of stirring shadow. Here close beside a red and
black candle a man is driving nails into a shoe. Two children stretch
their hands toward the hearth. A blackbird sleeps in its wicker cage.
Water is boiling in the smoky earthenware pot from which rises a
disagreeable soupy smell which mingles with that of tanner's bark and
leather. A crouching dog gazes fixedly into the coals.

There is such an air of gentle peace about these souls and these
obscure things that I do not ask whether they have any reason for
being other than this very peace, nor whether I read a special charm
into their humility.

The God of the poor watches over them, the simple God in whom I
believe. It is He who makes an ear of grain grow from a seed; it is
He who separates water from earth, earth from air, air from fire, fire
from night; it is He who blows the breath of life into the body; it
is He who fashions the leaves one by one. We do not know how this is
done, but we have faith in it as in the work of a perfect workman.

I contemplate without desiring to understand, and thus God reveals
Himself to me. In the house of this cobbler my eyes open as simply
as those of his dog. Then _I see_, I see in truth that which few can
see--the essence of things, as, for example, the devotion of the
smoky flame without which the hammer of the workman could not be a
bread-winner.

Most of the time we regard things in a heedless fashion. But they are
like us, sorrowful or happy. When I notice a diseased ear of wheat
among healthy ears, and see the livid stain on its grains I have a
quick intuitive understanding of the suffering of this particular
thing. Within myself I feel the pain of those plant-cells; I realize
their agony in growing in this infected spot without crushing one
another. I am filled with a desire to tear up my handkerchief, and
bandage this ear of wheat. But I feel that there is no remedy for a
single ear of wheat, and that humanly it would be an act of folly
to attempt this cure. Such things are not done, yet no one pays
any special attention if I take care of a bird or a grasshopper.
Nevertheless I am certain that these grains suffer, because I feel
their suffering.

A beautiful rose on the other hand imparts to me its joy in life. One
feels that it is perfectly happy swaying on its stem, for does not
everybody say simply, "It is a pity to cut it," and thus affirm and
preserve the happiness of this flower?

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