end; all spots, dots, dustings of minute specks, mottlings, and irregular
markings. The histories, the stories, the library of knowledge contained
in those signs! It was thought a wonderful thing when at last the strange
inscriptions of Assyria were read, made of nail-headed characters whose
sound was lost; it was thought a triumph when the yet older hieroglyphics
of Egypt were compelled to give up their messages, and the world hoped
that we should know the secrets of life. That hope was disappointed;
there was nothing in the records but superstition and useless ritual. But
here we go back to the beginning; the antiquity of Egypt is nothing to
the age of these signs--they date from unfathomable time. In them the sun
has written his commands, and the wind inscribed deep thought. They were
before superstition began; they were composed in the old, old world, when
the Immortals walked on earth. They have been handed down thousands upon
thousands of years to tell us that to-day we are still in the presence of
the heavenly visitants, if only we will give up the soul to these pure
influences. The language in which they are written has no alphabet, and
cannot be reduced to order. It can only be understood by the heart and
spirit. Look down into this foxglove bell and you will know that; look
long and lovingly at this blue butterfly's underwing, and a feeling will
rise to your consciousness.

Some time passed, but the butterfly did not move; a touch presently
disturbed him, and flutter, flutter went his blue wings, only for a few
seconds, to another grass-stalk, and so on from grass-stalk to
grass-stalk as compelled, a yard flight at most. He would not go farther;
he settled as if it had been night. There was no sunshine, and under the
clouds he had no animation. A swallow went by singing in the air, and as
he flew his forked tail was shut, and but one streak of feathers drawn
past. Though but young trees, there was a coating of fallen needles under
the firs an inch thick, and beneath it the dry earth touched warm. A fern