The sparrow that is twittering on the edge of my balcony, is calling up to me this moment, a world of memories that reach over half my life time, and a world of hope that stretches farther than any flight of sparrows. The rose-tree which shades his mottled coat is full of buds and blossoms; and each bud and blossom its a token of promise, that has issues covering life, and reaching beyond death. The quiet sunshine beyond the flower and beyond the sparrow,—glistening upon the leaves, and playing in delicious waves of warmth over the reeking earth, is lighting both heart and hope, and quickening into activity a thousand thoughts of what has been, and of what will be. The meadow stretching away under its golden flood—waving with grain, and with the feathery blossoms of the grass, and golden butter cups, and white, nodding daisies, comes to my eye like the lapse of fading childhood,—studded here and there with the bright blossoms of joy, crimsoned all over with the flush of health, and enamelled with memories that perfume the soul. The blue hills beyond, with deep blue shadows gathered in their bosom, lie before me like mountains of years, over which I shall climb through shadows to the slope of Age, and go down to the deeper shadows of Death.
