There are the green
leaves, so regular in their form and outline; the beautiful flowers,
so wonderful in their structure; and the sweet fragrance, that
regales our senses as we pass. All these are there, but we see not
whence they come. No showers descend to make it grow; the earth is
parched on all sides. Do you inquire for the source of all this
loveliness? A tiny rill of water flows gently underneath. No eye
sees it. You cannot hear its quiet advance, for it does not murmur
as it wears itself out in its work of love. Noiseless it hies to
each little rootlet. It conveys nourishment to every leaf; not one
is overlooked or forgotten. That unseen rill causes these fair
blossoms to spring forth. It distils these odors for the enjoyment
of all that pass this way. What that streamlet is to the field,
prayer is to the Christian. We see it not; it is all hid from human
eye; but O, the rich fruit that it yields every day in the soul thus
made partaker of the life of Christ! That also makes the wilderness
to rejoice and blossom as the rose."
At the annual examination in 1850, Sanum read her composition, a
translation of which is here inserted:--
"THE LOST SOUL.
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