This is the gospel of labor--ring it, ye bells of the kirk-- The Lord of Love came down from above to live with the men who work. This is the rose that he planted, here in the thorn-cursed soil; Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil. --Henry van Dyke. MARTHA Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve! Not all with tranquil heart, Even at Thy dear feet, Wrapped in devotion sweet, May sit apart! Yes, Lord! Yet some must bear The burden of the day, Its labor and its heat, While others at Thy feet May muse and pray. Yes, Lord! Yet some must do Life's daily task-work; some Who fain would sing must toil Amid earth's dust and moil, While lips are dumb! Yes, Lord! Yet man must earn And woman bake the bread; And some must watch and wake Early for others' sake, Who pray instead! Yes, Lord! Yet even thou Hast need of earthly care; I bring the bread and wine To Thee a Guest divine-- Be this my prayer! --Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr. If we sit down at set of sun And count the things that we have done, And counting, find One self-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind, That fell like sunshine where it went, Then we may count the day well spent. But if through all the livelong day We've eased no heart by yea or nay; If through it all We've nothing done that we can trace That brought the sunshine to a face, No act most small That helped some soul, and nothing cost, Then count that day as worse than lost. This for the day of life I ask: Some all-absorbing, useful task; And when 'tis wholly, truly done, A tranquil rest at set of sun. SERVICE Ah! grand is the world's work, and noble, forsooth, The doing one's part, be it ever so small! You, reaping with Boaz, I, gleaning with Ruth, Are honored by serving, yet servants of all. No drudge in his corner but speeds the world's wheels; No serf in the field but is sowing God's seed-- More noble, I think, in the dust though he kneels, Than the pauper of wealth, who makes scorn of the deed. Is toil but a treadmill? Think not of the grind, But think of the grist, what is done and to do, The world growing better, more like to God's mind, By long, faithful labor of helpers like you. The broom or the spade or the shuttle, that plies Its own honest task in its own honest way, Serves heaven not less than a star in the skies-- What more could the Pleiades do than obey? --James Buckham. SUMMER AND WINTER