TALKING OF THINGS AND THEMES, AND NOT PERSONS by Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jul 6, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 27.

TALKING OF THINGS AND THEMES, AND NOT PERSONS.

By Mrs. L. D. Avery-Stuttle

BY MRS. L. D. AVERY-STUTTLE.

There being so many subjects of deep interest to talk about, and to engage the attention of both young and old, it is indeed strange that we should care to spend a moment of precious time in senseless gossip.

Occasionally we meet persons with whom it is a real pleasure to converse. When we leave them, we feel that we have learned something,—that something worth the while has been added to our store of useful knowledge. Is it not pitiful that people can spend a whole evening together in conversation upon the most trifling subjects—lighter than the foam of the sea—when events of the most tremendous import are constantly transpiring all about us?

“Well,” says one, “I have no time to read and keep intelligent regarding passing events, and if it is wrong to repeat any ill I have heard about my neighbors, really, there is nothing left to talk about, and so I don’t see but I must stop talking altogether.”

“Well, my friend, I think it would be well for you to do so,—pardon my plainness of speech. There are times, you know, when ‘silence is golden.’ O, if we could only learn to say nothing when we have nothing to say! If we could but train ourselves to talk about the many, many beautiful things, and wonderful things, which—if we will but keep our eyes open—we can see every day about us!”

The spring opens, warm and lovely. The earth is covered with a soft, mossy green carpet, with which the expensive carpets of the most elegant mansion can not compare.

Do you want music?—Listen to the orchestra of the grand old forests. The birds and insects are pouring forth their roundelays, until every flower and twig and blade of grass are a-quiver with music. “Nothing profitable to talk about?”—Go out into the warm, spring sunshine, and read a chapter from the open book of nature.

Summer comes on apace. The great red eye of the sun glares upon the earth. The drowsy hum of insects fill the air, and the scent of flowers is almost intoxicating. The green of the trees, and of the grass has taken on a deeper hue. Little children lie under the shade of the friendly trees, and the patient cattle stand contentedly in mid-stream. There is a peculiar beauty, even in the fervid heat of summer, which we do not find elsewhere.

Hard indeed must be the heart, and dull the senses which see not in all this beauty the loving Hand which created it.

“Nothing to talk about?”

Ah! “Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge.”

Then, silently, slowly, almost imperceptibly, summer merges into autumn. The days become a little shorter, the night’s a little cooler. The maple trees by the gate are the first to give warning that Jack Frost has begun his nightly rounds, by hanging out his red and yellow banners. O, the glories of the forest now! What bewildering shades of red and gold and russet and brown and crimson and yellow! The great Master Artist is so lavish of His colors. What a sense of drowsy contentment and peace we feel, as our feet press the crisp, rustling carpet! As we look up into the heaven of yellow sunshine, we think of the rainbow about the throne, and vaguely wonder how heaven can be more beautiful than earth.

After a walk in the fields on such a day as this, who could bring himself to join in trivial gossip?

And old winter is not without his share of beauty. The song birds are flown, to be sure, but still the little sparrows, with their tiny, stockingless feet, hop upon the window-sill, to beg for a few crumbs in the name of the Master. The windows are draped with a more delicate tapestry than was ever spun by the hand of man. The carpet of snow reflects a thousand diamonds as the bright sun shines upon it, and the merry jingle of bells makes us forget that we are children no longer.

O, nature is so beautiful in all her phases! Can we find nothing interesting enough to engage our attention, and call forth our praise to a kind and beneficent Creator, in all this?

But, if in the seasons, with their varied and changeful beauty, with their birds and flowers and trees, with their soft zephyrs and brilliant foliage, or with stern winter’s fleecy mantle,—if there be nothing in these to call forth our songs of praise, and give us worthy subjects for conversation, let us step out-doors on some calm, bright night, and turn our eyes heavenward. What countless multitudes of systems and whirling planets! What myriad worlds! What blazing suns! What torches of the Eternal! Let our attitude be reverent, for we are in the presence of Him who counteth the stars, and knoweth them all by name.

Ah, how small we feel as we continue to gaze! How our petty cares and troubles and perplexities dwindle, as we turn our astonished eyes away from earth, to the royal gallery of heaven!

No time now for idle gossip,—but what a time for self-examination!

Sometime, if we live, we shall see strange sights in these same heavens. We shall see the “sign of the Son of man.” We shall watch the blaze of glory which surrounds Him, growing larger and higher as it nears our earth. What myriads of angels! Ah, they are gathering the harvest of earth. The sea is giving up its dead. Look, they ascend heavenward amid the clashing of rocks, and the wails of the ungodly.

“Nothing to talk about,” with such themes as these to engage our attention? Ah, we are a spectacle to men and to angels. For we may be sure that, if we turn our gaze often, and with interest, upward to the starry worlds above us, no less often, and with greater interest do the far-off dwellers of those sinless worlds regard with tender anxiety this—the one lost sheep.

Then, with the eyes of the universe upon us, and with the fast fleeting moments of probation rapidly passing, when we are on the very eve of such tremendous events as have fallen upon no other race, and upon no other people,—what a time is this for idle gossip and foolish conversation!

Shall we longer regard our words as “little things?” Believe me, they are mighty; for it is by them that we are to be justified or condemned in that day which hasteth greatly.

Battle Creek, Mich.