THE beautiful things are the things we do; they are not the things we
wear, as we shall find when the journey’s through, and the roll call’s
read up there. We’re illustrating the latest styles, with raiment that
beats the band; but the beautiful things are the kindly smiles that go
with the helping hand. We burden ourselves with gleaming gems, that
neighbors may stop and stare; but the beautiful things are the diadems
of stars that the righteous wear. There are beautiful things in the poor
man’s cot, though empty the hearth and cold, if love and service are in
each thought that husband and wife may hold. There are beautiful things
in the lowest slum where wandering outcasts grope, when down to its
depths they see you come with message of help and hope. The beautiful
things that we mortals buy and flash in the crowded street, will all be
junk when we come to die, and march to the judgment seat. When
everything’s weighed on that fateful day, the lightest thing will be
gold. There are beautiful things within reach today, but they are not
bought or sold.
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