“’T is easy enough to be pleasant,
      When life flows along like a song;
    But the man worth while is the one who will smile
      When everything goes dead wrong;
    For the test of the heart is trouble,
      And it always comes with the years;
    And the smile that is worth the praise of the earth
      Is the smile that comes through tears.”

A pleasure book.

“She is an aged woman, but her face is serene and peaceful, though trouble has not passed her by.  She seems utterly above the little worries and vexations which torment the average woman and leave lines of care.  The Fretful Woman asked her one day the secret of her happiness; and the beautiful old face shone with joy.

“‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I keep a Pleasure Book.’

“‘A what?’

“’A Pleasure Book.  Long ago I learned that there is no day so dark and gloomy that it does not contain some ray of light, and I have made it one business of my life to write down the little things which mean so much to a woman.  I have a book marked for every day of every year since I left school.  It is but a little thing:  the new gown, the chat with a friend, the thoughtfulness of my husband, a flower, a book, a walk in the field, a letter, a concert, or a drive; but it all goes into my Pleasure Book, and, when I am inclined to fret, I read a few pages to see what a happy, blessed woman I am.  You may see my treasures if you will.’

“Slowly the peevish, discontented woman turned over the book her friend brought her, reading a little here and there.  One day’s entries ran thus:  ’Had a pleasant letter from mother.  Saw a beautiful lily in a window.  Found the pin I thought I had lost.  Saw such a bright, happy girl on the street.  Husband brought some roses in the evening.’

“Bits of verse and lines from her daily reading have gone into the Pleasure Book of this world-wise woman, until its pages are a storehouse of truth and beauty.[1]

“‘Have you found a pleasure for every day?’ the Fretful Woman asked.

“‘For every day,’ the low voice answered; ’I had to make my theory come true, you know.’”

The Fretful Woman ought to have stopped there, but did not; and she found that page where it was written—­“He died with his hand in mine, and my name upon his lips.”  Below were the lines from Lowell:—­

    “Lone watcher on the mountain height: 
      It is right precious to behold
    The first long surf of climbing light
      Flood all the thirsty eat with gold;

    “Yet God deems not thine aeried sight
      More worthy than our twilight dim,
    For meek obedience, too, is light,
      And following that is finding Him.”

In one of the battles of the Crimea, a cannon-ball struck inside the fort, crashing through a beautiful garden; but from the ugly chasm there burst forth a spring of water which is still flowing.  And how beautiful it is, if our strange earthly sorrows become a blessing to others, through our determination to live and to do for those who need our help.  Life is not given for mourning, but for unselfish service.