morning walks across the sky, and all these sunlit hours, these limpid 
rivers saturate the woods with their music. All about you is the voice 
of the lute of the rivulet; and each voice seems sweetest. This is 
God's glade, and these rivulets are a troop of his minstrels, and this 
long day, too brief by many hours (for it is noon — for it is afternoon — 
why it is evening)! I have been heart to heart with God; for these are 
God’s woods, and streams, and ferns, and sturdy rocks, and river banks, 
and drowsy winds caught in the thickets, and dainty waterfalls trem- 
bling on eminences or precipices of pebble or root, and laughter of 
eddies —- and all are parts of God's thoughtfulness for us whose weari- 
ness slips away in the heaven of his solitudes. 
THE OTHER SHORE 
117 
