John Nagle's philosophy . ette, but still the queen of theday, ==assuming those prerogatives which de-rive their charter from maternal love, and areguided by the promptings of the heart ratherthan by the grammar of formal etiquette. Itwould be a splendid thing to revive Mother-ing Sunday. It would be a delight to themother and a blessing to the child who needsoften to recur to the simplicity and unselfishafFection of the old time when love taughthim duty. THE VIOLIN. There is something in the music of a violin,when touched by a master hand, beyond thepower of description. It is more than melod
John Nagle's philosophy . ette, but still the queen of theday, ==assuming those prerogatives which de-rive their charter from maternal love, and areguided by the promptings of the heart ratherthan by the grammar of formal etiquette. Itwould be a splendid thing to revive Mother-ing Sunday. It would be a delight to themother and a blessing to the child who needsoften to recur to the simplicity and unselfishafFection of the old time when love taughthim duty. THE VIOLIN. There is something in the music of a violin,when touched by a master hand, beyond thepower of description. It is more than has the fervent feeling of spiritual emotionand the deep pathos of human feeling. It isthe unsyllabled language of the soul,-a vibrantbeauty whose touch is exalting. No otherinstrument has the sympathetic fervor, the ca-pacity for sounding the most profound depthsof the human heart, awakening its most deli-cate susceptibilities. It is a fountain of de-licious sounds, playing with the abandon ofinexhaustible PICTURE FROM NATURE. The tufa in the vicinity of the Yellowstonegeysers forms a dust which is quite penetrat-ing, the suns rays are reflected from the whiterocks and exposed portions of the body suffer,and one is apt to get his feet wet withoutbeing aware of it because of the tepidcharacter of the water. One leaves thesebasins with singular feelings. Here inclose proximity are the eternal snows and thefires which quench not. The streams comedown the hills cool with the icy breath of themountains and mingle with the heated waterswhich seem to be the fevered sweat of a demonin agony. The sun beats down pitilessly onthe sojourner in the valley, but the wandereron the hill feels the breath of the Ice is a land of contradictions, wonders andhardships. No wonder the Indian who has hisfaith quickened by seeing the flashings of the Northern Lights should view the place as thethreshold of Hell. Science takes no cogni-zance of the supernatural, but the child of
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