We pick
up, as he does, a burden which on close inspection will be found to
be absolutely valueless, something that somebody else has thrown
away. We hoist it over obstructions while there is usually a short
way round; we fret and sweat and fume. Then we drop the burden and
rush off at a tangent to pick up another. We write letters to our
friends explaining to them what we are about. We even indite
diaries to be read by goodness knows whom, explaining to ourselves
what we have been doing. Sometimes we find something that really
looks valuable, and rush to our particular ant-heap with it while
our neighbours pause and watch us. But they really do not care; and
if the rumour of our discovery reach so far as the next ant-heap,
the bustlers there are almost indifferent, though a few may feel a
passing pang of jealousy. They may perhaps remember our name, and
will soon forget what we discovered--which is Fame. While we are
falling over each other to attain this, and dying to tell each other
what it feels like when we have it, or think we have it, let us
pause for a moment and think of an ant--who kept a diary.
Desiree did not keep a diary. Her life was too busy for ink. She
had had to work for her daily bread, which is better than riches.
Her life had been full of occupation from morning till night, and
God had given her sleep from night till morning. It is better to
work for others than to think for them.
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