BY-WAYS - 7/11/46 -

'Tis a beautiful world in the early morn,
When all verdure is washed with dew;
When all that is evil is fast asleep,
And the distant sun is new.

The birds, who follow their Maker's plan
Go to bed when day is done,
And awake, full-throated with hymns of praise,
To herald the rising sun.

Ah, the world is lovely at 6 a.m.
When man-made schemes are asleep.
And the wee musicians of earth and sky
A wondrous vigil keep.

You will gather from the above lines that only the birds and one lonely would-be poet are awake - and that the so-called poet is feeling quite saintly. How shall we explain that feeling? Surely there is some wee hour in the day when we feel just a little nearer to our Creator. Surely there must be a brief pause "in the day's occupations" when we draw strength from the Source of all strength. Each person may choose his own "quiet hour." In this crowded, busy world we find it hard to set aside that little hour or half-hour. But find it we must. I speak, not from the rich experience of faithful following, but from the sense of spiritual poverty from not having followed it - the last two years, at least. That is my own fault. The wonderful thing about God is that all His promises hold good - that His Truth was here yesterday, is here today and forever. "Seek, and ye shall find Him." He is ready to receive us erring humans whenever we come to Him.

Not long ago a story, "The Lost Purse," by Gelett Burgess, appeared in this Week magazine. It had to do with the honesty of three men, one of whom, broken in heart and in purse, found a well-padded purse in a snowdrift. His forthright honesty set the rightful owner's conscience to work; he in turn went to the head of his firm and confessed a padded expense account, asking for correction of same. He then told his boss about the lost purse, and the story of the indigent young man who found it. This young man married the wrong type of woman, and his father, in bitter resentment, cut him off in his will. While this young man was overseas, in the service of his country, the father died, and the worthless wife ran off with another man. Now the head of this firm, to whom the story was being told, happened to be a relative of the indigent young man and the executor and mentioned heir of the rich father's estate. Somewhere among the father's effects was a codicil to the will, found by the executor, and known only to him. It would have been so easy to hold out on the son and heir, and acquire more for himself. But this new idea of courageous honesty took hold of him. He sent for his indigent relative, who was no longer indigent - at least, no longer a "bum." Because, when he returned the valuable purse, a new energy was released within him. Nuclear fission, the students of atomic energy call it. So it was with the well-to-do salesman. He felt a new power, a new sense of success. And so it was with the newly honest executor. Suddenly he knew that he neither needed or desired the money that was left to him in the original will. He was really beginning to live. Now the story is a yarn - as fantastic in its coincidence as a fairy tale. But the truth is there - that if we get a noble impulse or a new idea, and act upon it, a new power, a new energy is released with us. We are ready to conquer the world. ***

Now it is late Saturday afternoon, and Virgil, his sister Phillippa and I are slated for a "pop" concert downtown. The baby (Dianne, of course) and her adoring parents have just been here to visit us a little while. A bit young to travel, we say. But the hospitals send them home when they are five days old, so that a baby 16 days old is a veteran. Bless her heart, she ruined my column and her great-grandmother's dress. But she is blissfully unconcerned.

Hastily - regretfully,
Florence B. Taylor

Next - 7/18/46 - New Job
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