I want to tell you of another experiment. In my friend's garden
there stood a beautiful rose-bush. It had just begun to bloom, and
it gladdened our eyes with twelve full blossoms and eighty-six buds.
I directed my carpenter to build a little shanty over it. The bush
was thus closed in on every side except the north. But it was light
enough inside to read the finest print without difficulty. The
little shanty closed over our beautiful roses on Wednesday evening.
On the following Sunday afternoon we visited the poor prisoner, and
found that already it was beginning to look sad.
On the following Sunday our beautiful rose-bush was in a pitiful
condition. All the exquisite tints and shades were beginning to fade
into a common dullness, while the whole expression was weak and
sick.
Buds that would have displayed their full beauty in two days were
still hesitating.
After watching our sweet, patient, and dying prisoner for awhile,
and wondering that with so much light it could not see its way, we
tore away the envious, cruel boards, and let in a flood of sunshine.
The following Sunday we paid another visit to our rose-bush, and I
cannot tell you what a glad sight it was. Although the neighboring
bushes were much more advanced, nevertheless ours had become
brilliant and joyous again.