end to think of it. There was a morning service going on in this
Cathedral of Nature. The dew-moistened, foliated arches so lofty,
so interwebbed with wavy, waky spangles of sky, were all set to the
music of the anthem. "The street musicians of the heavenly city"
were singing one of its happiest hymns out of their mellow throats.
The long and lofty orchestra was full of them. Their twittering
treble shook the leaves with its breath, as it filtered down and
flooded the temple below. Beautiful is this building of God!
Beautiful and blessed are these morning singing-birds of His praise!
Amen!

But do not go yet. No; I will not. Here is the only book I carry
with me on this walk--a Hebrew Psalter, stowed away in my knapsack.
I will open it here and now, and the first words my eye lights upon
shall be a text for a few thoughts on this scene and scenery. And
here they are,--seemingly not apposite to this line of reflection,
yet running parallel to it very closely:

[HEBREW PHRASE]

The best English that can be given of these words we have in our
translation: "Blessed is he who, passing through the valley of
Baca, maketh it a well." Why so? On what ground? If a man had
settled down in that valley for life, there would have been no merit
in his making it a well. It might, in that case, have been an act
of lean-hearted selfishness on his part. Further than this, a man
might have done it who could have had the heart to wall it in from
the reach of thirsty travellers. No such man was meant in the
blessing; nor any man resident in or near the valley. It was he who
was "passing through" it, and who stopped, not to search for a