It visits the silent City of the Dead and gently scatters the leaves over the new-made grave of a young child, sighing softly the while, the voice now rising, now falling, sobbing and moaning, and at last dies away in a melancholy sound, like the strings of an Aeolian harp touched by unseen hands. "Hark to the music of the wind!" Human nature approaches the Divine in moments of great sacrifice, forgiveness and self-forgetfulness. PASSING THOUGHTS "It seems the fate of woman to wait in silence while men act," 'Men must work and woman must weep.' * * * * * How delightful it must be to understand one's own nature thoroughly, to know that no whirlwind will ever sweep us off the beaten track, no stormy passions stir the calm placidity of our life. But is that life? No, give me the glories of expectation, the wildest exhaltation; the heart beating, the brain throbbing, the stormiest passions with force enough to carry everything before them, even if they bring deep grief--that is life. * * * * * People who deal in dry, hard facts are not interesting. They may make themselves names in the financial world, may become railway magnates and coal kings, may control the money market; but they are not interesting. They are the prose of life. They who see the clouds forming into fantastic shapes, the glories of a sunset, the shadows in pools, the colour on a bird's wing, the rose tint on the cheek of a child,--they and such as they are the poetry of life. Man's inhumanity to man is proverbial, woman's inhumanity to woman is diabolical. * * * * * "Society, as it exists at present moment in Colonial towns and cities, possesses neither birth, brains or breeding." * * * * * "We hear men speak so frequently of womanly women, ending their praises with, 'she is essentially womanly.' I knew one of these womanly women, whose voice was like liquid music, whose ways were gentle, whose eyes filled with tears at the recital of some tale of woe, and always about her was an air of gentle, womanly sweetness and dainty femininity. She had a friend who loved her, one whose voice was not so soft, whose manner was brusque, who was considered, "not quite good form, you know." My womanly woman allowed this friend to take upon herself the burden of a sin which she herself had committed, allowed her to bear the brunt of scorn and contumely of her world, allowed her to die without righting the great wrong. A lonely grave and a plain marble slab mark the spot where she who was "not quite good form," lies: while she, to whom she had given more than life, gathers the rose leaves with dainty grace, for she is so essentially 'womanly.'" Life: a little joy, great sorrow, some tragedy, and the curtain falls. * * * * * Nothing can hurt so cruelly as the hand of love. The hand of hate is velvet in comparison.