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“Oh, grandmother,” cried the child, “take
me with you. I know you will go away when the match burns
out. You, too, will vanish, like the warm stove, the splendid
New Year’s feast, the beautiful Christmas tree.”
And lest her grandmother should disappear, she rubbed the
whole bundle of matches against the wall.
And the matches burned with such a brilliant light that it
became brighter than noonday. Her grandmother had never before
looked so grand and beautiful. She took the little girl into
her arms, and both flew together, joyously and gloriously,
mounting higher and higher, far above the earth; and for them
there was neither hunger, nor cold, nor care—they were
with God.
But in the corner, at the dawn of day, sat the poor girl,
leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth—frozen
to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and cold
she sat, with the matches, one bundle of which was burned.
“She wanted to warm herself, poor little thing,”
people said. No one imagined what sweet visions she had had,
or how gloriously she had gone with her grandmother to enter
upon the joys of a new year.
MORE
LITERARY GENIUS
Ok,
so I ran over a little and suddenly had all of this extra
space to fill. The plus side is it gave me an opportunity
to share some more great literature. This one is in keeping
with the Greek motif of this week’s issue. It is an
ancient Greek myth (in poetic form) which holds that human
destiny lies in the hands of three goddesses of the Fates—Clotho,
who spins the thread of life, Lachesis, who measures the thread,
and Atropos, who cuts the thread at death.
THE LOOM OF TIME
Man’s
life is laid in the loom of time
To a pattern he does not see,
While the weavers work and the shuttles fly
Till the dawn of eternity.
Some shuttles are filled with silver threads
And some with threads of gold,
While often but the darker hues
Are all that they may hold.
But the weaver watches with skillful eye
Each shuttle fly to and fro,
And sees the pattern so deftly wrought
As the loom moves sure and slow.
God surely planned the pattern:
Each thread, the dark and fair,
Is chosen by His master skill
And placed in the web with care.
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He
only knows its beauty,
And guides the shuttles which hold
The threads so unattractive,
As well as the threads of gold.
Not till each loom is silent,
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God reveal the pattern
And explain the reason why
The dark threads were as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
For the pattern which He planned.
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