p. 249 | QUIET WORKERS

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jun 3, 1880

QUIET WORKERS.

ALL the great agencies are silent. With noiseless footstep, Sleep and his twin brother Death walk the earth folding in their soft but strong embrace the children of men, some to wake with the returning light of morning, and others to wake only on the morning of the resurrection. No blare or clamor heralds the advent of the day-spring; silently the morning star hangs out his blazoned banner in the darkness, and Aurora on soundless pinion opes the gates of day. The wondrous agencies that emanate from the sun, giving life to plant and animal, work in utter silence. We see the results of their action in the wealth of foliage flung lavishly out to the breeze, in the verdant carpet that covers the ground, so short a time since brown and bare, and in the rich promise of harvest; but they speak not. In solemn silence all the stars move round this dark terrestrial ball, raining down upon us celestial influences, yet no voice nor sound among the radiant orbs is found.

Great workers are silent. While little men fume and fret, and make a mighty fuss with their petty doings, the man of giant powers works quietly. Steadily, with deliberation and foresight he lays his plans; without haste and without rest he moves along down his programme, gradually conquering the area he has marked around, carrying his points, overcoming difficulties, flanking oppositions, until at last he stands master of his fate. We seldom hear of these men until their work is well-nigh done—until they have climbed high up—and then we exclaim with Sidney Smith, "He is a miracle of genius! Yes, he is a miracle of genius because he is a miracle of labor; because his life has been one of incessant and intense work!"

How many of these quiet workers do we find in patient, steadfast, low-voiced women. In the serene air of intellectual calmness they plan out the day's doings, anticipate and provide for the demands likely to be made upon them, and set themselves to work to wear away the mountain of toil that looms up before them. In their calmness is their strength. They waste no nerve tissue in unavailing regret, in needless fear, in idle fretting against the bars that hem them in. They oppose to disaster a brave spirit, meet losses with a smile, bear disappointments with equanimity, and preserve sweetness of temper in every emergency.

This quietness of spirit aids one as much in the minor affairs of life as in great undertakings. Severe sickness, death, overwhelming calamity, force upon us an unnatural calmness by the very magnitude of the affliction they bring. But in common life "the little foxes spoil the grapes." Petty accidents move to impatience, slight annoyances destroy equanimity of temper, trifling opposition excites anger. The sewing-machine "cuts up," and instead of seeking out the cause and removing it, the operator determines to make it work anyhow, and gets herself into a perfect fret, while the machine remains cool and obstinate as before. A knot gets in a garment as it passes through the wringer, and is jerked through, bending the cylinders, wrenching the cogs, and throwing it quite out of order. The children fret, and are rudely hushed. No cure for these little ills is so potent as patience—"not mandragora nor all the drowsy sirups of the East will medicine" the fretting soul to peace. "Therein the patient must minister to himself." It is very hard to rein in the restive temper, to repress the stinging epithet, to work steadily in the harness of daily toil without "kicking," or "balking," or lying down in the furrow; but to the learning of these hard lessons does all the discipline of life point, and happiest they who soonest accept the situation and bend their necks to the yoke.—N. Y. Tribune.