The Kind that Never Grow Old--Good Books are wise counsellors. They point out the right way in the devious paths of life. Have we not often stood at the juncture of two roads, the one of righteousness and the other of unfaithfulness, and was it not then that some golden little book acted the part of an opportune adviser and directed us down the highway of truth? Is there one of us who can truthfully say that good books have not been his loyal and trustworthy helpers, his vigilant guardians in life's intricate ways?
This unpretentious little book of goodness stories, a companion volume to "Tell Us Another," must speak for itself. But should there be some who seek an explicit reason for its appearance they may perhaps find it in the following rather droll exposition--so be it that they diligently seek!
And, since this book must speak for itself, the reader of these lines is kindly invited to imagine that it speaketh thus:
One day while walking through a garden it so chanced that I saw a bee upon a blossom. I put out my hand and caught it. It stang me not. I wondered much and said, "Busy little bee, why dost thou not sting me?" Then did the bee buzz gently and say, "Why should I sting thee since thou art so near akin to me?" And I answered and said, "How is it that I am akin to thee, busy little bee?" And the bee said, "I fly from pretty flower to pretty flower. And I delve into the blossoms' deepness. And I take therefrom the hidden sweetness. And I change it into sweeter honey within my body's neatness. And then do I place it into the honeycomb for others to eat. That is why I am like to thee, little book."
Much more did I wonder at the bee's talk and again did I say, "But how am I like to thee, busy little bee? Do I delve into the blossoms' deepness? Do I take therefrom the hidden sweetness? Do I change it into sweeter honey within my body's neatness? And do I place it into the honeycomb for others to eat? My busy little bee, for you to tell me this is but meet."
Then did the bee seem to smile upon me. And it buzzed and whispered into mine ear and said, "Thou art the honeycomb. Thou art the sweetness. And with thee there are all kinds of neatness. Listen, little book. Thou didst fly from flower to flower and draw out booky sweetness. And thou didst change it into sweeter honey in words of booky neatness. And thou didst put that word-made honey into honeycombs of pages to be eaten by the loving minds of many spring-time ages."
Then did I smile a happy smile. And I petted the bee and said, "Wise little bee, how dost thou come to know it?" And the bee answered, "Oh, I saw thee at work amidst the blossoms here." Then I turned to look at the blossoms whose neatness had dropped into me.
And while I was looking, away flew the bee.
This unpretentious little book of goodness stories, a companion volume to "Tell Us Another," must speak for itself. But should there be some who seek an explicit reason for its appearance they may perhaps find it in the following rather droll exposition--so be it that they diligently seek!
And, since this book must speak for itself, the reader of these lines is kindly invited to imagine that it speaketh thus:
One day while walking through a garden it so chanced that I saw a bee upon a blossom. I put out my hand and caught it. It stang me not. I wondered much and said, "Busy little bee, why dost thou not sting me?" Then did the bee buzz gently and say, "Why should I sting thee since thou art so near akin to me?" And I answered and said, "How is it that I am akin to thee, busy little bee?" And the bee said, "I fly from pretty flower to pretty flower. And I delve into the blossoms' deepness. And I take therefrom the hidden sweetness. And I change it into sweeter honey within my body's neatness. And then do I place it into the honeycomb for others to eat. That is why I am like to thee, little book."
Much more did I wonder at the bee's talk and again did I say, "But how am I like to thee, busy little bee? Do I delve into the blossoms' deepness? Do I take therefrom the hidden sweetness? Do I change it into sweeter honey within my body's neatness? And do I place it into the honeycomb for others to eat? My busy little bee, for you to tell me this is but meet."
Then did the bee seem to smile upon me. And it buzzed and whispered into mine ear and said, "Thou art the honeycomb. Thou art the sweetness. And with thee there are all kinds of neatness. Listen, little book. Thou didst fly from flower to flower and draw out booky sweetness. And thou didst change it into sweeter honey in words of booky neatness. And thou didst put that word-made honey into honeycombs of pages to be eaten by the loving minds of many spring-time ages."
Then did I smile a happy smile. And I petted the bee and said, "Wise little bee, how dost thou come to know it?" And the bee answered, "Oh, I saw thee at work amidst the blossoms here." Then I turned to look at the blossoms whose neatness had dropped into me.
And while I was looking, away flew the bee.
