Was not this life indeed worth all the pain and heat of the
flames, and the loss of its once statelier and loftier form?
It never sighed for its forest home, but often longed to know of the
fate of its brother trees. One day a child, bearing in her hand one of
its blossoms, wandered to the ground where once arose the tall trees. The
eyes of the oak, through the flower, looked in vain for its kindred. None
were standing. They had all been felled and their wood converted into
dwellings,--a useful but less beautiful form of existence than that which
the oak possessed,--and they learned, after a time, that it is only by
apparent destruction that life can be reconstructed. But they could only
have the experiences which came within the scope of their life; and the
oak was more than ever satisfied with its own, and rejoiced that it had
passed through the refining element, losing thereby only its grosser
form. It filled the air with the fragrance of its gratitude. Whenever it
wished to journey, the winds, who were its friends, conveyed its seeds to
any portion of the earth it designated. Its blossoms were not only bright
to the eye, and their odor sweet to the sense of smell, but the leaves of
the plant were healing. Three forces connected it with human life: so
that it was in constant action, and its highest joy lay in the
consciousness of its increased usefulness.
XXIII.
STRANGERS.
In a large and elegant mansion dwelt a wealthy man who had three lovely
daughters.
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