The spring cannot brighten them, the summer cannot scorch them, the
autumn cannot wither them, the winter cannot kill them.
There are evergreen men and women in the world, praise be to God! Not
many of them, but a few. They are not the showy folk; they are not
the clever, attractive folk. (Nature is an old-fashioned shopkeeper;
she never puts her best goods in the window.) They are only the
quiet, strong folk; they are stronger than the world, stronger than
life or death, stronger than Fate. The storms of life sweep over
them, and the rains beat down upon them, and the biting frosts creep
round them; but the winds and the rains and the frosts pass away, and
they are still standing, green and straight. They love the sunshine
of life in their undemonstrative way--its pleasures, its joys. But
calamity cannot bow them, sorrow and affliction bring not despair to
their serene faces, only a little tightening of the lips; the sun of
our prosperity makes the green of their friendship no brighter, the
frost of our adversity kills not the leaves of their affection.
Let us lay hold of such men and women; let us grapple them to us with
hooks of steel; let us cling to them as we would to rocks in a tossing
sea. We do not think very much of them in the summertime of life.
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