The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1872-08-15
THOUGHTS.
BY DUFF PORTER.

BY DUFF PORTER.
The world does not want women of the
fairest and noblest, so much as it wants
soul in womanly setting.
All the varied threads Of life run back
to one point,-The Infinite. God is a
point from which they all spring, and
toward which they all centre.
In the soul that has been touched and
made tender by the fingers of pain and
the searching fires Of sorrow, music finds
place where it may murmur, as a child
close folded in it's mothers bosom.
The shell of the chryse lis breaks and
falls off when its work is done, and the
| life under it demands more room and a
broader field so whatever we need comes
| TO us.
Sometimes God calls US from our dream
of life 20 go out and battle for the victory,
before we are crowned then, again. amid
the hurry and rush of other feet hasting
to the conflict. He bids US wait with
patience. Though it seems to us that
others will carry away all the prizes, the
twilight is radiant With the wings of His
angels bearing to us the richest blessings.
When God gives us the gift Of music,
He means that the worlds arches should
throb with the harmony of chords of
sweet lines Ginning together.
A man is what his ancestors have made
him. They, with their goodness, their
faults and diseases, physical and moral,
are the moulds into which the warm ele,
ments were poured to cool and harden
into life.
This world, which looks so grand, seems
so wonderful, and sometimes startles us
with its immensely, is but a sand grain on
the star'streWn beach of creations shore.
We are bat little animalcules in our water
drop Of world In the depths of infrmity
What matters it to us how God losses the
restless waves to and fro?
Is it right, when we let Pride drive her
bitter thorns into our heart, to hold up
The bleeding wound to God?
The robe of falsity, that is put on to
hide the heart from the worlds beak. like
eye, casts shadow IN the clear depths of
Love.
When the gathered sheaves are laid at
the Good Mans" feet.-some rich, and
full, and Eeavy. = some withered and
scanty,-He will lock to see in what fields
they were gathered whetherin the warm
rich valleys, or on the cold craggy noun
tains ; whether by strong hands with keeA
shining sickle, or fingers trembling and
torn by the briars and it may be that
"nothing but leaves" in that day will
weigh heavier than golden sheaves."
Perhaps to the captive in the prison
cell of our life, messengers from the I'm
known may come, and we catch no glim-
mer of the wings passing.
We are as yet but children toying with
the organ'stops in the dim gallery of Life.
We need sometimes great trial or fierce
awakening that we may know ourselves
An earthquake will bring all the people
of a city to their doors So some grief or
sorrow brings the soul to the windows OF
Life.
How many have given up and lost just
as the music Of coming feet was waited to
the hungering ears OF the faithful
Notes that make the most discordant
discord, If rightly related to each other
would be as an angels dream Of harmony
We scorn and blame the prisoner in the
wretched cell, through the bars of which
the white hands of his supplication reach
out to touch the hem Of Gods robe of for.
giveness, in which we are so tenderly
folded.
We sit idle because no trumpet.voices
call to us sick, weary Of life, while mil
lions stand by the Red Sea, waiting fol-
some Moses to lead them into the light
of knowledge, power and life.
A little deed, in Gods time. comes UP
bearing fifty, sixty, or an hundred fold,
like q tiny reed falling from the pine
trees sky kissed top. Looking back il
sees how far off the clouds are, and the
arms that Graded it yet the patient days
that come while century fades, lift it up
till it bears in its storm tossed branches a
generation Of future forests for the worlds
need
How often, eVenJn the dream~days of
far-Off childhood, voices have come to the
gate of our understanding, wanting to
enter jn,-then turning away with smotn'
cred wall of sadness, because they found
no interpreter that could translate their
message
~ Who'shail dare to complain any more
of sorrow, that has seen the pearls of
beauty which come from the sharp thrIs:s
Of pain? The shell that never has been
wounded is cast up, empty, and void, a1d
useless, to be crumbled, and scattered, and
lost in the barren wastes forever: but one
that bears o fostering wound where a
pearl has been born is the mother of i'm
mortality. The pale, pure child, born of
pain, rocked on the heaving bosom of
beauty, in the gold. clasp of wealth. shall
gather the light Of thousand suns, and
enrich the treasurers Of generations.