Poor old tree! how it had mistaken its mission and its relation to the earth! So it is with people who lament the position in which Providence has placed them. In vain the old tree tried to rise: its branches withered, its leaves dropped one by one away, and rustled on the lawn. It found, to its sorrow, that it was not made for the air, and that the once despised earth from which it drew its nourishment was its true parent and source of life.

Out of respect to its former protection and beauty, its owner had its wood made into handsome ornaments and seats for the garden to keep its memory alive in the minds of the children.

When any of them repined in after years at the lot which G.o.d had a.s.signed them, the folly of the tree was alluded to, and all restlessness was allayed.

Over the spot where it stood a beautiful rustic basket made of its own wood was set, from which bright flowers blossomed throughout the summer day.

XI.

THE TWO WAYS.

Two men were informed, as they were listlessly standing and gazing into a dense forest one day, that beyond it lay a fertile and beautiful valley, reached only through the dark and close woods; but, when reached, it would repay them for all their efforts.

They started one morning, entering the forest together, and forced their way for a while through the tangled woods. They held the branches for each other to pa.s.s, and walked along in social converse. Soon one began to grow restless and impatient of the slow progress made.

"I must get on faster than this," he exclaimed, and began to quicken his pace, regardless of overhanging boughs and th.o.r.n.y branches, which pierced his flesh at every step. He rushed forward, leaving his companion; and, so intent did he become on reaching the valley with all possible speed, that he no longer noticed the briers which pierced him or the underbrush which entangled and made his feet sore. In a few days he reached the valley, tired, worn, and bleeding from head to feet.

The laborers who were working in their gardens looked on him with pity, and several, at the command of a leader, carried him to a house (for he could no longer walk), where he was cared for and nursed.

His companion, whom he had outrun, took a better and wiser course.

Finding the wood so dense, he bethought himself of making a pathway as he journeyed. It would take much longer, but the comfort and good to others who might follow could not be told. Faithfully he labored, cutting away the branches which impeded his progress, and clearing the underbrush from the ground; while each day, in the valley beyond, the wounded man wondered that he came not, and concluded that he must have perished in the forest.

The days pa.s.sed into weeks, and yet no sign of his companion. If he could only rise from his bed, he would go in search of him; but, alas!

he was helpless, lame, and sore in every joint.

At the close of a beautiful autumn day, when the laborers had bound their sheaves and were going to their homes, a traveler was seen coming with a firm step from the forest. On his shoulder he carried the axe, whose polished edge glittered strangely in the rays of the setting sun. The laborers wondered why he was not torn and weary like the other.

"Thee must have had a better path than the one who came before thee," said one of the group to the stranger.

"I made a path," was his only answer; and then he glanced around the room, as though he would find him with whom he started: for the interest felt for any companionship, however brief, is not easily laid aside.

The laborers told him of his companion's inability to work, and of his days of pain.

"Let me see him," he said; and they went with him.

The next day the traveler who had slowly journeyed, and made a path for those who would come after, was able to go to his labors; while his companion was disabled for many days longer.

Soon after, many others came through the forest to the valley, and their first remark was, "Show us the traveler who made for us such a comfortable path;" and, seeing him, they all blessed him in word and deed for his n.o.bleness in making their way so easy for them.

"But for that path," said many to him, "I should never have come to this lovely valley."

There are two ways of journeying through life: one, like the first pilgrim, who thought only of self and of speedily reaching the vale and the journey's end; the other better and wiser one, productive of greater good to all, of making a path, that all who come after us may be blessed by our labors.

XII.

THE URNS.

In a peaceful valley there lived a number of people whose leader dwelt on the hill and guided the tillers of the soil, weaving into their lives many lessons of truth. They were supplied with water from the mountain, which was sent them every morning by a carrier. It was the master's rule that each should have his urn clean, that the fresh supply might not be mingled with the old. For a time all were faithful: as each day's supply was used the urn was made clean for the new. But, alas for human weakness! so p.r.o.ne to fall from the line of duty--soon a murmur was heard among the people.

"I have had no fresh water for days," said one of the group standing idly by the roadside.

"Neither have I," said another.

"It's no use for the master to expect us to labor," remarked a third, "if we are not supplied with fresh water. Life is hard enough to bear with all we can have to help us," he continued. "Now there's our neighbor, Cheerful, over the way--his urn is full of pure, sparkling water each morning."

"And why?" broke in a voice in tones of remonstrance. The idlers looked at each other, and then at the face of old Faithful, who was just returning from his evening walk and had heard their words of complaint.

"Let me a.s.sure you, my neighbors," he said mildly, yet with force, "it's all your own fault that your urns are not filled. You each know the master's command, that they should be kept clean and ready for the fresh supply. Have you all been faithful to the command?"

They thought among themselves, and answered with but partial truth, saying, "We may not always have had our urns clean, but why should they be unfilled for that?"

"Because the new water would be made unclean and useless by being mixed with the old, as you each can see for yourselves. Our master loves all alike; but he cannot supply us with fresh waters and new life if we have not used the old and prepared for the new."

"I suppose, if we had them ever so clean now, that the carrier would pa.s.s us by," remarked one of the group.

"Try, and see," said Faithful. "We may always rest a.s.sured that if our part is done the master will do his; for no one, however kind and merciful, can benefit us if we do not put ourselves in a state to be blessed. If the master sends us fresh water each day, and our urns are impure, is it the fault of the benefactor that they are so? We must prepare to receive."

Faithful went on his way. The sun sank in its bed of fleecy clouds, the evening dew fell on the earth, and all was still. The lesson must have penetrated the hearts of the listeners; for on the morrow their urns, white and clean, were full of sparkling water.

Do we look into our hearts each day and see that the life from thence has gone forth for good and made ready for new, or are we idly murmuring that we have no life-waters? Can the Father's life inflow if we do not _give_? Our souls are sacred urns, which He longs to fill to overflowing with pure and heavenly truths if we are willing to receive, and faithful to extend, his mercies.

XIII.

SELF-EXERTION.

An aged man who had built for himself a house upon a high elevation of land, and had labored many years, yea, the most of his lifetime, in conveying trees, plants, and flowers with which to decorate his grounds, came one day in his descent upon a youth who sat by the roadside looking greatly dispirited.

"Hast thou no parents nor home?" inquired the kind man.

The youth shook his head, and looked so lonely and sad that the heart of the questioner was touched, and he said, "Come with me."

The boy looked pleased at the invitation, and, springing to his feet, stood by the stranger.

Together they commenced the long and toilsome ascent; but the feet of the youth were tender, and ere long the aged man was obliged to carry him on his back to the very summit.

He set his burden down at the door of his pleasant home, expecting to see an expression of wonder or pleasure on the boy's face; but only a sensuous look of satisfaction at the comforts which the laborer had gathered about him was visible on his dull features.