That Sunday morning everything
about me seemed somehow to be a miracle--a miracle gratefully
accepted and explainable only by the presence of God. There was
another strange, deep feeling which I had that morning, which I
have had a few other times in my life at the rare heights of
experience--I hesitate always when I try to put down the deep,
deep things of the human heart--a feeling immeasurably real, that
if I should turn my head quickly I should indeed SEE that
Immanent Presence. . . .
One of the few birds I know that sings through the long midday is
the vireo. The vireo sings when otherwise the woods are still.
You do not see him; you cannot find him; but you know he is
there. And his singing is wild, and shy, and mystical. Often it
haunts you like the memory of some former happiness. That day I
heard the vireo singing. . . .
I don't know how long I lay there under the tree in the meadow,
but presently I heard, from no great distance, the sound of a
church-bell. It was ringing for the afternoon service which among
the farmers of this part of the country often takes the place, in
summer, of both morning and evening services.
"I believe I'll go," I said, thinking first of all, I confess, of
the interesting people I might meet there.
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