d
almost symbolically for that for which America stands--the fighting
chance to overcome and to grow, the square deal, the spirit that looks
eagle-eyed and unafraid into the sunrise. And above all for unselfish
service and unshakable faith, and a love larger than personal love,
prouder than personal pride, higher than personal ambition. They do
not know America who do not know and will not see this spirit in her,
going its noble and noiseless way apart.

"The whole world to work for, and a whole lifetime to do it in!" said
the voice of America, exultant. "Lord God, that's a man-sized job, but
You just give me hands and eyes and time, and I'll do the best I can.
You've done Your part by me--stand by, and I'll do mine by You!"

Are those curious coincidences, those circumstances which occur at
such opportune moments that they leave one with a sense of a guiding
finger behind the affairs of men--are they, after all, only fortuitous
accidents, or have they a deeper and a diviner significance?

There stood the long worktable, with orderly piles of work on it; the
microscope in its place; the books he had opened and pushed aside last
night; and some half-dozen small card-board boxes in a row, containing
the chrysalids he had been experimenting with, trying the effect of
cold upon color. The cover of one box had been partially pushed off,
possibly when he had moved the books. And while we had been paying
attention to other things, one of these chrysalids had been paying
strict attention to its own business, the beautiful and important
business of becoming a butterfly. Flint discovered it first, and gave
a pleased exclamation.

"Look! Look! A Turnus, father! The first Turnus of the year!"

The insect had been out for an hour or two, but was not yet quite
ready to fly. It had crawled out of the half-opened box, dragged its
wormy length across the table, over intervening obstacles, seeking
some place to climb up and cling to.

Now the Butterfly Man had left the Bible open, merely shoving it aside
without shutting it, when he had found no comfort for himself last
night in what John had to say. Protected by piled-up books and propped
almost upright by the large inkstand, it gave the holding-place the
insect desired. The butterfly had walked up the page and now clung to
the top.

There she rested, her black-and-yellow body quivering like a tiny live
dynamo from the strong force of circulation, that was sending vital
fluids