"The hill of Zion yields
A thousand sacred sweet,
Before we reach the heavenly fields,
Or walk the golden streets."

We were allowed to take a little nosegay to meeting sometimes: a
pink or two (pinks were pink then, not red, nor white, nor even
double) and a sprig of camomile; and their blended perfume still
seems to be a part of the June Sabbath mornings long passed away.

When the choir sang of
"Seas of heavenly rest,"

a breath of salt wind came in with the words through the open
door, from the sheltered waters of the bay, so softly blue and so
lovely, I always wondered how a world could be beautiful where
"there was no more sea." I concluded that the hymn and the text
could not really contradict other; that there must be something
like the sea in heaven, after all. One stanza that I used to
croon over, gave me the feeling of being rocked in a boat on a
strange and beautiful ocean, from whose far-off shores the
sunrise beckoned:--

"At anchor laid, remote from home,
Toiling I cry, Sweet Spirit, come!
Celestial breeze, no longer stay!
But spread my sails, and speed my way!"

Some of the chosen hymns of my infancy the world recognizes among