through all the scars of sin, may be found traces of happy days of innocence and pleasure. Doubtless, as the springtime sun streams faintly into the cell of many a criminal, memory is quickened to life by its soft rays, and flowers of tenderness which have long slumbered bloom again, in the garden of his heart. Perhaps he may remember days all sunshine, days of loving—when a dear face and the light of glad eyes transfigured everything into a world of glory. But temptation, like sorrow, overtakes us when we are least prepared, and on the stream of life we either drift with its current, or with strength of will and determined purpose, pull our fragile bark against it.

None need so much human sympathy and divine love and favor as the poor in spirit. The poor in purse may vie in happiness with the rich; but to a life from which the light of hope has all gone out, the journey to the end is drear and desolate. Thus, it is we dream our own dreams and live our own lives, however much we may live for others.