With the passing of the season we are reminded of the rapid flight of
life. It seems but yesterday that the first bluebird of spring lit on the
bare bough of the apple-tree in the orchard near by, and the early robin
sang his welcome notes in our glad ears, and yet the bluebird and robin
are seen and heard no more, and the green promise of spring has changed to
the brown harvest of autumn, which will soon be stored for winter’s use.
This is the way every season comes and goes; a little long in coming
sometimes; but never long in going; and every year grows shorter as we
grow older, and every year goes more quickly as we near the border of old
age. Life soon changes from a glad look ahead to a sad glance behind. From
baby to boy, from boy to man, from man to tottering age;—how swiftly the
scenes change, and life comes and life goes, and the door of death opens
almost before the door of birth closes. The cradle and the grave touch,
and the blithe youth that lends his strength to feeble age finds himself
ere long leaning upon the arm of youth and strength. The circle of years
soon rolls round, and life is but a day of toil and a night of dreams. As
we look back upon vanished time and see the happy scenes of childhood
mingled with the surroundings of later life, days and months shrink to
hours, and years seem to be spanned by a sunrise and a sunset with a
little laughter and perhaps some tears between.
We who have travelled more than half way on the road cannot look backward
without a sigh, cannot think backward without a pang. Many of us have left
the graves of father and mother behind, perhaps the smaller graves of
children, where some of our heart lies buried too. The storms that beat on
us make life seem shorter; make the days go faster, and the night draw
nearer; and all of us have already, or must sometime, bow our heads to the
blast.
One human being in the great world of man, and in the greater world of
Nature, plays but a small part. Of but little account is a human life in
the vast, limitless universe. A man fills but a little space while alive,
and touches but a few hearts when he dies. We are fortunate if we make
during life, one true, loyal friend who stands by us while that life
lasts. We reckon this, after all, the grandest triumph of the human soul.
It is not difficult to gather dollars—quite a number, at least,—nor to win
a measure of fame, but to live, to be, to act, in such way as to bind one
true heart to ours, is a victory which we may be proud of. Some lives have
larger circumferences than others, radiate farther, influence more, but
none can win the rare tribute of perfect friendship from more than one or
two. Yes! man plays but a small part in the great drama of life. He is on
the stage but a few short hours, and most men are but poor or indifferent
actors at best.
Who cares when a man dies? Not the sun, for it shines just as gaily when
he closes his eyes to its golden light; not the birds, for they chatter
and sing over his coffin, and hop and sing on his grave; not the brook,
for it runs laughing on and never stops its gambols and song; not any of
the things of earth, but man.
When man dies, a few say, Is he gone? and then forget that he ever lived;
a few go to help carry his dead body to the grave, and then turn away to
join the business and pleasure of life, and forget that they have buried a
man; a few, some days after, call at the house where he lived and drop a
tear of sympathy for the weeping widow and tearful children, and then
forget that the husband and father is no more. But does no one care?
Perhaps a wife, who will carry his dead image in her heart as long as it
beats; perhaps a daughter, who will remember him a year or two, or a
little longer, who will miss his happy greeting, his loving kiss, his
proud, kind look as he lifts the heart’s dearest idol to his knee; and
this is all. And this is enough. We care for only a few; and why should
many care for us?
Though life is short and not always heroic; and though, when it ends, the
world goes on just the same, we love life and it is sweet while it lasts.
Though we travel quickly over the road, we enjoy for the most part, the
journey of life. We have pain, it is true; we learn of sorrow and grief;
we feel the pang of parting and weep on the white face of some loved one,
and yet, we find happiness, we enjoy living, and we regret when the
curtain is rung down and our part is played and the lights turned out.
When we strike the balance between pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow,
happiness and misery, most find that life is worth living.
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A dogma will thrive in soil where the truth could not get root.
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The measure of liberty which man enjoys determines the civilization of the
age in which he lives.
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The person who can make a loaf of bread is more to the world than the
person who could perform a miracle.
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The indifference to Christianity may well alarm the men who live on the
credulity that gives it the show of life, but to those who delight in
actions of sincerity, it affords the greatest encouragement, for it
promises to the world a day when intelligence and integrity will be
respected more than ignorance and hypocrisy.