. He knows the inner sweets
that none know but they who give sacrifice brewing room within themselves.
Such folks don't stop to think about themselves, except to be thinking of
helping and not hindering.

The very winsomeness of the sacrifice spirit has led men to the seeking of
sacrifice. It seems strange to us that earnest men in other generations
have sought by self-inflicted suffering to attain to the power that goes
with sacrifice. And even yet some morbid people may be found following in
their steps.

Don't they know that out in common daily life the knife of sacrifice is
held across the path constantly, sharp edge out, barring the way? And no
one can go faithfully his common round, with flag at masthead, and needs
crowding in at front and rear and sides, without meeting its cutting edge.
That edge cutting in as you push on frees out the fine fragrance. Whenever
you meet a man or woman with that fine winsomeness of spirit that can't be
analyzed, but only felt, you may know that there's been some of this sort
of sharp cutting within.

Blood is a rare fertilizer. They tell me that the bit of ground over in
Belgium called Waterloo bears each spring a crop of rare blue
forget-me-nots. That bit of ground had very unusual gardening. Ploughed
up by cannon-and gun-shot, sown deep with men's lives, "worked" never so
thoroughly by toiling, struggling feet, moistened with the gentle rain of
dying tears, and soaked with red life, it now yields its yearly harvest of
beauty. All life's a Waterloo and can be made to yield a rich growth of
fragrant flowers.

<u>The Fellowship of Scars.</u>

And there's yet more of this winsomeness. There's a spirit power that goes
out of sacrifice. It reaches far beyond the limited personal circle, out
to the ends of the earth. It can't be analyzed, nor defined, nor
described, but it can be felt. We don't know much about the law of spirit
currents. But we know the spirit currents themselves, for every one is
affected by them and every one is sending them out of himself.

You pick up a book, and suddenly find there's a something in it that takes
hold of you irresistibly. A flame seems to burn in it, and then in you.
Invisible fingers seem to reach out of the page and play freely up and
down the key-board of your heart. Why is it? I don't know much about it.
It's an elusive thing. But I can tell you my conviction, that grows
stronger daily.

There's a life back of that book; there is