"Pluck it all up!" cried the child. "It is bitter and hateful; I will have nought in my field but strawberries and roses."
And the Angel smiled, with folded hands.
Noon came, and afternoon, with long rays sloping westward; and the child walked in his field with slow and thoughtful steps. There were no flowers now in the grass, but everywhere a dusky leaf with dusky berries; and the air was full of the fragrance of them, sweet and yet bitter; bitter, yet oh, how sweet!
"What is this," the child asked, "that is bitter, and yet sweeter than aught else in the world?"
And the Angel said, "It is wormwood!"
THE PIT
