A String of Amber Beads | Page 3

dear, when the skies are blue and every wayside weed flaunts a
summer blossom, that the story of your life is recorded. It is when
"Darby and Joan" are faded and wasted and old, when poverty has
nipped the roses, when trouble and want and care have flown like
uncanny birds over their heads (but never yet nested in their hearts,
thank God), that the completed chronicle of their lives furnishes the
record over which heaven smiles or weeps.

IV.
THEY CARRY NO BANNER.
There never yet was a grand procession that was not accompanied, or,
rather, in great measure made up of, followers and onlookers. So in this

life parade of ours, with its ever varying pageant and brilliant display,
there are comparatively few who carry banners, who disport the
epaulette, and the gold lace. And sometimes, we who help swell the
ranks of those who watch and wait, grow discouraged, almost thinking
that life is a failure because it holds no gala-day for us, nothing but
sober tints and quiet duties. What chance for any one, and a woman
especially, to make a career for herself, tied down to a lot of precious
babies, or lassooed by ten thousand galloping cares! As well expect a
rose to blossom in midwinter hedges, or a lark to sing in a snowstorm,
as to look for bloom and song in such a life! But just bend down your
ear a minute, poor, tired, overworked and troubled sister, I have a
special word for you. It is simply impossible for circumstances of any
sort to overthrow the high spirit of one who believes in something yet
to come and out of sight. What are poverty and adverse fate and
mocking hopes and disappointed ambition to the soul which is only
journeying through an unfriendly world to a heritage that cannot fail?
As well might a flower complain of the rains that called it from the sod,
of the winds that rocked it, and the cloudless noons that flamed above it,
when June at last has lightly laid the coronal of summer's perfect bloom
upon its bending bough. We shall find our June somewhere, never fear.
Be content then a little longer with uncongenial surroundings and a life
that knows no outlook of hope. Be all the sweeter and the stronger and
the braver that the way is short. To-morrow, in the Palace of Love, the
dark and unfriendly inn that sheltered us for a night upon the way, shall
be forgotten.

V.
SHUT IN.
Were you ever shut in by a fog? Lost at mid-day in a soundless, rayless
world of nebulous vapor--so seemingly alone in the universe that your
voice found no echo, and your ears caught no footfall in all the vast
domain of silence about you? The other morning, when I left the house,
I paused in wonderment at the strange world into which I was about to
plunge. All landmarks were gone, nothing but silver and gray left of

nature's brilliant tints, not even so much shadow as an artist might use
to accentuate a bird's wing in crayon--no heaven above, no earth
beneath. The interior of a raised biscuit could not have been more
densely uniform than the atmosphere. It seemed as if the world had
slipped its moorings and drifted off its course into companionless space,
leaving me behind, as an ocean steamer sometimes leaves a straggler
on an uninhabited shore. I felt like sending forth a call that should give
my bearings and bring back a boat to the rescue. I groped my way
down the steps, and, following an intuition, sought the station. Ahead
of me I heard muffled steps, yet saw no form. But suddenly a doorway
opened in the east and out strode the sun. In the air above and about me,
behold, the wonder of diamond domes and slender minarets traced in
pearl! The wayside banks were fringed with crystal spray of
downbeaten weed and bush that sparkled like the billows of a sunlit sea.
The tall elms here and there towered like the masts of returning ships,
slow sailing from a wintry voyage back to summer lands and splendor.
There was no sound in all the air, but the whole universe seemed
singing as when the morning stars chorused the glory of God. More and
more widely opened that doorway in the east; step by step advanced the
great magician, and over all the world the splendor grew, until it
seemed too much for mortal eyes to bear, when lo! a touch dispelled it
all and commonplace day stood revealed.

VI.
THE CIRCLING YEAR--A CLOCK.
The circling year is a clock whereon nature writes the hours in
blossoms. First come the wind flowers and the violets, they denote the