IN GOD'S ACRE 209 



of rose hips glows like topaz in the shadowy depths near 

 the ground. The switches of the Siberian dogwood show 

 the warm blood coursing with the sap, and the shrub 

 world has no disappointments in autumn. 



Through the ages since long ago the hand of destiny 

 has been weaving a fabric reflecting the ebb and flow of 

 the tide of life. It is a richly hued tapestry with a splen- 

 dor of lights made brilliant in contrast to dull shadows, 

 and from beginning to end, through them all, runs a 

 sunny thread ever leading toward dreams of future 

 unfolding. 



The design has never approached completeness. We 

 may turn the leaves of history, follow its pageants of 

 glory, its masques of comedy, its interludes of tragedy, 

 and the strand of hope weaves on and on, unraveled and 

 unbroken in sunny luster; and as we look beyond to-day 

 we watch it dipping below the horizon of to-morrow, 

 whither the imagination takes courage to cling to its 

 certainty. 



This sun ray penetrates the clouds of an unpromising 

 spring and burnishes the gold of a fruitful summer. 

 Now, as winter is at hand, it shines again in St. Mar- 

 tin's weather, and if to-night a prophetic snow cloud 

 throws a purple bar across the west, if dawn is gray and 

 chill, be sure that the torch of hope is flashing out some- 

 where, and if we were watching between the hours we 

 would catch a glimpse of its light. All this is visible in 



