from the marble lips or the hand, on and on forever? The marble stands
there, passive, cold, making no effort to arrest the gliding water. So
it is that time flows through the hands of men, swift, never pausing
until it has run itself out, and the man seems petrified into a marble
sleep, not feeling what it is that is passing away forever. And the
destiny of nine men out of ten accomplishes itself before they realize
it slipping away from them, aimless, useless, until it is too late.
"Be such a man, live such a life, that if every man were such as you,
and every life a life like yours, this earth would be God's Paradise."

Remember that no good the humblest of us has wrought ever dies. There
is one long, unerring memory in the universe, out of which nothing
dies. A chill autumn wind, blowing over a sterile plain, bore within
its arms a little seed, torn with ruthless force from its matrix on a
lofty tree, and dropped the seed upon the sand to perish. A bright
winged beetle, weary with flight and languid with the chilly air,
rested for a moment on the arid plain. The little seed dropped Aeolus
served to satisfy the hunger of the beetle, which presently winged its
flight to the margin of a swift running stream that had sprung from the
mountain side, and cleaving a bed through rocks of granite, went gaily
laughing upon its cheery way down to the ever rolling sea. Sipping a
drop of the crystal flood, the beetle crawled within a protecting
ledge, and, folding its wings, lay down to pleasant dreams. The Ice
King passed along and touched the insect in its sleep. Its mission was
fulfilled; but the conflict of the seasons continued until the white
destroyer melted in the breath of balmy spring. And then a sunbeam
sped to the chink wherein the body of the insect lay, and searching for
the little seed entombed, but not destroyed, invited it to "join the
Jubilee of returning life and hope." Under the soft wooing of the
peopled ray, the little seed began to swell with joy, tiny rootlets