spring mornings and clear sunshine and bursting blossoms, blended
with all that I guessed of the songs of angels, and with all that
I had heard and believed, in my fledgling soul, of the glorious
One who was born in a manger and died on a cross, that He might
reign in human hearts as a king. I wondered why the people did
not sing "Hallelujah" more. It seemed like a word sent straight
down to us out of heaven.

I did not like to learn the sorrowful hymns, though I did it when
they were given to me as a task, such as--

"Hark, from the tombs," and

"Lord, what a wretched land is this,
That yields us no supply."

I suppose that these mournful strains had their place, but
sometimes the transition was too sudden, from the outside of the
meeting-house to the inside; from the sunshine and bobolinks and
buttercups of the merry May-day world, to the sad strains that
chanted of "this barren land," this "vale of tears," this
"wilderness" of distress and woe. It let us light-hearted
children too quickly down from the higher key of mirth to which
our careless thoughts were pitched. We knew that we were happy,
and sorrow to us was unreal. But somehow we did often get the
impression that it was our duty to try to be sorrowful; and that
we could not be entirely good, without being rather miserable.

And I am afraid that in my critical little mind I looked upon it
as an affectation on the part of the older people to speak of