I once had the curiosity to look into a little girl's work-box. And what
do you suppose I found?
Well, in the first place, I found a bead-purse, about half done; there
was, however, no prospect of finishing it, for the needles were out, and
the silk upon the spools all tangled and drawn into a complete wisp.
Laying this aside, I took up a piece of perforated paper, upon which was
wrought one lid of a Bible, and beneath it the words, "I love"--but what
she loved was left for me to imagine.
Beneath the Bible lid I found a stocking, evidently intended for some
baby foot; but it had come to a stand just upon the little heel, and
there it seemed doomed to remain.
Near to the stocking was a needle-book, one cover of which was neatly
made, and upon the other, partly finished, was marked, "To my dear--."
I need not, however, tell you all that I found there; but this much I
can say, that during my travels through that workbox, I found not a
single article complete; and silent and dumb as they were, these
half-finished, forsaken things told me a sad story about that little
girl.
They told me that, with a heart full of generous affection, with a head
full of useful and pretty projects, all of which she had both the means
and the skill to carry into effect, she was still a useless
child,--always doing but never accomplishing her work. It was not a lack
of industry, but a lack of perseverance.
Remember, my dear little friends, that it matters but little what great
thing we undertake. Our glory is not in that, but in what we accomplish.
Nobody in the world cares for what we _mean_ to do; but people will open
their eyes to see what men and women and little children _have_ done.
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