“I dropped a seed beside a path,
And went my busy way,
Till chance, or fate–
I say not which–
Led me one summer day
Along the selfsame path; and lo!
A flower blooming there,
As fair as eye hath looked upon,
And sweet as it was fair.”
We are all sowers. We are all the while scattering seeds. Our own life and the lives of others about us are the fields in which we drop the seeds.
When a baby is born, its life is only a patch of soil in which, as yet, nothing is growing. A mother’s hand is the first to plant seeds there – in the looks of tender love which her eyes dart into the child’s soul, in her smiles and caresses and croonings, and her thousand efforts to reach the child’s heart and wake up its powers; and then in the lessons which she teaches. All the members of the household soon become sowers also on this field, as the life begins to open, every one dropping some embryo into the mellow soil.
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