the bush belonged to the rose
family, but had some ineradicable taint about it, which prevented the buds from
coming out, and accounted for its generally sickly condition. There were a few,
indeed, who maintained that the stock was good enough, that the trouble was in
the bog, and that under more favorable conditions the plant might be expected to
do better. But these persons were not regular gardeners, and being condemned by
the latter as mere theorists and day dreamers, were, for the most part, so
regarded by the people. Moreover, urged some eminent moral philosophers, even
conceding for the sake of the argument that the bush might possibly do better
elsewhere, it was a more valuable discipline for the buds to try to bloom in a
bog than it would be under more favorable conditions. The buds that succeeded in
opening might indeed be very rare, and the flowers pale and scentless, but they
represented far more moral effort than if they had bloomed spontaneously in a
garden.
    The regular gardeners and the moral philosophers had their way. The bush
remained rooted in the bog, and the old course of treatment went on. Continually
new varieties of forcing mixtures were applied to the roots, and more recipes
than could be numbered, each declared by its advocates the best and only
suitable preparation, were used to kill the vermin and remove the mildew. This
went on a very long time. Occasionally some one claimed to observe a slight
improvement in the appearance of the bush, but there were quite as many who
declared that it did not look so well as it used to. On the whole there could
not be said to be any marked change. Finally, during a period of general
despondency as to the prospects of the bush where it was, the idea of
transplanting it was again mooted, and this time found favor. Let us try it, was
the general voice. Perhaps it may thrive better elsewhere, and here it is
certainly doubtful if it be worth cultivating longer. So it came about that the
rosebush of humanity was transplanted, and set in sweet, warm, dry earth, where
the sun bathed it, the stars wooed it, and the south wind caressed it. Then it
appeared that it was indeed a rosebush. The vermin and the mildew disappeared,
and the bush was covered with most beautiful red roses, whose fragrance filled
the world.
    It is a pledge of the destiny appointed for us that the Creator has set in
our hearts an infinite standard of achievement, judged by which our past
attainments seem always insignificant, and the goal never nearer. Had our