Say not you, There are yet four months, and then comes harvest? behold, I say to you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields…
A small bit of rock feels something or other tickling it behind; and through a seam, at last, there trickle out some drops of water, as if the rock itself were shedding tears; and the drops increase; and a rill is formed; and it runs quietly, finding its way, down the declivity. Soon another little rill is met on the road, and they join forces; and a little further down a third is added; and then a fourth, and then a fifth, and so on, till by-and-by they make a plunge through the gorge with spray and thunder; and out comes below the stream, voluble and violent; and down in the meadows it quiets itself, and runs between flowery banks, until a mill catches it and makes it work for its way; and passing through industries it still deepens; other streams break into it here and there towards its mouth; and there the city dwells upon, and navies ride upon it; and in its pride of strength and depth and width and accomplishments, it says, "Who but I?" But that great voluminous river is itself the child of those drops, those trickling rills, those mountain springs. If it had not been for them it would not have existed nor have been nourished. We need not despise, therefore, in any direction, small things. Who can tell what that poor old nurse wrought who cared for the orphan child of her mistress that was gone, crooning songs to the child, telling her fairy stories, and making an empyrean above her? Setting loose in that little child all the germs of poetry, she fashioned its mind; and her humble, unconscious work will never be washed out; nor will the colour be taken from it; it will go on and be part and parcel of the child, if it lives to be fifty or a hundred years old. When the child has come to mature womanhood they will say: "Well, were you not brought up in your babyhood by that old nurse?" "Yes; she was a nice old creature," and that is all you say about it; but you are very largely what you are from what she did for you. If the throbbing of her heart sets yours to throbbing more, if the outlook of her imagination threw open the windows of yours, she, I might almost say, was your creator; and though she was so humble and powerless, without learning or genius, nevertheless you were so plastic that her influence moulded you.
(H. Ward Beecher.)
Parallel VersesKJV: Say not ye, There are yet four months, and then cometh harvest? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes, and look on the fields; for they are white already to harvest.