Farther
down into the earth than any of the rays of light can reach, he sends
other rays we cannot see, which go searching about in it, like long
fingers; and wherever they find and touch a seed, the life that is in
that seed begins to talk to itself, as it were, and straightway begins
to grow. Out of the dark earth he thus brings all the lovely green
things of the spring, and clothes the world with beauty, and sets the
waters running, and the birds singing, and the lambs bleating, and the
children gathering daisies and butter-cups, and the gladness
overflowing in all hearts--very different from what we see now--isn't
it, Ranald?"
"Yes, father; a body can hardly believe, to look at it now, that the
world will ever be like that again."
"But, for as cold and wretched as it looks, the sun has not forsaken
it. He has only drawn away from it a little, for good reasons, one of
which is that we may learn that we cannot do without him. If he were
to go, not one breath more could one of us draw. Horses and men, we
should drop down frozen lumps, as hard as stones. Who is the sun's
father, Ranald?"
"He hasn't got a father," I replied, hoping for some answer as to a
riddle.
"Yes, he has, Ranald: I can prove that. You remember whom the apostle
James calls the Father of Lights?"
"Oh yes, of course, father. But doesn't that mean another kind of
lights?"
"Yes.
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