shoots that lift their tender heads in sunny places; and if the soil
be kind, they grow stronger and more beautiful as each glad day
laughs in the rosy skies. And by and by singing-birds come and
build their nests in the branches; and these are the pleasures of
life. And the birds sing not often, because of a serpent that
lurketh in the garden. And the name of the serpent is Satiety. He
maketh the heart to grow weary of what it once danced and leaped to
think upon, and the ear to wax dull to the melody of sounds that
once were sweet, and the eye blind to the beauty that once led
enchantment captive. And sometimes--we know not why, but we shall
know hereafter, for life is not completely happy since it is not
heaven, nor completely unhappy since it is the road thither--
sometimes the light of the sun is withdrawn for a moment, and that
which is fairest vanishes from the place that was enriched by its
presence. Yet the garden is never quite deserted. Modest flowers,
whose charms we had not noted when youth was bright and the world
seemed ours, now lift their heads in sheltered places and whisper
peace. The morning song of the birds is hushed, for the dawn breaks
less rosily in the eastern skies, but at twilight they still come
and nestle in the branches that were sunned in the smile of love and
watered with its happy tears. And over the grave of each buried
hope or joy stands an angel with strong comforting hands and patient
smile; and the name of the garden is Life, and the angel is Memory.'



Chapter XVI. The decay of Romance.