There is nothing that seems more prodigal than the waste of nature. The showers fall and sink into the ground, and seem to be lost. The rain cometh down from heaven and returneth not thither; the rivers run into the sea, and become absorbed in the ocean’s brine. All this seems like a waste of precious material; and yet, science has taught us that no force is ever wasted, but simply converted into another form in which it goes on its way with an altered ministry, but an undiminished force.

Someone has represented in a sort of poetic parable a little raindrop trembling in the air and questioning with the Genius of the sky whether it should fall upon the earth or still linger in the beautiful cloud.

“Why should I be lost and buried in the dirty soil? Why should I disappear in the dark mud, when I may glisten like a diamond or shine like an emerald or ruby in the rainbow’s arch?”

“Yes,” the Genius agrees; “but, if you fall in the earth you will come forth with a better resurrection in the petal of the flower, in the fragrance of the rose, in the hanging cluster of the vine.”

And so, at last, the timid crystal drops one tear of regret, disappears beneath the soil, and is speedily drunk by the parched ground; it has gone out of sight—apparently out of existence. But lo! the root of yonder lily drinks in the moisture; the sap vessels of that damask rose absorb its refreshing draft; the far-reaching rootlet of yonder vine has found that fountain of life—and in a little while that raindrop comes forth in the snowy blossom of the lily, in the rich perfume of the rose, in the purple cluster of the vine, and as it meets once more the Genius of the air it answers back its glad acknowledgment: “Yes, I died, but I have risen, and now I live in a higher ministry, in a larger life, in a better resurrection.” A. B. SIMPSON

Pour out thy love like the rush of a river, Wasting its waters for ever and ever, Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver: Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.

Scatter thy life as the summer’s shower pouring; What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring? What if no blossom looks upward adoring? Look to the life that was lavished for thee!

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses: Evil and thankless the desert it blesses; Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses; Never it ceases to whisper and sing.

What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses? What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes? Sweeter is music with minor-keyed closes, Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.