The age-herald., 1899-01-22
THE MURMUR
 OF THE WORLD

Did you comprehend anything of the un- speakable glory of Yesterdays westering sun? Did you catch the golden glow in the atmosphere, and feel your pulses to quicken because of the wondrous beauty? Did 1t seem to you that the afternoon was the most wonderously enchanting of all the afternoons of your life? Did it not occur to you to toss your cap into that marvellous atmosphere and shout until the heavens rang with praises to the Master for such light in your material existence? If you did not experience something of these sensa- tions, you missed an opportunity the like of which may not come to you before the summons to go down into the valley of the unknowable shadows. This slave of the graphite pencil may be dreamer, mystic, poet and painter, lost in the common clay of an everyday working man; but he will swear to you that never before in all his experience of many lands, in many vary ing circumstances, did he experience any afternoon in any degree comparable to that of yesterday. There was no glare, but simply a golden glow, due to atmospheric conditions that can prevail but few times in the course of a human life. All the houses, the very pavement of the street, the vehicles, the garments of men and women, the atmos- phere, the far-off sky-all took on the golden tint, and the world as seen and dreamed of was more beautiful than ever it had been before in all the changeful years of a time not to be defined. To borrow thought from quaint o4~ George Herbert, it was a sweet day, so calm, so golden: fit bridal of the earth and sky!
 
 It comes to this again, my beloved: We have got but to look and listen; to reflect, to keep our minds open for the reception or truth and all life is an anthem. There is hymn in every breeze, melody in every zephyr, tender harmony in every ray of sunshine, and every flower kissed to life by the sunbeams that glance from the dark est clouds which may lower above us on the journey to the everlasting slumberand in the sphere we know not of in our com mon human conception. One golden after noon compensates us for many day of gloom. All our yesterdays may have been unhappy, but the one today of joy leads us to acclaim all this life joyous. And so 1t is. There are times of sorrow; but we can leave them uncounted in the general sum if we will it that way. The world is ours for joy not for mourning Long-faced replning is a disease of the mind, or it is actual hypocricy. The unhappiest woman ever knew was the widow of week. In a scan- dalously short time she married another man, who broke her heart sure enough. There is another widow who hasn't smiled in eleven years. That is ordinary madness. She is helpless against the death sentence that came into effect in her household. She has never struggled against grief, and her tears have washed out nothing that has been painful to her.
 
 Every rostrum should be the sacred desk from which nothing but the doctrine of cheerfulness could be preached. There can not be in paradise any angel who weeps. Heaven resounds with laughter. None of the saints wears long-face; none is sor- rowful; none mourns of anything. There are light and laughter in the ideal heaven. Gaiety runs riot The angels have jolly time, so to speak, and they pursue cease less round of pleasure. Millions of men and women weep over their own sins, ana remorse makes of them abject slaves. But if they ever get to heaven they Will ind that the streets of the New Jerusalem have never been polluted by tear.
 There passed from the scenes of this town and this world the other day an old black nanny who had lived within a few months of a full century; and she passed away serenely happy and absolutely confident of the golden slippers and the lily-white robe so dear to the imagination of her race. Slippers robe, harp and crown were as cer- tain to her gentle soul as if she had worn them in their material form of decay. She had been born a slave. All her hundred wears had been spent in menia1 toll. Day by day throughout all that mighty space in the period of humanity's existence on this planet she had earned her bread. In her illness she was cared for by loving friends who were of that race which formerly held her in light bonds of slavery. The dear old soul, the sweet-hearted old black nanny knew that her time had come to pass to God. She talked cheerfuly, even gladly, of the ending of her long journey to the sun- set-land of life. The white lady," her friend even made with her fair hands the grave-robe for the old black nanny. The old soul was pleased to give hint of her wishes in that direction; and she even held the grave-robe in her poor old hands and admired it; being greatly pleased to see the winding-sheet that was to wrap her in her little six feet of earth
 How noble the lesson of that old black mammy's life, and death! How infinitely beautiful her humble faith in the abiding mercy of Him who was Father to her as he Is Father to the daintiest maiden of high degree who shall rise from her couch this morning to praise the God of us all that life is beautiful!
 THE AWAKENED LAND
 From the Metal Worker.