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night, Avhen yve creep home through the streets, tired and worn, 

 if we look up at the holy stars, there come to us weary hopes and 

 despondencies, which are not to be spoken or cherished — longings 

 and sorrows and memories, which are all to be put aside and for- 

 gotten. 



But in the country you are surrounded with wonder, and mys- 

 tery, and beauty ; you cannot escape them, they follow you into 

 the dark shadows of the wood, they are beneath your feet, al- 

 though you trample upon them, they cluster around you as you 

 stop to rest. A very learned friend was speaking to me lately of 

 the modern scepticism as to miracles, and the ingenious doubts 

 and speculations of science, which disturb the ancient faith of so 

 many minds. I plucked the white clover blossom at my feet, and 

 replied, " I need no higher miracle than that." Yes, that is the 

 only miracle we need ; tell us how, century after century, this 

 humble flower has perpetuated its mysterious birth and growth, 

 tell us why the seed has kept its plighted faith to the Spring, and 

 year after year has blossomed always the same, tell us who 

 taught it to seek out in the dark ground, or in the invisible air, 

 that subtle food which it turns into its own substance. Tell us how 

 this plant, which we call lifeless and inanimate, can produce from 

 its own being that mysterious seed Avhich man's wonderful brain 

 not only cannot imitate, but cannot even understand in its laws, 

 its structure, or its creation ; and we will then talk of other mira- 

 cles, and discuss probabilities ; until then we need no higher 

 miracles. How true is it that this world is full of miracles, full of 

 teachers, who are all inspired ; and when the sweet season of 

 Pentecost comes, in its green beauty, they speak as of old, with 

 tongues of fire. 



Listen then to these voices, learn those psalms of life ; let them 

 instruct you in the dignity of labor and the duties of living ; let 

 them teach you by the serene, silent influences of beauty ; let 

 them steal gently into your hearts, and shape your lives by their 

 sweetness and by their sympathy — for those voices of life and 

 nature are not given without purpose nor in vain ; they are the 

 angel songs, which are sung on earth and in the sky : they are 

 the sacred oracles of heaven. 



Will you go higher than the farm, its uses, its thrift, its laws 

 of labor — or than the home, with its aflections, its duties ? The 



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