On one, toward the west, the setting sun throws
three buildings in bold relief against the sky. The beauty of
the group lies in its simple unity:--a broad lawn of green
rising from the red street and mingled roses and peaches;
north and south, two plain and stately halls; and in the midst,
half hidden in ivy, a larger building, boldly graceful, spar-
ingly decorated, and with one low spire. It is a restful group,
--one never looks for more; it is all here, all intelligible.
There I live, and there I hear from day to day the low hum of
restful life. In winter's twilight, when the red sun glows, I
can see the dark figures pass between the halls to the music of
the night-bell. In the morning, when the sun is golden, the
clang of the day-bell brings the hurry and laughter of three
hundred young hearts from hall and street, and from the busy
city below,--children all dark and heavy-haired,--to join
their clear young voices in the music of the morning sacrifice.
In a half-dozen class-rooms they gather then,--here to follow
the love-song of Dido, here to listen to the tale of Troy
divine; there to wander among the stars, there to wander
among men and nations,--and elsewhere other well-worn
ways of knowing this queer world.
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