e strange and unequal,
and the ways where men must walk are full of pitfalls and dangers.
Pestilence creeps along the ground and flows in the rivers; whirlwind
and tempest shake the habitations of men and drive their ships to
destruction; fire breaks forth from the mountains and the foundations
of the world tremble. Frail is the flesh of man, and many are his
pains and troubles. His children can never find peace until they learn
to love one another and to help one another.

"Wickedness is begotten by disease and misery. Violence comes from
poverty and hunger. The cruelty of oppression is when the strong tread
the weak under their feet; the bitterness of pride is when the wise
and learned despise the simple; the crown of folly is when the rich
think they are gods, and the poor think that God is not.

"Hatred and envy and contempt are the curse of life. And for these
there is no remedy save love--the will to give and to bless--the will
of the King himself, who gives to all and is loving unto every man.
But how shall the hearts of men be won to this will? How shall it
enter into them and possess them? Even the gods that men fashion for
themselves are cruel and proud and false and unjust. How shall the
miracle be wrought in human nature to reveal the meaning of humanity?
How shall men be made like God?"

At this question a deep hush fell around the circle, and every
listener was still, even as the rustling leaves hang motionless when
the light breeze falls away in the hour of sunset. Then through the
silence, like the song of a far-away thrush from its hermitage in the
forest, a voice came ringing: "I know it, I know it, I know it."

Clear and sweet--clear as a ray of light, sweeter than the smallest
silver bell that rang the hour of rest--was that slender voice
floating on the odorous and translucent air. Nearer and nearer it
came, echoing down the valley, "I know it, I know it, I know it!"

Then from between the rounded hills, among which the brook of
Brighthopes is born, appeared a young angel, a little child, with
flying hair of gold, and green wreaths twined about his shoulders, and
fluttering hands that played upon the air and seemed to lift him so
lightly that he had no need of wings. As thistle-down, blown by the
wind, dances across the water, so he came along the little stream,
singing clear above the murmur of the brook.

All the angels rose and turned to look at him with wondering eyes.
Multitudes of other