| The Glory of the Common Life |
Chapter 12 |
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A little story poem tells of a race. A number of runners were on the course. There was one who at first seemed destined to outstrip all the others. The way was long, and the goal far away. Still the favourite kept in the lead. But those who were watching the race saw this man stop by and by to lift up a little child that had fallen in the way and take it out of danger. A little later, a comrade fainted, and he turned aside to help him. A woman appeared, frail and inexperienced, and he lingered to help her find the way. The watchers saw the favourite again and again leave his race to comfort, cheer, or help those who were in distress or peril. Meanwhile he lost his lead, and others passed him; and when the winners reached the goal, he was far behind. He did not receive the prize for the race, but the real honour was his. Love had ruled his course, and the blessing of many helped by him was his. The only true monument any one can have is built of love.
John Vane Cheney writes in “The Century”:
If so men’s memories not thy monument be
Thou shalt have none. Warm hearts, and not cold stone,
Must mark thy grave, or thou shalt lie unknown.
Marbles keep not themselves; how then keep thee?
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