Life's Byways and Waysides

“There lives and sings a little lonely brook Up in a wild where few men come to look, — Living and singing in the dreary pines, Yet creeping on to where the daylight shines.

Pure from the heavens, in mountain chalice caught, It drinks the rain, as drinks the soul her thought j And down dim hollows where it winds along Pours its life burden of unlistened song.”

Many of the best things of life are found in the byways. The map-makers show us the great thoroughfares, but they pay no heed to the country roads and the paths that run through the meadows, forests, and gardens, and climb the mountain sides. Yet many of the loveliest things in nature are found along these byways. Much of the world’s beauty hides in out-of-the-way

7 nooks, where human feet rarely go. Some of the sweetest flowers on the earth grow on beetling crags, or in the crevices of cold, gray rocks, where one would scarcely expect to find any trace of life. Nature does not array herself in loveliness merely to be seen of men, for in the depths of great forests and in inaccessible valleys among lofty mountains, where no human eye has ever looked upon them, the flowers are as rich in their beauty as in the gardens where throngs are ever passing and admiring.

“White lilies and fragrant, behold How coyly they nestle and fold Their petals round hearts of deep gold,

Wearing never a stain of the sod, — And content on the lake’s placid breast With shadows to float and to rest, Giving freely their sweetest and best,

To forests primeval, untrod, — Enriching the water and air,
And abiding in peace, unaware
That nothing on earth is more fair

Than white lilies, created by God!”

There are byways also in life. There are a few distinguished people whom everybody seeks to know and whose praises are borne on every breeze. But, meanwhile, in the list of those unknown to fame are countless lives just as noble, as brave, as holy, as unselfish, as useful, as many of those who receive the world’s commendation. The real worth of men’s and women’s lives is not to be rated by the measure of their earthly fame. Popularity itself is ofttimes but the whim of a day, to be replaced to-morrow by forgetfulness and neglect, perhaps by execration. There is a picture by Tintoretto, which shows Jesus on his cross. Then, as the observer looks closely, he sees in the background an ass feeding on withered palm leaves, the palms which had been waved on Palm Sunday. This feature of the picture is intended to recall the acclaim of the triumphal entry in contrast with the demand of the people, five days later, for the crucifixion of Jesus.

Fame is often but the glitter of an hour. Then, even when it is born of love, and is the just meed of true worth, it carries in it no disparagement of other lives which do not receive human praise. Many of the unpraised have as high encomium with God as those whom men applaud. Many of earth’s unsung heroes are as real heroes in the sight of angels as those for whom monuments are set up in public squares and whose deeds are commemorated in oration and song. Many of the world’s nameless saints have as high honor in heaven as those whose devotion,

9 service, and sacrifice are enshrined in immortal memory in the church. If all the life of any day could be seen, it would appear that in the quiet byways, in lowly homes, and among the poor, there are thousands of God’s children who are living nobly, beautifully, self-sacrificingly, making whole neighborhoods purer, sweeter, yet hearing not one word of human praise. They stay near the heart of Christ. They come every morning from his presence, their very garments smelling of myrrh, aloes, and cassia, out of the ivory palaces. They go through their humble daily rounds in the spirit of love. They pour blessings on the common paths, wherever they move, making the world a little sweeter, happier, and better for their staying in it. We do not know how much of

“The healing of the world
Is in its nameless saints.”

There are byways of usefulness. There are in every community a few people who are noted for their large charities, for their valuable services, or for their personal helpfulness. They are like the shadow of a great rock in a weary land to the troubled and distressed who turn to them. They are comforters in every home of sorrow. Their influence is a benediction

10 over a wide neighborhood. They have a share in every good work.

But there are many others who, in quiet ways, and without appreciation, give out blessings scarcely less rich and helpful. The circle in which they move is narrower. The things they do seem smaller. Yet they minister continually in Christ’s name and seek not to be ministered unto. They shine as quiet lights, brightening a little space about them.

Some of the divinest things done on this earth are done by the poor for others who are poor. They make sacrifices and spend their strength in rendering personal assistance in times of trouble. The other day, at the house of a sick woman, another woman was met, who had walked three miles, carrying one child in her arms, with another tugging at her skirts, for the purpose of putting her neighbor’s house in order, preparing some food, and doing whatever she could for the comfort of the patient. The rich give their money, but the poor give themselves. Nothing is holier than such ministry, and yet it gets no earthly praise.

Mary Lyon used to say to her pupils on graduation day, “My dear girls, when you choose your fields of labor, go where nobody else is willing to go.” There are always plenty of

ii workers for conspicuous places. There is no trouble in finding pastors for great city churches and men for the positions which pay large salaries. There are many kinds of service for which there are scores of candidates. After having passed through the experience of considering the claims and qualifications of the applicants for one of these conspicuous and attractive places, one would never think that laborers are few. There seem to be a great many people who reverse the counsel — that they go where nobody else is willing to go — and try to get their field of labor where everybody else would like to go.

But, meanwhile, what about the byways of service and usefulness? There is always room enough here for all who will consecrate themselves to such work for the Master, and there is a field here also for the largest measure of usefulness. There is no throng at the gate, pressing applications, urging brilliant gifts, and bringing piles of endorsements and commendations, competing for the privilege of doing the Master’s work in these obscure and unsalaried places. There are not many who are really seeking to go where nobody else is willing to go. Here, indeed, it is found that the Master’s lament — the harvest is plenteous and the laborers are few — is still to be made.

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