Bono. “But, neighbor Malo, the duty I speak of is not to them but to God. I have, as you very well know, turned the mills of Henrique these forty years, and also the fulling mills of Gonzalez, his nephew. As I said before, this old Alva’s daughter, who used you so scurvily, both waters and washes her sheep in my stream. Not one of these people ever thanked me; yet I love very much to see their sheep fat, their lambs frisking on the hills, and their families thriving. I indeed enjoy their happiness as though it were my own.”
Malo. “By this crouching spirit you invite insult and aggression.”
Bono. “But are we not as well off in this respect as our neighbors? The earth bringeth not forth fruit for itself; the ocean shares not in the profits of the voyage. Who thanks the patient ox for dragging the plough all his life? The sheep gives her fleece to clothe them and then has her throat cut and her skin pulled over her ears, and not so much as ’Thank you’ or ’By your leave’ to it all. You and I have not thanked God for this pleasant moonlight, this sweet shade, and these flowers that perfume our banks. He, without any thanks, causes ’his sun to rise on the evil and on the good and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.’ Surely then we, His instruments, ought not to complain who are so forgetful ourselves.”
Malo. “You are a very noisy brook as everybody knows, but I am determined to take care of myself. I shall go home and stay at home. And you, who are as full of Scripture as a brook is of pebbles, ought to know that charity begins at home.”
Bono. “True, but it does not stay there. I shall be sorry to lose your company; we have run together so long, but if you are resolved to benefit only yourself, I am just as firmly resolved to benefit others; yes, the last drop—I will share even that with the faint and the thirsty.”
Thus Bono went on overflowing with kindness the whole world. The good brook ran among the vineyards, and the grapes hung in rich clusters; it ran through the fields, and the grass turned to deeper green; the trees said, “He waters us; let us shadow him.” The great oaks and sycamores bent kindly over the brook, and their branches screened it from the heat of the sun. The shepherds often wanted wood, but they said: “Let us not cut down the trees that shade the brook, for it is a good brook. It turns our mills and waters our fields and flocks. God be thanked for the running water!” Thus the brook that worked for everybody was loved and protected. It grew larger and ran in the Guadalquiver, and there helped to water larger fields and turn larger machinery; it ran to the ocean and foamed beneath the keel of mighty ships and was diffused over the whole universe of God. It sent up so many vapors to heaven that they returned in plentiful showers bringing back more than they carried. Thus the brook that watered, not expecting any thanks or profit, but because it was duty, was loved and blessed.
But how fared it with Malo who had retired into himself to take care of himself and left his channel dry and dusty? For a while he had more water than he knew what to do with. He was obliged to work night and day raising his banks to keep it in. He labored a great deal harder to keep the waters from breaking out and doing good to some one, watering some poor man’s perishing crops, than he ever did before in watering and fertilizing a whole province. Meanwhile, in the plains below, the grass withered, the mill stopped, the flocks died, the shepherds cursed the brook, and some of them cursed God. But Malo said: “Let them curse. I’m for myself. I’ve water enough.” But by and by a fire at which some shepherds were cooking their dinner got away from them, and the wind being high ran up the dry bed of the brook in the withered grass and dry leaves, and burnt up the forest on the sides of the hill that fed the pond and all the trees that shaded it. The sun, then pouring in with meridian heat, began to shrink the waters. There being little motion in them since they had ceased to run, they putrefied and the fish perished. Snakes, lizards, and all vile creatures came to live there. Instead of flowers and foliage, bullrushes, reeds, and the deadly aconite grew there. As the waters grew less and less fewer vapors went up from it and less rain came down. After a while it mantled over with a green scum, and malaria began to rise from it. People began to die in the neighborhood; malaria got among the soldiers in a garrison near by, and the doctors said, “It is the pond; it must be drained.” Then all the country round about and the soldiers came together and drained it dry, and brought down earth and rocks from the mountain, and filled up the bed of the lake that there might be no more stagnant water.
Thus it fell out to the brook that was determined to benefit only itself. It lost all. It had both God and man to fight against. For if men are not always grateful, they are not often slack in repaying injuries. Let us follow the example of the industrious brook, and by it learn in blessing to be blessed.