His mother and
father came up in memory; the home of childhood, his brother, his
sister, his friends, all were remembered; his heart flooded over and he
wept like a little child. Blessed are they who can cry. It is nature's
outlet for grief, and the heart would break if we could not cry. The
heart is not desolate when alone in the forest or the boundless
grass-clothed plains of the West. Nature is all around you, and her
smile is beneficent. There is companionship in the breeze, in the
waving grass, the rustling leaves, and the meanings of the wind-swayed
limbs of the yielding forest. In the city's multitude to move, and be
unknown of all; to hear no recognized voice; to meet no sympathizing
smile or eye; to be silent when all are speaking, and to know that not
one of all these multitudes share a thought or wish with you--this is
desolation, the bitterness of solitude.
A year has gone by, and the youth has found a new home and has made new
friends. He is one of the busy world and struggling with it. He is in
commerce's mart and is one of the multitude who come and congregate
there for gain; in the hall of Justice, where litigants court the
smiles and favors of the blind goddess, where right contends against
wrong, and is as often trampled as triumphant; and where wisdom lends
herself for hire, and bad men rarely meet their dues.
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