The
warm rays of the sun that travel through leagues and leagues of space, to woo the bud into bloom and fruit, and lift tons of water from the ocean, leaving the impurities behind; the fountain-clouds, growing in the secret of the day and pursuing their pathless course to the distant, thirsty plain: the refreshing showers, sifting the water down so gently that the tiniest flower is not bruised by the rainfall: the higher and purer atmosphere, reserving the snowflakes, like white thoughts, for the lofty mountain top,—all these give intimation of that noiseless operation of the infinite intelligence which throbs through the universe, announcing the sweet, protecting promise, "My presence shall go with thee and I will give thee rest.
