MORNING DEW 



WHEN touched by the morning sun, dewdrops in the grass 

 look like fire-flowers. They change each moment as the sun 

 climbs higher and as the lips of light drink away the dark. 

 Every touch of the morning's breath shakes some gleaming 

 globe from blade or leaf. As the morning showers of sun- 

 shine fall across the field, ten thousand flaming fairy feet are 

 dancing in the dew. These dewdrops look like little stars 

 that flash and flame and fade away. They look like silver 

 flakes far-fallen from the sky. 



What a picture when these shimmering spangles of the 

 dew are seen on a full-flowered flax field! Acres and acres 

 of blue blossoms flashing their tiny torches in the morning 

 light! But the beautiful cups of blue fold up soon after the 

 sunlight falls. No tapestry or finest art can match the deli- 

 cate tracery of the flax-bloom. If I were printing beauty on 

 finest silk, I would find a model in the blue sky bloom of flax. 



"The hillside's dew-pearled." That sight caught Brown- 

 ing's eyes, and we have seen the hillside so. The common- 

 ness of such beauty is a hint of the uncommonness of God. 

 He lets fall for us the diamonds of the dew. They fall as 

 copiously on the brown rock's face as they do on the face 

 of the finest flower. They wash the weeds with morning 

 freshness as if the weeds were violets or dandelions or clover- 

 bloom. The ministry of the dew is so gloriously common 

 that we are apt to miss its uncommon glory. It is as if 

 beauty had gone to waste among the weeds. But the weeds 

 have colors and shapes and shadows, and dews among the 



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