THE PATH OF VISION
remonstrated with me like true lovers. And yet, in the heart of mine own country the flower-seeds of Concord may not fare better than they did in the cold and sunless habitations of the city or on the outskirts of nature now hardened by the highways of the God of Gasoline. Go to Concord and transplant them there? It is long since the flower first bloomed in that soil that it would not, I'm afraid, be recognized today. It might die of neglect. Alas for the nursery of the soul! But our mothers' nurseries remain, my Brothers, to yield us a little solace. And what matters it if my Mother be old and crabbed and unsympathetic? What matters it if she is not counted of the young and strong among nations?
True, her history is that of a country without a flag or a national hymn; but her divine message once stirred the innermost heart of the world. True, her traditions are those of a nation without a king, a people without a voice, a soul without a temple; but her ancient spirit still lives and
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