I once saw a tall cross in a seaboard churchyard, inscribed, "To
the memory of the unknown dead who have perished in these waters."
There might be one in every village sleeping-place to the
unhonoured many who made fruitful the land with sweat and tears.
It is a consolation to think that when we look back on this stretch
of life's road from beyond the first milestone, which, it is
instructive to remember, is always a grave, we may hope to see the
work of this world with open eyes, and to judge of it with a due
sense of proportion.
A bee with laden honey-bag hummed and buzzed in the hedge as I got
ready for work, importuning the flowers for that which he could not
carry, and finally giving up the attempt in despair fell asleep on
a buttercup, the best place for his weary little velvet body. In
five minutes--they may have been five hours to him--he awoke a new
bee, sensible and clear-sighted, and flew blithely away to the hive
with his sufficiency--an example this weary world would be wise to
follow.
My road has been lonely to-day. A parson came by in the afternoon,
a stranger in the neighbourhood, for he asked his way. He talked
awhile, and with kindly rebuke said it was sad to see a man of my
education brought so low, which shows how the outside appearance
may mislead the prejudiced observer. "Was it misfortune?" "Nay,
the best of good luck," I answered, gaily.
The good man with beautiful readiness sat down on a heap of stones
and bade me say on.
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