“There’s no use!” said I to myself as I jogged along through the gloaming; “blessed be the woman who knows enough to cry ‘hold!’ against such odds!”

And just then I spied a wizened little mite of a woman trotting by, carrying a gripsack bigger than herself.  She grasped it, and held it against her wan little stomach, as a Roman warrior might carry his shield into battle—­plucky to the last.

“Now,” said I, “look here, Amber, have you a fifty pound sachel to tug through the darkness?  No!  Then you might be worse off.”

And I went on a little farther and I met the brave firemen going home drenched and worn from the big fire.  “You coward!” said I to myself, “what if you were a fireman!  Something to growl about then, I guess.”

And I went a bit farther and I saw a little white coffin in a window.  “How about that?” said I.  “If the darlings were gone to their long home you might talk about trouble!”

And a few moments later I ran across an old man without any legs, peddling papers.  And then I said:  “Do you call your life a grind, madam, with two legs to walk upon, and a sufficient income to admit of an occasional fling?  What if you had wooden legs, and peddled papers?”

Now, I have told you this for a purpose.  However dark your lot may be there are worse all around you.  You may be inclined to think that the bloom and the brightness have gone out of your life, leaving nothing behind them but what remains of the carnation when the frost finds it—­a withered stalk.  But if you will take the trouble to watch, you will find that there is always something harder to bear than your own trouble, and, put to the test, you wouldn’t change crosses with your neighbor.

XVIII.

Ripe opportunities.

What if a man went over the lake to St. Joe to visit the peach orchards at the maturity of their delicious harvest!  The consent of the owner of the fairest plantation of the many has been gained, let us imagine, for the plucking of the perfect fruit.  And yet, in despite of opportunity and privilege, what would you think of one who came home with empty baskets and an unappeased relish for ripe peaches?  Would you not think such a one a dullard, or, at least, stupidly blind to his opportunities?  And if you chanced to hear him crying over his empty basket later on, would you not revile him for a lazy fellow?  We all of us, from day to day, miss chances of far greater value than the ripest peach that ever mellowed in the sun.  The opportunity to say a kind and encouraging word swings low upon the bough of to-day.  Why not gather it in?  The chance to help, to succor, to protect, the chance to lend a helping hand, to share a burden, to soothe a sorrow, to plant a loving thought, or twine a memory that shall blossom like a rose upon the terrace of to-morrow, all are our own as we pass through the world on our way to heaven.  We may not come this way again.  See to it, then, that we carry full baskets on the homeward faring.