5.  There is but one true and final motive to good conduct, and that is a hunger in the soul of man for the blessing of the spirit, a ceaseless longing to be in perfect harmony with the principles of everlasting and eternal right.

THE MAGIC OF “TOGETHER”

“‘Together’ is the key-word of the nineteenth century.”

It is an old, adobe-walled Mexican garden.  All around it, close against the brown bricks, the fleur-de-lis stand white and stately, guarded by their tall green lances.  The sun’s rays are already powerful, though it is early spring, and I am glad to take my book under the shade of the orange-trees.  In the dark leaf-canopy above me shine the delicate star-like flowers, the partly opened buds, and the great golden oranges, while tiny green and half-ripe spheres make a happy contrast in color.  The ground about me is strewn with flowers and buds, the air is heavy with fragrance, and the bees are buzzing softly overhead.  I am growing drowsy, but as I lift my eyes from my book they meet something which interests me.  A large black ant is tugging and pulling at an orange-bud, and really making an effort to carry it away with him.  It is once and a half as long as he, fully twice as wide, and I cannot compute how much heavier, but its size and weight are very little regarded.  He drags it vigorously over Alpine heights and through valley deeps, but evidently finds the task arduous, for he stops to rest now and then.  I want to help him, but cannot be sure of his destination, and fear besides that my clumsy assistance would be misinterpreted.

Ah, how unfortunate! ant and orange-bud have fallen together into the depths of a Colorado canon which yawns in the path.  The ant soon reappears, but clearly feels it impossible to drag the bud up such a precipice, and runs away on some other quest.  What did he want with that bud, I wonder? was it for food, or bric-a-brac, or a plaything for the babies?  Never mind,—­I shall never know, and I prepare to read again.  But what’s this?  Here is my ant returning, and accompanied by some friends.  They disappear in the canon, helpfulness and interest in every wave of their feelers.  Their heads come into sight again, and—­yes! they have the bud.  Now, indeed, events move, and the burden travels rapidly across the smooth courtyard toward the house.  Can they intend to take it up on the flat roof, where we have lately suspected a nest?  Yes, there they go, straight up the wall, all putting their shoulders to the wheel, and resting now and then in the chinks of the crumbling adobes.  Up the bud moves to the gutters,—­I can see it gleam as it is pulled over the edge,—­they are out of sight,—­the task is done!  How easy any undertaking, I think, when people are willing to help.

* * * * *

In a high dormer window of a great city, in a nest of quilts and pillows, sits little Ingrid.  Her blue Danish eyes look out from a pinched, snow-white face, and her thin hands are languidly folded in her lap.  She gazes far down below to the other side of the square, where she can just see the waving of some green branches and an open door.