"I can't look at it without thinking that it shines equally on the just and the unjust, and beholds much more misery than happiness," replied the printer, looking almost defiantly toward the sky. "I wish it would die out once for all, and with it this whole motley lie which we call life." "No, Franzel," said Balder quietly, "you are wrong. Even if the sun knew what it was doing, in creating and sustaining life, there is no cause for shame in such a work. Why do you call existence a lie, Franzel? Because its end is so abrupt? But your existence had its beginning as well and did that beginning ever bespeak a promise of perpetuity? On the contrary my dear fellow, there is much honesty in human life; it promises so little and yet yields us so much. Will you censure it because it can't be all that we visionary or dissatisfied or unjust people demand?" "There's no joy to me in living," muttered the other gloomily, covering his eyes with his broad hands. "As soon as one need is satisfied, another takes its place, and he who ventures to differ from the opinions held by mankind in general never finds repose." "And would life be worth the living if we were sunk in repose? Is sleeping, living? Or absorption in a dull dream of existence, such as the beetle has when it climbs up the blade of grass to reach a dew-drop--is that leading a worthy life? My dear fellow, if you drive necessity out of the world, how unnecessary it would be to live!" "You're playing upon words." "No, I speak in sober earnest. A short time ago I read a stanza, in Voltaire, which, like many things he says to the masses, is drawn from his deep hoard of knowledge and contains a pure gem of truth. "Oh! who could bear the harden of his life, The sad remembrance of the whilom strife, The threat'ning ills that hover round his way, If the dear God, to ease man of his pain, Had not so made him thoughtless, careless, vain, That he might be less wretched in his day.