When I first woke up this morning I said to myself:
"Well, nothing happened yesterday."
Then I lay quiet for some time--it being Sunday morning--and I turned
over in my mind all that I had heard or seen or felt or thought about in
that one day. And presently I said aloud to myself:
"Why, nearly everything happened yesterday."
And the more I thought of it the more interesting, the more wonderful,
the more explanatory of high things, appeared the common doings of that
June Saturday. I had walked among unusual events--and had not known the
wonder of them! I had eyes, but I did not see--and ears, but I heard
not. It may be, it _may_ be, that the Future Life of which we have had
such confusing but wistful prophecies is only the reliving with a full
understanding, of this marvellous Life that we now know. To a full
understanding this day, this moment even--here in this quiet room--would
contain enough to crowd an eternity. Oh, we are children yet--playing
with things much too large for us--much too full of meaning.
* * * * *
Yesterday I cut my field of early clover. I should have been at it a
full week earlier if it had not been for the frequent and sousing spring
showers.
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