that aspiration and that
presence. The smallest roadside pool has its water from heaven, and
its gleam from the sun, and can hold the stars in its bosom, as
well as the great ocean. Even so the humblest man or woman can live
splendidly! That is the royal truth that we need to believe,--you
and I who have no "mission," and no great sphere to move in. The
universe is not quite complete without _my_ work well done. Have
you ever read George Eliot's poem called "Stradivarius"?
Stradivarius was the famous old violin-maker, whose violins, nearly
two centuries old, are almost worth their weight in gold to-day.
Says Stradivarius in the poem:

"If my hand slacked,
I should rob God,--since He is the fullest good,--
Leaving a blank instead of violins.
_He_ could not make Antonio Stradivari's violins
Without Antonio."

That is just as true of us as of our greatest brothers. What, stand
with slackened hands and fallen heart before the littleness of your
service! Too little, is it, to be perfect in it? Would you, then,
if you were Master, risk a greater treasure in the hands of such a
man? Oh, there is no man, no woman, so small that they cannot make
their life great by high endeavor; no sick crippled child on its
bed that cannot fill a niche of service _that_ way in the world.
This is the beginning of all gospels,--that the kingdom of heaven
is at hand just where _we_ are. It is just as near us as our work is,
for the gate of heaven for each soul lies in the endeavor to do
that work perfectly.

But to bend this talk back to the word with which we started: will
this striving for perfection in the little thing give "culture"?
Have you ever watched such striving in operation? Have you never
met humble men and women who read little, who knew little, yet who
had a certain fascination as of fineness lurking about them? Know
them, and you are likely to find them persons who have put so much
thought and honesty and conscientious trying into their common
work--it may be sweeping rooms, or planing boards, or painting
walls--have put their ideals so long, so constantly, so lovingly
into that common work of theirs, that finally these qualities have
come to permeate not their work only, but so much of their being
that they