And so men have digged their wells. They have been real wells. They had held real water of a kind, but it has been water that was utterly powerless to slake the thirst of the soul. Here is a man who has digged a well of wealth. Treasure is bubbling up about him like the waters of a fountain. He is rich beyond his hopes, but is he satisfied? Listen! "Soul, thou hast much good laid up for many days, eat, drink and be merry." But his soul has no appetite for that kind of bread. His soul has no thirst for that brackish and bitter water. It is hungry and thirsty for the living God, and nothing else can satisfy. Here is another who has made the same tragic blunder. "I'm an alien--I'm an alien to the faith my mother taught me; I'm an alien to the God that heard my mother when she cried; I'm a stranger to the comfort that my 'Now I lay me' brought me, To the Everlasting Arms that held my father when he died. I have spent a life-time seeking things I spurned when I had found them; I have fought and been rewarded in full many a winning cause; But I'd yield them all--fame, fortune and the pleasures that surround them; For a little of the faith that made my mother what she was. "When the great world came and called me I deserted all to follow, Never knowing, in my dazedness, I had slipped my hand from His-- Never noting, in my blindness, that the bauble fame was hollow, That the gold of wealth was tinsel, as I since have learned it is-- I have spent a life-time seeking things I've spurned when I have found them; I have fought and been rewarded in full many a petty cause, But I'd take them all--fame, fortune and the pleasures that surround them, And exchange them for the faith that made my mother what she was." Here is one who has dug a well of fame, but he cannot count up twelve happy days. And though he has drunk draughts that might have quenched the thirst of millions, he is dying of thirst because there is no more to drink. "Oh, could I feel as once I felt, And be what I have been, And weep as I could once have wept O'er many a vanished scene. "As springs in deserts found seem sweet, All brackish though they be; So midst the withered waste of life Those tears would flow to me." "Oh, what is fame to a woman," said another. "Like the apples of the Dead Sea, fair to the sight and ashes to the touch." Here is another and he has digged wells of wealth and fame and power and pleasure. He seems afloat upon a very sea in which all the streams of human power and glory and wisdom mingle. He tastes them all only to dash the cup from his lips in loathing and disgust as he cries, "Vanity of vanities! All is vanity and vexation of spirit."