On, still on, Through arid plains, with blistering feet, Beneath a burning sky, they toil along. The lad no longer talks of birds and flowers, But begs for water--water just to cool His parching throat; and likely 'twas that when Noon's shadows mirrored the encircling hills, He saw the empty flask, and must at last Have fainted on the scorching sand. We read That Hagar cast him 'neath a shrub, and then, Withdrawing quite a space, she prayed, "O God, Let me not see his death!" and so sank down Upon the ground to watch him where he lay, And wept such tears as touched the world on high With sympathy divine. God heard the lad, And from his radiant home an angel spake: "What aileth thee, O Hagar? Rise and take The lad, and stand him on his feet. I'll make Of him a nation great." Her eyes were opened; And she saw a well, from which with joyful haste She filled her flask and gave the weakling lad A draught which gave him back to health And life again. Water!--a type of Christ, God's son, that whosoever will may drink That everflowing stream of love and live Eternally! The angel's prophecy foretold Those countless hordes, those tented caravans, Whose graceful steeds have plied through centuries past Those barren, trackless wastes; some of the men Who, Egypt-bound with spicery and balm, Halted beside the lonely pit, and bartered there For that young lad whose coat dyed in the blood Of kids, made Jacob with wild agony exclaim, "This is my Joseph's coat! He has, no doubt, Been rent in twain by beasts!" The wanderers soon Lay down to rest, 'neath starry skies to wait Another dawn, and on the mother's face There must have been a light of joy divine; For had she not held intercourse with Heaven? Were not its guardian bands around them then In desert weird and wild? Ye weary souls, Tired travelers on the sands of time, Trust God and look to him for strength! The angel of his word speaks faith and peace, And presses to the thirsting lip the cup Of immortality! MUSINGS "Childhood and youth are vanity." Often o'er life's pathway straying Come sweet strains of long ago, To the chords of memory playing Music sweet and music low. When upon the gray rock musing 'Neath the tree by childhood's home, In the wild bird's note so soothing Tenderly these strains will come. Gazing on the deep fringed mountain, Distance robing it in blue, Quaffing the familiar fountain, Each repeats the story too. Wandering by the streamlet flowing Where we played in hours of glee, Hear its murmurs coming, going, Tell of joys that used to be. Wandering in the leafy wildwood Sometimes in our leisure hours, In the sunny days of childhood How much fairer seemed its flowers!