MIMACLES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 11093, 2 June 1914, Page 4

MIMACLES.

Why! who makes much of a miracleP As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles. Whether I walk tho streets of Manhattan, Qr dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or stand under the trees in the wood, Or talk with anyone I love, Or sit at tablo at dinner with my .mother,' Or match honey bees busy round the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the field, Or tho wouderfulness of the sundowner of stars shining so quiot and bright, Or stand a long while looking at tho movements of machinery, Or behold children at their sports, Or the sick in hospitals, or tho dead ' carried' to burial, Or my own eyes and figure in the glass. These, with tho rest, one arid all, aro to' me miracles. To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle. Every cubic inoh of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with tho same. Every foot of the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs of men and women, and all that concerns them. All these to mo are unspeakably perfect miracles. To me the sea is a continual miracle; The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them. What strangor miracles are there? —Walt Whitman.