THE PATH OF VISION
tures that peep out of the crannies and crevices of my native rocks and terrace-walls; but whenever I behold them I fain would run barefoot again in the Lebanon hills, ascending and descending the flower-covered terraces, to gather a sheaf on Good Friday of the April harvest and lay it at the foot of the Cross. And the hemlocks of the land of my second birth are as majestic and as generous as the Lebanon pines; but the fact that they have a claim upon my gratitude, having lived with them for a space and profited by their intimacy and healing influence, does not, and can not, alienate my first love for the trees of my boyhood,—of my childly joys,—and my child-faith. Alas, the wrath of my local Deity is upon me!
What is it then that would conquer the cosmic spirit in us and, overcoming all the faculties of reason, attach us in affection to certain spots and objects, which we call Home or Mother-Country? In my own case, it can not be patriotism; for I never had a chance to be a patriot, not even in
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