As a child I was very fond of roaming the woods. I remember that one bright afternoon in May I strayed farther than usual, a long way beyond the "mortal ken" that limited me to calling distance from the house, and entered a part of the woodlands I had never seen before. Childish curiosity prompted me to climb a ridge, and on reaching the top a glorious surprise awaited me. I had a passion for violets, and thought I knew the haunts of this flower in all its varieties, from the dainty white of the marshland to the huge golden dog-tooth and regal purple specimens of the pastures, but as I came out in the sunshine on a plateau which formed the crest of this ridge, singing at the top of my voice for very joy of the spring, I looked upon a scene which hushed my spirit, for at my feet lay a most magnificent bed of violets. In solid beauty they covered the ground for many feet around, and they were the loveliest of their kind. A passing shower had bestowed its blessing upon them, and in each blue eye was a penitential tear. As they glittered in the sunlight, my child-thought instantly recognized them as the works of God; His hand had formed them, and no mortal eye had beheld their splendid beauty; they were sacred thoughts of the most High. My singing ceased and I crept away with an awed feeling of deep reverence, as if the place whereon I had stumbled was indeed "holy ground."

A few weeks ago an exquisite little verse on the Home Forum page of the Monitor brought this experience of childhood to my thought, and to it I am indebted for this sweet memory. It brought a smile and a tear simultaneously, as I read the simple words,—

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March 25, 1911

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