The orchids bloom in
gloomy swamps, far removed from the haunts of men; the morning
and evening hymn of the hermit thrush rises from solitary places-
-along wild lakes and among high mountains.
One old dame with a glowing face like an ocean sunset and a gown
that for richness of color and vivid contrast would have made
Joseph's coat of many colors appear very ordinary, remarked that
she came out on the board walk to study types. But types of
what? Perhaps she was observing the lilies of the board walk
whose raiment was so dazzling that Solomon would not have
arrayed himself like one of these even though he could. They are
true lilies for they toil not, neither do they spin, unless it
be a fabulous yarn about some fair rivals, and for this lack of
toil they lose the real meaning and significance of life.
Everything about them is toil, not that grinding toil with no
final goal to reach but that exhilarating joyful kind as seen in
the waves, in bees and flowers. The waves come running up to
shore sending silver reflections glinting along the beach,
always blending beauty and usefulness; the air about the linden
trees is melodious with multitudes of murmuring toilers
preparing for a winter's need; the purple fox-glove, that good
Samaritan among the flowers, in modest beauty holds aloft its
purple bells all unmindful of the cheer it brings to lonely
hearts or the hope it bears to thousands of sufferers.
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