pression here in nature's face, answering to the smile of a friend, or to the rosy cheeks and laughing eyes of childhood, telling of health and joy? And though inanimate nature cannot properly be said to rejoice, because it is an unconscious being, yet its look tells plainly of the joy and love of One who is conscious—even its good Creator, who images Himself in His works.
Does not the work tell the character of the workman? When you examine a machine or any piece of workmanship, do you not draw from the object before you an idea of the mind that constructed it? If skilfully executed, does it not prove to you skill in its maker? If elegantly finished, does it not convince you that he has a love of elegance? And if a work of direct utility, does not its construction evince a perception of use in the thought of its constructor, with the desire of producing something of service to mankind? Does the machine need to open its mouth, and utter these things in audible sounds? Are not its look and movement sufficient? Just so, does inanimate nature, as a vast and beautiful machine, reveal the mind of its Maker; so, do all its parts, though silent, yet speak loudly to the attentive observer: to use the poet's words,—
""In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice."
But hark! all is not silent: all is not inanimate. From amongst those trees, sweet sounds proceed—warblings, melodious notes. They are tones of peace and pleasure, and bring cheerfulness to men's minds; for they tell of joy and innocence. And now the little songsters themselves are visible, hopping from spray to
