their
faith, which is beyond all systems, beyond all explanations, beyond
all intelligence. They give me a conviction such as no genius could
give me. Every system is vain, every explanation erroneous, the moment
I feel living in my heart the knowledge of these souls.

When I entered this cobbler's home I knew at once that I was welcome.
Without a word I sat down before the hearth near the children and the
dog and I opened my soul to the thousand shadowy voices of things.

In this communion the falling of a half charred twig, the grating of
the poker with which the fire was stirred, the blow of the hammer,
the flickering of the candle, the creak of the dog's collar, the
round bulging spot of blackness which was the sleeping blackbird,
the singing of the cover of the pot, all combined to form a sacred
language easier for me to understand than the speech of most men.
These noises and these colors are only the gestures and expressions
of objects, just as the voice or the glance are among our means of
expression and gesture.

I felt that a brotherhood united me to these humble things, and I knew
it was childish to classify the kingdoms of nature when there is but
one kingdom of God.

* * * * *

Can we say that things never exhibit to us manifestations of their
sympathy? The tool grows rusty when it no longer serves the hand of
the workman, even as the workman when he abandons the tool.

I knew an old smith. He was gay in the time of his strength, and the
sky entered his dark smithy through the radiant noondays. The joyous
anvil answered the hammer. And the hammer was the heart of the anvil
beating with the heart of the craftsman. When night fell the smithy
was lighted by its single light, the glance of the eyes of the burning
coal which flamed under the leather bellows. A divine love united the
soul of this man to the soul of these things. And when on the Lord's
days the smith retired into pious contemplation, the forge which had
been cleaned the night before prayed also in silence.

The smith was my friend. At his dim threshold I often questioned him,
and the whole smithy always answered me. The sparks laughed in the
coal, and syllables of metal fashioned a mysterious and profound
language which moved me like the words of duty. And I experienced
there almost the same feelings as in the home of the humble cobbler.

One day the smith fell ill. His breath grew short, and I noticed that