The Columbus commercial. (Columbus, Miss.) 1893-1922, 1896-05-03

work an invention of the old Tea
zer. Hence we may well imagine
the indigestibility Of that apple with
which our first parents RECALLED
themselves was partly due to the
presence therein of some as yet un-
classified germ plasm, which found
lodgm mt in their internal economy,
and grew and grew until it became
a consuming fire-a flaming sword
that drove them out Of paradise "by
their sweat and by their travail to
conquer EARTH"
However comforting this thought
may be to the many indolent among
US, of whom I can say, with Saint
Paul, 81 am chief" we may well
question if it indeed be true. Mans
sovereignty over the brute creation
is two-fold: He is made in the inn
age of God, and into that form of
clay which the first artist modelled
was breathed the spirit of God
himself, which alone forever ele-
Yates even the veriest savage above
all other forms of savage life. Have
we once thought to ask what is this
Gods spirit which animates us, per-
haps all unconscious of its presence
OF its power? How other is it man
ifest to us than in his work?-work
so infinite that in its beginning its
progress, or its end, can human
brain not even so family fathom it,
not even afar off follow? This only
can we catch, some measure Of the
holy spirit of that work done in
goodness and mercy, in gladness
and joy.
But since the world is not all light
and love we may decide there is
perhaps enough truth in that germ
theory of mine to give two opposing
kinds of work; for even so truly as
it is Gods work to bring order out
of chaos, light from darkness, and
people the universe with life, is it
the devils own work to destroy.
In this connection, and that you
may not think my paper all a SER
mon, with creation for It's text,
will give you part of a letter lately
received from a little girl just five
years old. She begins: 81 would
like to tell you story of bear.
There was once a bear who had so
many children he thought he could
not speak; so he ate up first one lit
tie bear, and then another little
bear, and another little bear, and
another, and another, and another,
until there was just one little bear
left. Then he sat down and looked
around and said, "Where can all
those little bears be? | reckon some
other bear must have stolen theml'
Were my niece a cynic of 90, in
stead Of child of FIVE, and her lit
tie tale garnered from the observa-
ton and experiences of a lifetime,
she could scarce have written more
wisely. Let US briefly analyze her
story of the bear, and Judge if we
may not deem it a fable worthy to
be ranked, if not with Asops, then
side by side with Stevenson's best.
'There was once a bear who had
so many children he thought he
could not speak" Mark well, these
many children did not interfere with
any Of the honorable means of earn
ing livelihood open to bears; he
might rob bees nests and shake
persimmon trees ad inhnitum with
out word other than half smoth-
cred grunts of approval from all
those little bears. But this is a typ
ieal send of the century bear" He
has a mission; he feels called to
speak, learnedly if he can; if lack
ing power to do that, then foolishly,
but above all things to speak. He
was a most emotional bear, filled
with warnings after the infinite,
with longings to express the mex
pressible, a culture-for-culture's-
sake bear; indeed such very gas
eous bear that his whole system
was permeated Herewith, until
even honey and persimmons had
lost their desirableness and flavor.
Yet here were these many child
ren clamoring for the flesh pots,
caring nothing for his feast Of un-
wisdom and windy logic, deafening
his ears with their cries. They have
no soulfulness, no desire for the un-
attainable-unless it be persimmons
or other food wherewith to fill their
aching stomachs. He will away
with theml An, then he works
the DEVILS own work of destruction.
A grizzly feast is his.
Friends, are we not like this bear?
Do not many of us unconsciously
repeat his mistake of destroying all
the natural growths Of life-sacri-
ficing everything to attain the wind
bag Of success2 The ideals, the at
tachments, even the dreams of
youth, are worth .cherishing. Do
not forget that, like the bear, we too
must sit down amid utter desolation
and cry, t'Where are my children?"
For the bear, you win note, now
that all is stilled around him-stilled
to that awful silence the dead alone
can lznow-has now no lofty flights
of fancy, no wealth of words high
soaring as the chat, whose worth
they rival, feels only loneliness and
loss. For no one, not even this
haor so rvhoI1rr haI ~uholIv- OIL e..