Who sows the seed may find
The field of harvest fair,
The song of reapers ringing clear,
When all the sheaves are there.
But time will fell the tree,
The rose will fade and die,
The harvest time will pass away,
As does the song and sigh.
But whoso plants in love,
The word of hope and trust,
Shall find it still alive with God--
It is not made of dust.
It cannot fade nor change,
Though worlds may scattered be,
For love alone has high repose
In immortality.
If the teacher, as he stands before his class, could project his vision
into the future--could see his pupils developed into manhood and
womanhood, and could see all that he might do or fail to do, he would
read a meaning well-nigh beyond comprehension into the question, "Why do
I teach?"
A second answer to this query lies in our obligation to pass on the
wonderful heritage which we here received from our pioneer forefathers.
The story of their sacrifice, devotion, and achievement is unique in the
history of the world. Only recently a pioneer of 1852 thrilled a
parents' class in one of our wards with the simple narrative of his
early experiences. His account of Indian raids, of the experience with
Johnston's army, of privations and suffering, of social pastimes--all of
these things rang with a spirit of romance.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25