ALONG THE ROAD.

Franklin Times, Volume 14, Issue 193, 19 October 1925, Page 2

ALONG THE ROAD.

AN OCCASIONAL COLUMN. (By “The Swagger.”) Coming home this evening, back to my cheerful whare. I walked towards the setting sun. There were signs of an evening mist along the western horizon, a little thicker than usual, perhaps because of a warm day following rain. IL had been a glorious day, with little white clouds floating lazily across the sky. They were still afloat at evening time, but, whereas those in the east and those overhead were now 7 a dull grey, those in the west were splashes of gold and red. I watched two little clouds for quite a while; the most beautiful pink, against a background of green blue. But, totowards the horizon, the mist blurred the glorious colours. Dull red patches of colud could be seen, but they had not that glowing quality that made the others so wonderfully beautiful. I did not go inside until the glory of the sunset had vanished and “twilight"grey had in her sober livery all things clad.” Tea over and the dishes washed and put away—not a long process w 7 hen one lives alone —I piled good knotty pieces of wood on the fire, lit my pipe and rested. Outside all w 7 as quiet and I was physically tired. And, as usual, I began to think about the sunset; of how a little mist could rob the far clouds of their glory; of the beauty of things when the light shines on them. Why, I have seen the setting sun turn an expanse of mud flat into a sheet of burnished gold. I have eaten my lunch and tried to define all the colours in the face of a quarry when the sun was overhead. But a mist will make that mud flat look like mud and the quarry a mere mass of stone and clay. And I was led on to think that perhaps the mists of envy, hatred and pettiness prevent us from seeing the lives of others in all their beauty. The beauty is there, but we cannot see it. A veil is over our eyes, and all the time 1 we think the fault lies in others. I fancy, if we could see the light of love and appreciation and friendship shine upon lives that now look almost squalid they, too, would glow with rare beauty. The cloudlets simply reflected the light that shone upon them, and lives are something that Not altogether, for life can illuminate itself. Take my sick friend over in the next valley. The love of a wonderful mother shines on him, and is reflected with added power. But there shines a steady light in that stricken soul that makes the very mists of suffering melt away. It is a light that makes life richer for many of us in this district. It must be what the Quakers call the “inward light, p-Jfd it is very wonderful. I suppose if I had climbed the hill these dull clouds along the western rim would have appeared as glorious as the otheis. The obscurity was not theirs but mine. I should have climbed.

Behind the Ciouds.

To the south there was a bank of cloud that looked very threatening. It cut cff the evening glow in a great half circle. But I have no doubt that beyond those clouds was a beautiful stretch of sky. And, perhaps, beyond the clouds of life there is a world of beauty. We cannot see it and, speaking for myself, I do not know, but somehow I feel that it is there. There are many things we cannot know, for knowledge is of things we see,” but I like to think that behind the dark clouds that lie at the end of the journey there is a wealth of colour and light. The eye can see the beauty of the world: the ear can hear the music of the streams, and the waves along the shore and wind in the trees, and sometimes it seems quite clear to me that the soul of man can discern a beauty transcending all these. I cannot put it down as clearly as I could wish, but the poets can. I mean what Wadsworth meant when he wrote about “a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light ol setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky and in the mind of man,” The seed in the ground is in darkness, but when the shoots break through the surface it is into the world of light and beauty, and this may be our lime of early growth; the fullness may be something grander. Of course, some, people will say that it is all conjecture. I. might have said the same thing myself, once upon a time. lam not so sure now. There is no beauty in the world unless one has the eyes to see it. No pebbly stream has music unless we have ears to hear. If we cannot hear what “the inner spirit sings” that may only prove our limitation, not that there is no music of the spirit. Just follow along this line of thought and you will find that we are very limited. You and I try to do good as we job along. It isn’t enough. We have to love goodness. We try not to hate anyone. But that is not the same thing as loving one’s enemy. And those who have passed beyond these limitations may understand, much more than we do, the meaning and purpose of life. Even our judgment is limited. Well, the fire is nearly out, and a gentle breeze has sprung up outside. It is time that I turned in. I bid you good-night. Thanks for this little chat —in absence, as it were.