FLOWERS FOR THE LIVING
Sending flowers to the dead is a beautiful tribute to their worth while living. Some day I shall lie in my coffin with closed lips and folded hands, looking through dead and expressionless eyes into the great eternity that opens to receive me; and those who loved me will bring sweet flowers and lay them near my hard bed and drop a tear to mark the place of our parting. But I will not be able to smell the flowers, nor to see the tear, nor to look into their beloved faces and catch the gleam of friendship and the glory of human love. It will then be too late for a responsive smile and hand squeeze and a tender word of recognition; for I will be far away from the touch of friendship, and only the cold clod of the senseless mortal will be there to receive the gift of love.
Below I publish a bouquet that was sent to me while my heart is hungry for appreciation, and my soul longs for congenial companionship; for we are all groping our way through this jungle of theory and blindfolded guess work, and we are glad to know that others are going our way:
Reading, Pa., January 7, 1910.
Jake Haiden, Esq.,
Chatham Run, Pa.
My Dear Sir—Permit me to introduce myself for the purpose of expressing my appreciation of the beautiful sentiments contained in your “philosophy,” appearing in the “Reading Times” daily. I was particularly impressed with the article in today’s issue, and thank you sincerely for same. I am looking forward to the time when the citizens of this community will become better and more generally acquainted with you personally and with your writings, and I assure you that if my recommendation to my friends and neighbors will in any measure help to call attention to the increasing value and attractiveness of the “Times,” I unreservedly give it, for I feel that if our merchants, business men and men in all walks in life, should spend a few moments each day in silent communion with you, we will all feel better and accomplish more for the philosophy of “Jake Haiden.”
With my very best wishes, I am,
Yours truly,
JENKIN HILL.
These are the bouquets that give new life to the living, new hope to the despondent, new inspiration to the writer who has often doubted the value of his work. For any one who treads on new paths and leaves the old beaten tracks where the thoughtless millions have trod for centuries, is so likely to be misunderstood. When the independent thinker finds himself away from the old ruts where the heavy chariots of plodding thought have left deep gutters for the millions to follow, he feels that he is traveling alone, and is ever reaching out to grasp some friendly hand and feel the warmth of a congenial living body and a progressive mind.
Some day Mr. Hill will carry a bouquet to a dead friend, but the flowers will not be able to bring new hope and new inspiration and new courage, like his letter has brought to me. And yet, I have never met Mr. Hill, to touch his hand and look into his face and express pleasure in meeting him. Our bodies are total strangers to each other, but out on the sea of thought we met and touched each other’s boat, and now go floating down the storm-tossed stream toward the land of God knows where—out beyond these shadows that hide our faces and our motives from our neighbors and cause us to misjudge our fellow man, and to throw him thorns and thistles instead of the sacred flower of human love.
If you are out on the sea of thought, drifting before the winds that are ever blowing us away from the land of knowledge, and making life an endless pull against wind and current—and you meet others out there in the shadow—don’t go off quietly and hide until they are past. Hail them—call to them in friendly tones and tell them you are going the same way and would enjoy their companionship. Don’t wait until the storms of life have wrecked their boat and you find their dead body on the shore, beyond the reach of your flowers and love and appreciation.
After all is said, the religion of humanity comes nearest to our hearts. We need no towering church spires, nor cold stone walls to make our place of worship a secluded spot. The world is our book, and humanity our altar, on which we may lay our white rose of love and our pale lily of charity, and reach out to the Great Jehovah, through the responsive heart-throbs of our friends and neighbors.