d his little daughter's loving heart and hand.

And as with wealth, so wisdom without life's little things is impotent
for happiness. Genius hath its charm; nevertheless, the wisest of men
have also been the saddest of men. The story of literary greatness is
a piteous tale. History tells of many beautiful and gifted girls who
have married scholars for their genius, fame and position. When these
honors were theirs they wakened to discover that all were less than
nothing, since tenderness refused its mite and sympathy gave cot its
cup of cold water. Home and fame became dungeons in which the soul sat
and famished for love's little courtesies.

For no palace was ever so beautiful, no royal wine quaffed from vessels
of gold was ever so sweet as to satisfy hearts famishing for one mite
of that heavenly manna love prepares, or one cup filled with kindness.

Down in a corner of a window of an English palace may be found faint
lines scratched with a woman's diamond. What a tragedy in those words,
"My prison!" It seems the sweet girl, Jane Grey, entered her palace
with a leaping heart, but her lord had no time to break upon her white
forehead the tiny box of life's ointment. Hers was the palace; hers
also a thousand rich gifts called titles, lands, castles, maids of
honor, dresses, jewels. Yet because the castles held no sweet
courtesies the journal of that beautiful girl reminds us of some young
bird that beats with bloody wings against the bars of an iron cage.
For life is made up not of joys few and intense, but of joys many and
gentle. Great happiness is the sum of many small drops. God makes the
days that are channels of mighty and tumultuous joys to be few and far
between. For highly spiced joys exhaust. All who seek intense
pleasure will find not enjoyment but yearnings for enjoyment.
Happiness is in simple things; a cup of cold water, health and a
perfect day; dreamless sleep, honest toil, the esteem of the worthy,
the caresses of little children, a love that waxes with the increasing
years.

Our appreciation of the principle that greatness of any form is an
accumulation of little deeds will be freshened by an outlook upon
nature's method. The old science unveiled the universe as a divine
thought rushing into instant form, stars and suns being sparks struck
out on the anvil of omnipotence. The new science has found that
earth's every atom has been slowly polished by an infinite artisan and
architect.