noble aims and self denial. May the rippling music of the Little
Miami be to you a friendly voice of comfort; may the golden
notes of the thrush and the fragrant perfume of the flowers
console you, until you hear the chanting of the angelic choir
and breathe the perfume from flowers that never fade and die!

The sun, still seen above the western hills, turned the moist
evening haze to lustrous pearl that one often sees on the ocean.
Broad stretches of gently undulating land opened before us.
Below in the subdued light shone the houses from whose chimneys
ascended pale blue wreaths of smoke. The peaceful village lit up
by the sun's level rays seemed the one bright spot in the whole
landscape, the rest having been veiled in a soft tint of
transparent gray. It was remarkably silent. Only the wood-thrush
poured forth her serene notes, seeming miles away. No sound of
lowing cattle or bleating sheep came from the pasture lands; no
shout of farmer lads doing their evening chores. Over all the
land brooded an atmosphere of rest, of calm serenity, of
perpetual peace. Sitting there in the warm twilight and gazing
out over this charming Ohio landscape was in itself "more
refreshing than slumber to tired eyes." "The restless yearning
and longing that reigns in the mind of all was quieted for a
time," and we let our fancy roam until higher ideals floated
before us and we experienced that exaltation of spirit that
comes at rare intervals in times like this.

A cooing dove (just one) murmured her dreamy threnody and then
was silent. Far in the distance a wood thrush was sounding his
vesper bell softly--the "Angelus" of the wildwood. Whether it be
morning, and they are clearer and more liquid heard through the