The mirror., 1915-02-25

Listen, a voice is calling across the years.
glad with the gladness of whittier day. day of
faith and love for an entire world-t is the music
of yesterday.
Never shall that voice be drowned by grim
jest or met by masked-faced Indifference; never
shall that voice leap the world reach into
jungle of broken and be met with jeers, for it
is the music of yesterday.
There is but the one religion for men and
women: one religion for all color and all creeds
there is but one force that moves the world, that
force is called Love, and one of it's names is the
music of yesterday.
Look back over your field of pain, back to the
day when you broke the rose jar. What of it's
scent! Is it gone forever? All, no! The per-
fume fingers with the breaker STILL sweet essence
to set ones ears to the strains of long ago day,
the music that perfumes the stencil of bury the
past
What stratus has the discussion of heaven or
hell's dubeity with the music of yesterday! Are
we not prone to swing ourselves up high into
some dream-made heaven! We have the power to
make many momentous heavens if we but listen to
the sweetness of mistress whom we never tire of
hearing, the music of yesterday.
No without the rain; no joy without sad
ness; no illusion without the tragic; but the rose
was lovely; the JOY grand: the illusion sweet
and that is the music of yesterday.
How futile to throw the spear forget the
past" against the shield of memory. How vain to
try to shut ears to yesteryear joy because it
bring some little pain
Listen to the music of yesterday. 1t tells not
of barren, bleak December; of bridges burned or
of ship-wrecked human lives that cast for
calm waters. Listen. Holy in its tenderness it
tells of May. Apple-blossomed May is tripping
across the world whispering of coming golden
dawn, to a world peoped with ideals. May bears
a wreath OF golden purpose, and talks of achieve
ment of goals not of the ultimate wreck of souls.
SOngsters are astir in tangled wild woods, mos
sy dells and fowery gardens; youth in innocence
and trust; can't you them all back there in a
long ago day? Haven't you hope of final heal
ing mercy the melody that speaks like gentle
forgiving Christ winks itself around your soul?
vast eternal pity exists for all sorrowful sim
ners therefore the Master Musician gives us the
joy, the will to listen ever and anon to the music
of yesterday.
Break not the bruised reed, give it of yester-
days sweetness as balm for it's wounds-music for
the soul.
The music of yesterday: An evenings ''husho,'
bedside prayer, the line of song, bit of verse,
the hand clasp of purity; soft eyes that bid you
farewll all these stand for to make not to mar; to
heal, not to scar.
We're old and gray and far away. let's throw
kiss across to May in token of long ago.
Hush! December is sobbing! December hasn't
forgotten. It's ptiable, yet it's sweet. 1t comes
from the soul. Something is going Or in the
solled heart of December-the music of yesterday
is heard again.
December has bowed head as though in a
house of God. Hush! worshipper comes to the
shrine of emotion; worshipper whose soul has
been long out of employment is giving big idea
of being alive
December, with brutal visage called for the
music of yesterday, heard the flood of exquisite
sound and left behind face of pain, came forth
smiling radiant May.