Analogous with that wonderful Gulf Stream, once a myth, still a mystery, the strange current of human existence bears each and all of us with a strong, steady sweep from the tropic lands of sunny childhood, enameled with verdure and gaudy with bloom, through the temperate regions of manhood and womanhood, fruitful or fruitless as the case may be; on to the often frigid, lonely shores of old age, snow-crowned and ice-veined; and individual destinies seem to resemble the tangled drift on those broad gulf billows, strewn on barren beaches, stranded upon icebergs, some to be scorched under equatorial heats, some to perish by polar perils; a few to take root and flourish, building imperishable landmarks; and many to stagnate in the long inglorious rest of the Sargasso Sea. But really to the faithful soul nothing is lost; though the great prizes of earth are denied us, every heroic endeavor, every struggle to benefit the world sends treasures on high to our credit in the grand bank of heaven. There are the thoughts that one by one died 'ere we gave them birth, The songs we tried in vain to sing, too sweet, too beautiful for earth. No endeavor is in vain; Its reward is in the doing, And the rapture of pursuing, Is the prize the vanquished gain. We are all conscious of these songs we have tried in vain to sing, and we are confident we will yet sing them when the bodily impediments are swept away, and, as the earthly shadows lengthen, as the chill winds of old age strengthen, we more and more appreciate the wonderful expression of this thought, in that sweetest of all poems of the minor key, called "The voiceless." "We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber; But o'er the silent brother's breast, The wild flowers who will stoop to number. "A few can touch the magic string, And noisy fame is proud to win them; Alas for those who never sing, But die with all their music in them. "Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow; But where the glistening night dews weep O'er nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. "If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven." We have done our best according to the light that has been given; we will continue to do so until the end, and we are soothed and sustained by the inspiring thought so sweetly expressed by one of our greatest poets. "I know not where God's islands lift Their fronded palms in air, I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care. "And so beside the silent sea, I wait the muffled oar: No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore."