And
how are blessings bestowed? _Out of the heart._
Once there was a nobleman[66] with power and riches. He loved
everything. Learning and art and all had he partaken of. But the times
were troubled in his country, and for some reason he lost all he had
and was imprisoned. Then there was scarcely anything in his life. All
he had was the cell, the prison-yard, and, now and again, a word or
two with his keeper. The cell was small and gloomy, the keeper silent,
the yard confined and so closely paved with cobblestones that one
could scarcely see the earth between them.
Yes, indeed, it was a small world and a barren one into which they had
forced him. But he had his thoughts, and daily as he walked in his
confined yard, they were busy with the past, weaving, weaving. What
patterns they made, and he, poor one, was sometimes afraid of them!
But still they kept on weaving, weaving.
One day, as he walked in his yard, he noticed that between two of the
stones there seemed to be something and he looked at it. With the
greatest attention he studied it, then he knelt on the rude stones and
looked and looked again. His heart beat and his hands trembled, but
yet with a touch as gentle as any one could give, he moved a grain or
two of soil and there, beneath, was something which the poor captive
cried out for joy to see--a tiny plant. As if in a new world, and
certainly as if another man, he cared daily for the tender little
companion that had come to share his loneliness; he thought of it
first in the morning and last at night.
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