He Who Plants A Tree, Plants A

Everything In Nature Has Its Own Intrinsic Charm, As The Work Of Its Creator's Hand; But The Chief Beauty Of The Whole Lies In Its Suggested Relations To Humanity. Things Announce And Wait For Persons. The House Would Not Have Been Thus Beautifully Built And Furnished, Except For An Expected Tenant.

The Soul, Cramped Among The Petty Vexations Of Earth, Needs To Keep Its Windows Constantly Open To The Invigorating Air Of Large And Free Ideas: And What Thought Is So Grand As That Of An Ever-present God, In Whom All That Is Vital In Humanity Breathes And Grows?

Labor, In Itself, Is Neither Elevating Or Otherwise. It Is The Laborer's Privilege To Ennoble His Work By The Aim With Which He Undertakes It, And By The Enthusiasm And Faithfulness He Puts Into It.

Like A Plant That Starts Up In Showers And Sunshine And Does Not Know Which Has Best Helped It To Grow, It Is Difficult To Say Whether The Hard Things Or The Pleasant Things Did Me The Most Good.

The First Real Unhappiness I Remember To Have Felt Was When Some One Told Me, One Day, That I Did Not Love God. I Insisted, Almost Tearfully, That I Did; But I Was Told That If I Did Truly Love Him I Should Always Be Good. I Knew I Was Not That, And The Feeling Of Sudden Orphanage Came Over Me Like A Bewildering Cloud.