The Hartford herald. [volume] (Hartford, Ky.) 1875-1926, 1885-06-10
A DAY-DREAM OF LIFE.
ny HEBER MATTHEW'S

VISION that cheer'd while III lasted,
But faded too soon into night!
; "'rwas only "A dream, fellow-workers,
A rest from the worlds round of strife.
A respite from some of its troubles,
A glimse of another fair life.
"What was IL ?-the dream OF worker
The echo, perchance. of a pray'r;
A picture whose colors are fadeless,
One whose hopes were too fair ~
There are periods in the lives of ev.
cry one when aside from the hum and
din Of the revolving wheels of business
We sit down In some quiet nook and
try to dispel the multitudinous train of
thoughts that engross our brain with
their ceaseless song Of toll, and endeav-
or, II but for moment, to obtain
peace and rest from the thraldom Of
work that constitutes the routine of
daily life. During the lull of peace
there comes stealing In, like whisper
waited on the noiseless tide of years,
beautiful thoughts of halcyon days
now gone, that buoy our weary spirit
up, and make us hope and believe that
We will again in the future enjoy rep
etition of the same bright moments.
We uncOnsciOusly lean our ear to lis
ten to these nemory-whispers, and in
spirit our life il lifted up and borne back
upon the misty bosom of the retreating
tide, until We are lost in the mazes of
thought and the silence of the entranc-
ing spell.
There is song that somebody sung,
long ago, and presently it comes waited
back along the echoing corridors Of
time in far away tones of melody, and
We hear it again as of old, and it almost
makes us start with its thrilling ca
dence. And then 1t dies away like
dreamland music, or birds trill over
sylvan lake, and We hear it no more
and We wonder what suggested it, but
II has faded away into silence as noise.
lessly as 1t came, and left no trace of its
errand. Then there is a ripple of in
FAINT laughter, and We imagine our
selves child again, and We are once
more with the play-mates of our youth,
and We feel the uncontrolled spirit of
mirth, a sweet sense of careless Free
dom and mental peace, that We have
long since learned to forget. We hear
the doves cooling In the barnyard Of our
childhOOd's home. and the creaking
windlass over the old well under the
peach trees, aud the chickens cackling
down in the garden by the pea-vines,
and the cows lowing down in the
wooded vale-all these little incidents
leap the tide of years and stand before
us in vivid reality. There is voice
calling somewhere, away back on life's
path. Whose is 1t q? Need we ask our
memory? 1t is 50 pathetic and gentle
In its nelOdy-sO full of love and ten
derness-cOuld it be other than moth
er's? Yes, 1t is hers, and we hear it
again as In childhood, ami Its tone is
just so hOmelike, and 50 lOving-as if Ii
had not crossed the line of years that
time has laid behind our lives. And
what is that voice saying ? Is 1t speak
ing to us now No, but more vivid than |
IL 1t really was, is the scene when we
live 1t over again in memory, as she |
kneels beside US and with our baby |
face uplifted to heaven, her voice goes |
up in prayer for the innocent, prattllng
child, and then she pauses and talks
slowly, SO that We may initiate, and
gives us our first lesson ia prayer.
Can this scene be soon forgotten |
Never! Emblaz oned in letters of gold
upon the tablet of our memory, it looks
brighter the more we gaze on tit is
part of our soul aud destined to live
through all time and eternity. Each
time We think of it our lives seem
bathed in pure and holy light, which
floods our path with sunshine kissed
beams of glory.
We raise our head and look about
us to know If We are dreaming; but no,
it is only memOry-dream, 80 sweet in
its influence and real In detail. We are
loath to stop this communion with the
past, and We lower our head again, as
II holding an attentive ear close to the
mouth of this misty cavern. to listen to
the strange muttering Of memoir,
for voice to speak. A thous-
and little incidents that we had long
since forgotten come echoing along the
walls and then die away in
to sigh. And we hear somebody say
ing goOd-by in trembling tone Of af-
fiction, and their soulful eyes shine out
In the distance as last we saw them, and
then there is deep silence, aud we know
there are long years between US and
that plaintIve farewell voice. We lis
ten for that familiar voice again, but
It IL stilled, and We feel We never val
ued them or loved them until now, and :
they seem more precious than ever as
they tread the silent halls of memory,
and that pleading anxious face gazes Mt
us as ifin mute appeal for our love and
though years have gone
their life aud ours. Here
come kind words and bright promises
Irooping along the vista of time with
merry jingle, then u sudden quiet, and
hen sigh of despair sounds hollow
and low, and awakens no RESPONSIVE
'cho, hut dies away In gloom, like the
bright hopes of the one whose lips it
passed.
All this is but the chime and echo of
but We know too well
heir deep-toned rhyming, as II brings ,
back our past life IN all its intricate real.
ty, and their reverberations awaken
'ur spirit to u full appreciation of what
We have known, observed and expe