I went back to the little town where I was born. I saw the friends of my childhood, and later I went out to God's acre. There stood the little schoolhouse, and the old academy. The great oak-trees swayed above the house where I was born. The little brook still rippled over the stones; once more the fruit was ripe in the orchard and the nuts brown in the forest trees; again the shouts of the old companions were heard on the hillside and the laughter of the skaters filled the air; and yet all was changed. Gone the old minister, who baptized me! Gone the old professors and teachers who taught us. In the little graveyard slept the fathers. The stars shone over the mounds, the graves were silent, but God was over all. And all is well. For our times have been in God's hands. --N. D. Hillis.
