hastened along to hear what it was, and she with them, and some also of
the people of the place. And as the little Pilgrim found herself walking
by a woman who was of these last, she asked her what it was.

And the woman told her it was a poet who had come to say to them what
had been revealed to him, and that the two with the silver trumpets were
angels of the musicians' order, whose office it was to proclaim
everything that was new, that the people should know. And many of those
who were at work in the palaces came out and joined the crowd, and the
painter who had showed the little Pilgrim his picture, and many whose
faces she began to be acquainted with. The poet stood up upon a
beautiful pedestal all sculptured in stone, and with wreaths of living
flowers hung upon it--and when the crowd had gathered in front of him,
he began his poem. He told them that it was not about this land, or
anything that happened in it, which they knew as he did, but that it was
a story of the old time, when men were walking in darkness, and when no
one knew the true meaning even of what he himself did, but had to go on
as if blindly, stumbling and groping with their hands. And, "Oh,
brethren," he said, "though all is more beautiful and joyful here where
we know, yet to remember the days when we knew not, and the ways when
all was uncertain, and the end could not be distinguished from the
beginning, is sweet and dear; and that which was done in the dim
twilight should be celebrated in the day; and our Father Himself loves
to hear of those who, having not seen, loved, and who learned without
any teacher, and followed the light, though they did not understand."

And then he told them the story of one who had lived in the old time;
and in that air, which seemed to be made of sunshine, and amid all those
stately palaces, he described to them the little earth which they had
left behind--the skies that were covered with clouds, and the ways that