scratched off from my calendar, another slips by, and I cannot tell how
many more of the sparse remainder of possible years are really mine. I
live in days of hardship and privation, when it seems more natural to
feel ill than well; without holidays or rest or peace; friends and the
sons of my friends have been killed; death seems to be feeling always
now for those I most love; the newspapers that come in to my house tell
mostly of blood and disaster, of drownings and slaughterings, of
cruelties and base intrigues. Yet never have I been so sure that there
is a divinity in man and that a great order of human life, a reign of
justice and world-wide happiness, of plenty, power, hope, and gigantic
creative effort, lies close at hand. Even now we have the science and
the ability available for a universal welfare, though it is scattered
about the world like a handful of money dropped by a child; even now
there exists all the knowledge that is needed to make mankind
universally free and human life sweet and noble. We need but the faith
for it, and it is at hand; we need but the courage to lay our hands upon
it and in a little space of years it can be ours.

THE END.