“’Tis LIFE, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant, More life, and fuller, that I want.” And a great warrior, of long ago, one who had less cause than most to fear death, yet said: “We that are in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened; not for that we would be _unclothed_, but _clothed upon_, that _mortality_ might be swallowed up of _life_.” Well, this sadness must remain in some measure; the flowers must die, and the leaves must fall, and the robin’s attempts to cheer us bring the tears very near our eyes. “_Sin entered into the world, and death by sin_”: and the child of such a parent cannot bring joy as his attendant. Still, let us go on with our garden walk, and see whether, even in the face of nature, there be nothing else but only this peaceful waiting sadness. Take these branches of the Lilac bushes, that we remember bending under their scented masses in the warm early Summer days. Bare and damp, bare of flowers, and only clad with sickly yellow leaves; but what else can we see in them? There is not one (examine them well) which has not already a full green bud of promise, developed even before the leaves, the old leaves, have fallen away. Look on the ground in the shrubberies. What are these little green points that begin just to break the mould? Ah, they are indeed the myriad white constellations of snowdrops already beginning to dawn, and the frail flower will sleep warm and safe in the bulb, under the patchwork counterpane of gold beech leaves, and bronze-purple pear-leaves, and silver-white poplar, and come out among the first to tell you that nature is not dead, but sleepeth. Look farther, on to the flower borders, at the base of the tall gaunt stalks of the once stately Queen of flowers. Lo, there already “Green above the ground appear The lilies of another year.” Not all sad, then; no, not all sad! Memory droops indeed with dewy eyes, but the baby, Hope, is laughing on her lap. There is a resurrection for the flowers and the trees; true, this of itself could not assure us that there is one for man. But God has told us in the Book of His Word, the meaning of what we read in the Book of His Works. And we know now what the robin meant, in his small song without words, and we know what the promise of Spring means, hidden in each Autumn twig; and indeed, the garden and the field, and every hedgerow, and every grass, gather now into a great chorus that take up an Apostle’s words, “This corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” But it is now nearly half-past eight o’clock, and the family will be assembling for prayer. Let us pass round this walk, with hearts cheerful, or only tinged with a shade rather of quiet than of gloom--