WINTER MEETING. 215 



It would seem that Nature is busy all the year preparing herself for the last 

 touch of " Nature's Artist," and now, clad in her richest robes of gold and crim- 

 son, she comes laden with choicest fruits to greet the Frost king, who in waiting 

 receives her. 



Tired nature needs rest; and now with her work well done, like one who 

 would ' 'weep without woe and blush without crime," she falls at the feet of her 

 Monarch and asks for sleep. 



He grants her request, and that her rest may be perfect and her awakening 

 sure, drapes round her his mantle of crystal as a shield from the monotonous dis- 

 cord of winter's forces. 



After a long absence of beauty and cheerfulness from the lonely earth, the 

 spring-time fairies tell us that she is not dead, only sleeping, and will soon awaken 

 to a new and wonderful life— for, 



"With love's divine foreknowing, 

 Where man sees bat withered leaves, 

 God sees sweet flowers growing. ' ' 



How like unto the human life. The allotted time of man upon earth is but a 

 summer season, which must, of necessity, be one continuous busy round. 



Ere we are aware, our time of probation is ended, and with faces turned to 

 the western horizon, we see the autumn sun sinking beyond the clouds of purple 

 and gold. 



While in the midst of health and happiness, like unsuspecting nature, man 

 lives as if there were no end to serve, save to make merry on earth. But within 

 there lies a silent force that teaches all must die. As he pisses over the meridian, 

 and down upon the other side, in one brief review of his frail life and its accom- 

 plishments, he longs for the future. As with the poet, he has never gotten near 

 enough his object. 



The end for which we strive in life is deceiving as the mirage in the desert 

 to the weary traveler. No matter for what our struggle may be, as the end is 

 attained the value diminishes, and the prize glistens from a distant future. The 

 soul is never satisfied with achievements, but continually longing for the absent, 

 the elsewhere. This, in accordance with God's will, leads man from earth to 

 Heaven. 



His ideal is in the future, and as he views life from the shadowy side, in his 

 blindness he sees most clearly, 'tis opiy a step. With the flowers and all created 

 force, he lays himself down at the feet of his King, and asks for the peace that rest 

 will bring. We tread softly and whisper, "he is dead." 



Tis autumn now, the chilling blast has entered our home and withered the 

 most tender and loved of our circle. Do we grieve at God's own prophecy ? Do 

 we think Him unjust in executing His own laws in the order of creation ? Life 

 and death are dependent and inseparable. The flowers die only to return the 

 brighter from rest in their leafy mold. Our bodies perish and to dust return that 

 the soul may waken in brightest immortality. 



