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.  If we descend into the sea we shall find that the reefs and islands against which the tides of the Pacific dash in vain are built of coral insects, whose every organ exhibits the delicate skill of a diamond or snowflake.  If we stand upon the fruitful plain where men build cities we shall discern that each flake of the rich soil represents the perfect crystallization of drops of melted granite.  If we take the wings of the morning and dwell upon the summit of the Matterhorn there also we find that the mountain hath its height and majesty through particles