is something terrible in the thought of this indescribable mad Happiness. What a thing it is for a human being to be happy—with the red, red Happiness of the sunset sky!
It's like a terrific storm in summer with rain and wind, beating quiet water into wild waves, bending great trees to the ground,—convulsing the green earth with delicious pain.
It's like something of Schubert's played on the violin that stirs you within to exquisite torture.
It's like the human voice divine singing a Scotch ballad in a manner to drag your soul from your body.
But there are no words to tell it. It is something infinitely above and beyond words. It is the kind of Happiness the Devil will bring to me when he comes,—to me, to me! Oh, why does he not come now when I am in the midst of my youth! Why is he so long in coming?
Often you hear a dozen stories of
