Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1874-04-02
The Story of Jock WiIIistOn.


Island meeting to-day; you'd like
go along, maybc?" queried our host ;
breakfast, on the morning of our Sc,
ond Sunday at L..
"To the Island? Delightful! Ii
us 90, Of course!"
"Its good piece of walking frol
the landing TO the church, you know.
"IIow far ?"
"About two miles-up hill an
and down dale"
"Only two miles A mere moth
ing" we chorused smiling at eac
other as we remembered how impass
able two miles Of our native pavemen
might have seemed on that midsum
mer day. But here, with the wooiny
note Of the sea in our ears, and tn
strength Of the salt air tingliny
through our veins, what might W
not do and dare?
So light was the breeze, as W
stood waiting on the beach, that w
scarcely felt it strike our raised hands
yet the little boat which came to tax,
us off caught the soft breath in he
sails, and waited lis across the channe
gently and noiselessly as spirit.
need not pause to describe tn,
walk that followed, although we re
mombcred it long atterward will
keen delight The undulating slopes
robed with spruce and fir of marvel
ous symmetry and color; the gray
outcrop Of limestone rock rending the
crisp carpet of short grass, and dry
brown moss spread along the road
side the half,score little coves Of
wonderous beauty, where fleets OF
small boats, like white-winged water
fowl, rocked lazily at anchor, and the
blue water plashed softly upon tiny
islets, whose quaint rock.work was
yelled and garlanded by creeping vines
and nodding harebclls and-tar of
the line where sky and ocean met,
embracing all with suggestions of the
infinite harmony all these, then al
most unprotaned, are growing familiar
in these later years, even TO most care
less eyes,
The small, white church, with its
odd cupola and slowly swinging bell,
came in sight at length, crowning the
summit of a gentle elevation Enter
ING, we took our places among the
worshipers.
The greater part Of the simple dis
course have long since forgotten, but
the closing words, spoken in the low,
musical voice Of the preacher, as he
bert above the pulpit rail, sound in
my memory still
"lIear, then, once more, the words
of the text: That was the true
Light, which lighteth every man that
cometh into the world Sometimes,
my brethren, we look long for the
of that rising. Even the
eyes that watch for the morning may
scarce discern night from dawn. Yet
there is no soul but some time-some-
where-stands in the shining of that
Light. Every sacrifice of itself, every
victory Of love, is but its broken re
lection. God forbid that any one of
you, having felt the divine radiance,
'honld 90 away again into the outer
darkness T.
A hymn was sun, the fervent bles.
sing asked, and, passing ont with the
congregation, we turned aside into the
churchyard, to spend the hour of noon
lay intermisslon. Strolling about
among the quiet graves, many of
which, especially the resting-place of
little children, were strewn tenderlv
With bright.hue shells and pebbles,
ny attention was arrested by the con-
rast between the low, plainly carved
stones around me, and tall, slender
shaft of the purest italian marble,
Using from solid granite pedestal at
little distance beyond. Drawing
learer, | read in beautiful embossed
In memory of
JOCK WILLISTON,