Life is what we make it. It varies in its prospect with the sort of
eyes that see it. A writer remarks on this, as he takes his walk over
the fields:
The laborer is coming along the road with his lumbering wagon;
or the shepherd is standing by the gate of the field; or the
gamekeeper is out to see to his snares; and you say to the
countryman, whichever you meet, how beautiful the country is
when the red berries so thickly stud the hedge.
“Beautiful enough,” he replies, “but it’s no pleasant sight for
us poor folk; it means we shall have a hard winter.”
Because of this relation of the individual to the coloring of life, it
behooves each one to make his own world beautiful and he will do so
when his own life is in accord with truth. (Text.)
(1825)