And when the stream

Which overflowed the soul was passed away
A consciousness remained that it had left
Deposited, upon the silent shore

Of memory, images and precious thoughts
That shall not die and cannot be destroyed.
-WORDSWORTH.

When Time, who steals our years away,

Shall steal our pleasures too,

The memory of the past will stay

And half our joys renew.

-MOORE.

Friends depart and memory takes them
To her caverns pure and deep.

-BAYLY.

How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When memory plays an old tune on the heart.

Oft in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me

Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dim and gone

The cheerful hearts now broken.

-COOK.

-MOORE.

X

LIFE'S MEMORY

THE Sweet waters of memory touch the parched lip with refreshment and enter the veins of life with creative power and bring back the disturbed heart to its normal beat. Memory is one of the greatest factors in success and one of the most powerful ingredients in character. It is the beneficent hand which carries the past up to the threshold of the present and gives it, as a sacred offering, to the future. Every to-day and to-morrow has an unbroken relation to every yesterday. The golden thread of memory binds them together in "the bundle of life." The young, kingly minstrel David was hunted like a bird among the hills and rocks of Judea. He had just wept upon the neck of the faithful Jonathan, and the last effort for reconciliation with King Saul had failed. He now sought refuge in the caves of the mountains where he had found shelter from other storms when

a shepherd. Then the fierce lightnings and loud thunders were picturesque and musical to his soul in touch with God. But now his loyal heart was almost broken, and it fluttered like a frightened partridge before the sudden appearance of the hunter. Around him had gathered a motley crowd of disheartened and discontented people, but among that number were some mighty men of valor who were ready for most heroic service. They were chivalrous, and imperious, fleet of foot, and lion-like in strength. They wrought no devastation in the country nor drew the blood of a single lamb, but were devoted to the commands and interests of their young captain. They were in a desolate region where the eastern sun scorched every green thing which grew around the edge of the barren rocks. The retreats within the rocks were oppressive with heat of noon-day. In this close atmosphere and utter desolation the courage of young David's heart began to waver for a moment. Now behold one of the most pathetic touches in his whole life. His memory takes him back to his old home in Bethlehem, and he sees again the waving grain-fields and purple-clustered trellises, and the emerald glory of the hillsides. Brightest and

most attractive of all, his deepest desire and great. est need carries him back to the old well at the gate with its clear, sparkling, sweet water. His heart forces the cry: "O that one would give me to drink of the waters of the well of Bethlehem that is by the gate!" Three of his brave men, who heard that cry, instantly volunteered to make the perilous journey to the old well. They rushed through the burning heat, and over rocks, and even forced their way through the lines of the enemies' army. They drew the water from the favorite spring and carried it back to the hand of their king. That self-devotion was too much, and the water was too sacred. He must make a sacrifice of it. It was poured out unto their God. The memory was sweeter than the water itself. It was sufficient. In that was his greatest riches. A few drops of water were not the supreme requisite for strength, and new determination, and certain victory. He drank at the fountain of the past and in that new life fought the battles of the future. The thought of the old well revived the shepherd songs and the music of other days echoed back into the deeps of his soul. Where is the man who has once stood at the old well and pressed his lips against the moss

covered oaken bucket who, in after years and in distant lands, and in perilous hours, has not tasted those waters over again? The crucible of time has transformed the bucket into silver; the old rusted tin cup into gold; and every drop of water into a sparkling jewel, more precious than rubies or diamonds. The great chasms and spans of life are made to shrink under the power of the heart's memory. The old home, and the past days, and the well at the gate have been inspiration for poet, and musician, and artist, but they have also inspired the music, the art, and poetry of life. These sacred memories have not only driven the dark clouds from the sky of a Tennyson, and a Whittier, and given birth to that hope which grasped "the faroff interest of tears," but the mechanic, and artisan, and farmer, and all men have shared in this wealth of the past. One of the most beautiful and familiar scenes in all the world is that of the old man tottering up to the spring-side and drinking from the same fountain at which his mother kneeled and gave him to drink when he was a child. These recollections and reminiscences make up the larger part of life. We are all bundles of memories. Childhood memories; memories of youth; manhood