When we come to think of it, a spring and river would be a not inapt illustration of the source of life and life's stream. From life's first dawn it must flow onward and onward without ceasing, its course at one time or another being diverted by the twig, the stone, or the herbage of life's accidents. So it continues its way, now winding, twisting, and buffeting with rocks and crags, while in yonder pool it is calm, peaceful, and placid, yes, and too often stagnant, while anon we hear it moan and groan in agony, as it rushes into some death-like cavern of sorrow, after a time to arise again in sportive joy, and meander through the lovely valley of pleasure further down.
It is ever changing, yet ever falling, until it arrives at that boundless ocean of death—the common receiver of all streams of life—no matter what their origin or course may have been.
It was a slight incident in my life that led me to discover the contents of one of life's
