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Lilith - George MacDonald

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by George MacDonald

I took a walk on Spaulding's Farm the other afternoon.  I saw the
setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine wood.
Its golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some
noble hall.  I was impressed as if some ancient and altogether
admirable and shining family had settled there in that part of the
land called Concord, unknown to me,--to whom the sun was servant,--
who had not gone into society in the village,--who had not been
called on.  I saw their park, their pleasure-ground, beyond through
the wood, in Spaulding's cranberry-meadow.  The pines furnished them
with gables as they grew.  Their house was not obvious to vision;
their trees grew through it.  I do not know whether I heard the sounds
of a suppressed hilarity or not.  They seemed to recline on the
sunbeams.  They have sons and daughters.  They are quite well.  The
farmer's cart-path, which leads directly through their hall, does not
in the least put them out,--as the muddy bottom of a pool is sometimes
seen through the reflected skies.  They never heard of Spaulding,
and do not know that he is their neighbor,--notwithstanding I heard
him whistle as he drove his team through the house.  Nothing can equal
the serenity of their lives.  Their coat of arms is simply a lichen.
I saw it painted on the pines and oaks.  Their attics were in the tops
of the trees.  They are of no politics.  There was no noise of labor.
I did not perceive that they were weaving or spinning.  Yet I did
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