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there is time enough, and we shall miss nothing by waiting a little. Many of us touch bottom in this life at five and twenty, and thenceforth grind our weary feet upon the gravel. Sometimes men mourn for their lost youth: but why did they not enjoy it while they had it,—while the senses were warm, and the light of the eye turned all things into gold? They hurried to manhood, they hurried to gray hairs, and now, they would they were a boy again. They would carry the wisdom of age back into the innocence of childhood, and make childhood happier than ever it was, forgetting that the wisdom of another age will condemn the haste and impatience which find no contentment in this. Time wears thinner and thinner that emotional substance which separates us from the Almighty. In our infancy we sleep away the greater part of our time; and as we grow older, we sleep less and less. We are working out from the dozy material into the thoughtful spiritual; and we doubt not that at some time during every stage of our advancement we shall look back upon our more material life with the eyes of a more thoughtful existence, and wish that we had calmly and wisely lived in obedience to its laws—because we had wit enough, we think, if we had cared to use it. We shall sigh after these days, now lost in discontent and bootless aspiration: we shall call them the happy, happy days—days of dream, and sunshine, and peace: we shall remember how the nights bent over us, cool and beautiful, when the garish day was gone out and forgotten,—how the crystal dew came down, distilled in silence from the spray of stars,—how the young winds came from the