_THERE are so many little things that make life beautiful_.
I can recall a day in early youth when I was longing for happiness.
Toward the western hills I gazed, watching for its approach.
The hills lay between me and the setting sun, and over them led a
highway.
When some traveller crossed the hill, always a fine grey dust rose
cloudless against the sky.
The traveller I could not distinguish, but the dust-cloud I could see.
And the dust-cloud seemed formed of hopes and possibilities—each speck
an embryo event.
At sunset, when the skies were fair, the dust-cloud grew radiant and
shone with visions.
The happiness for which I waited came not to me adown that western
slope,
But now I can recall the cloud of golden dust, the sunset, and the
highway leading over the hill,
The wonderful hope and expectancy of my heart, the visions of youth in
my eyes; and I know this was happiness.
_There are so many little things that make life beautiful_.
I can recall another day when I rebelled at life’s monotony.
Everywhere about me was the commonplace; and nothing seemed to happen.
Each day was like its yesterday, and to-morrow gave no promise of
change.
My young heart rose rebellious in my breast; and I ran aimlessly into
the sunlight—the glowing sunlight of June.
I sent out a dumb cry to Fate, demanding larger joys and more delight.
I ran blindly into a field of blooming clover.
It was breast-high, and billowed about me like rose-red waves of a
fragrant sea.
The bees were singing above it; and their little brown bodies were
loaded with honey-dew, extracted from the clover blossoms.
The sun reeled in the heavens dizzy with its own splendour.
The day went into night, without bringing any new event to change my
life.
But now I recall the field of blooming clover, and the honey-laden
bees, the glorious June sunlight, and the passion of youth in my
heart; and I know that was happiness.
_There are so many little things that make life beautiful_.
Yesterday a failure stared me in the face, where I had thought to
welcome proud success.
There was no radiant cloud of dust against the western sky, and no
clover field lying fragrant under mid-June suns,
Neither was youth with me any more.
But under the vines that clung against my walls, a flock of birds
sought shelter just at twilight;
And, standing at my casement, I could hear the twitter of their voices
and the soft, sweet flutter of their wings.
Then over me there fell a sense of peace and calm, and love for all
created things, and trust illimitable.
And that I knew was happiness.
_There are so many little things to make life beautiful_.