me topic in
nature or life in which you have never hitherto been interested, and
experience its fascinations." For some, once a picture or book has
been seen, the pleasure ceases. Delight dies with familiarity. Such
persons look back to the days of childhood as to the days of wonder
and happiness. But the man of real vision ever beholds each rock, each
herb and flower with the big eyes of children, and with a mind of
perpetual wonder. For him the seed is a fountain gushing with new
delights. Every youth should repeat the experience of John Ruskin.[2]
Such was the enthusiasm that this author felt for God's world, that
when he approached some distant mountain or saw the crags hanging over
the waters, or the clouds marching through the sky, "a shiver of fear,
mingled with awe," set him quivering with joy--such joy as the artist
pupil feels in the presence of his noble master, such a kindling of
mind and heart as Dante felt on approaching his Beatrice. Phillips
Brooks grew happier as he grew older, and at fifty-seven he said:
"Life seems a feast in which God keeps the best wine until the last."
Up to the very end the great preacher grew by leaps and bounds,
because he never lost that enthusiasm for life that makes zest and
newness among life's best teachers.

By a strange paradox men are taught by monotony as well as by newness.
Ours is a world where the words, "Blessed be drudgery," are full of
meaning. Culture and character come not through consuming excitements
nor the whirl of pleasures. The granary is filled, not by the
thunderous forces that appeal to the eye and ear, but by the secret,
invisible agents; the silent energies, the mighty monarchs hidden in
roots and in seeds. What rioting storms cannot do is done by the
silent sap and sunshine. All the fundamental qualities called
patience, perseverance, courage, fidelity, are the gains of drudgery.
Character comes with commonplaces. Greatness is through tasks that
have become insipid, and by duties that are irksome. The treadmill is
a divine teacher. He who shovels sand year in and year out needs not
our pity, for the proverb is "Every man has his own sand heap." The
greatest mind, fulfilling its career, once the freshness has worn off,
pursues a hackneyed task and finds the duties irksome. It is better
so. A seer has suggested that the voices of earth are dulled that we
may hear the whisper of God; earth's colors are toned down that we may
see things invisible.

So