What is sadder than a ruined house and a deserted farm? Last
summer, in Maine, I looked upon such a one. The gate was broken
down, the entrance was a mass of thorns. Weeds had ruined the
roses, for ten years the apple trees had gone unpruned, the curb
at the well had fallen in, the windows were out, the ceilings
were wet, vermin crept under the floor. Decay was everywhere.
Wild growths had sprung up in meadow and pasture and ruined the
fields. Desolation was everywhere. At the gate one might have
written this legend: “A place where man has ceased to work with
God.” Sadder scene there is not than a ruined rose-garden and a
deserted house, given over to mice and rats, where once there
was laughter and the shouts of children, and good talk between
brave men. One thing alone is sadder--the deserted spiritual
life. Lift up your eyes and look around on men. You find the
multitudes who are neglected harvest-fields. Selfishness in them
is rank. Self-aggrandizement is an unpruned growth. Pleasures
run rampant. Like the green bay-tree, they flourish. And yet,
their prosperity is a sham, their happiness an illusion, their
influence a bubble.--N. D. HILLIS.
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