coughing and wheezing as this of the congregation, would you not shake your head? And, then, suppose you learned that the young ones were growing dim-sighted? What kind of farmer would you be to go on treating those afflicted sheep on the old condition that had caused their injury?
Plato reprehended a boy for playing at some childish game. "Thou reprovest me," said the boy, "for a very little thing."—"Custom," said Plato, "is no little thing."
And not only are we to be (unless we turn to athletics for the cure) a race of bald-headed, round-shouldered spectacle-wearers, but a race of ugly dyspeptics, divided between lank-sides and potbellies. What, with our horse-cars, crowded on bright days, when every one should walk, with our corseted women and girls crushing their livers into their abdomen, and their hearts into their lungs; with our narrow-chested weaklings with quavering stomachs, depending on the deadly revival of the cocktail—may the Lord have pity on our descendants!
Beecher was right—there are some things you cannot learn out of a hymn-book half so well as out of a tree. And there are other things you can learn better than a precept can teach, out of a sallow face, or a red nose, or dull eyes, or peevish mouths, and miserable homes. You
