than this,--I made her listen to me.

----Exhausted, do you say, Aunt Tabithy? Is life then exhausted; is
hope gone out; is fancy dead?

No, no. Hope and the world are full; and he who drags into book-pages a
phase or two of the great life of passion, of endurance, of love, of
sorrow, is but wetting a feather in the sea that breaks ceaselessly
along the great shore of the years. Every man's heart is a living drama;
every death is a drop-scene; every book only a faint foot-light to throw
a little flicker on the stage.

There is no need of wandering widely to catch incident or adventure;
they are everywhere about us; each day is a succession of escapes and
joys,--not perhaps clear to the world, but brooding in our thought, and
living in our brain. From the very first, Angels and Devils are busy
with us, and we are struggling against them and for them.

No, no, Aunt Tabithy; this life of musing does not exhaust so easily. It
is like the springs on the farmland, that are fed with all the showers
and the dews of the year, and that from the narrow fissures of the rock
send up streams continually; or it is like the deep well in the meadow,
where one may see stars at noon when no stars are shining.

What is Reverie, and what are these Day-dreams, but fleecy cloud-drifts
that float eternally, and eternally change shapes, upon the great
over-arching sky of thought? You may seize the strong outlines that the
passion-breezes of to-day shall throw into their figures; but to-morrow
may breed a whirlwind that will chase swift, gigantic shadows over the
heaven of your thought, and change the whole landscape of your life.