We are marred with our mother's follies and torn with our father's strife.



HAPPINESS



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.