Ottumwa semi-weekly courier. [volume] (Ottumwa, Iowa) 1899-1903, 1899-12-21
CHAPTER XIV.
TIMES AND sEAsoNs.


Waldo lay on his stomach on the
sand. Since he prayed and howled
to his God in the fuel house three
years had passed.
They say that in the world to come
time is not measured out by months
and years. Neither is it here. The
souls life has seasons of its own, pc
RODS not found in any calendar, times
that years and months will not scan,
but which are as deftly and sharply cut
off from one another as the smoothly
arranged years which the earth's mo-
tion yields us.
To stranger eyes these divisions are
not evident. but each, looking back at
the little track his consciousness IL.
Eliminates, sees it cut into distinct por-
tons, whose boundaries are the termi-
nation of mental states.
AS man differs from man, so differ
these souls years. The most material
life is not devoid Of them; the story Of
the most spiritual is told in them.
And it may chance that some. looking
back. see the past cut out after this
fashion,:
The year of infancy, where from the
shadowy background of forgetfulness
start out pictures of startling clear
ness, disconnected. but brightly col
ored and indelibly printed in the mind.
Much that follows fades. but the colors
of those baby pictures are permanent.
There rises, perhaps, a warm sum-
mer's evening. We are seated on the
doorstep; we have yet the taste of the
bread and milk in our mouth, and the
red sunset is reflected in our basin.
Then there is dark night, where,
waking with fear that there is some
great being in the room, we run from
our own bed to another, creep close to
some large figure and are comforted.
Then there is remembrance of the
pride when, on some ones shoulder,
with our arms around their head, we
ride to see the little pigs, the new little
pigs with their curled tails and tiny
shouts. Where do they come from?
Remembrance of delight in the feel
and smell of the first orange we ever
see; Of sorrow which makes us put up
our lip and cry hard when one morning
we run out to try to catch the dew
drops and they melt and wet our little
fingers; Of almighty and despairing
sorrow when we are lost behind the
kraals and cannot see the house any
where.
And then one picture starts out more
wildly than any.
There has been thunderstorm. The
ground as far as the eye can reach is
covered with white hail. The clouds
are gone, and overhead deep blue
sky is showing. Far Off a great rain
bow rests on the white earth We,
standing in window to look, feel the
cool, unspeakably sweet wind blowing
In on us, and feeling of longing
comes over us, unutterable longing. we
cannot tell for what. We are SO small
our head only reaches as high as the
first three panes. We look at the white
earth and the rainbow and the blue
sky; and, oh, we want it, we want. we
do not know what We cry as though
our heart was broken. When! one lifts
our little body from the window, we
cannot tell what ails US. We run away
to play.
So looks the first year.
II.
Now the pictures become continuous
and connected. Material things still
rule. but the spiritual and intellectual
take their places.
In the dark night when we are afraid
we pray and shut our eyes. We press
our fingers very hard upon the lids and
see dark spots moving round and
round. and we know they are heads