Hung by a Leaf.
I was passing by a large stationery store, and I saw in the window something that arrested my attention at once. It was a ledger, an enormous ledger, suspended by a single leaf.
Three eyelets had been fastened in the leaf near the edge, three wires passed through the eyelets, and from those three wires the entire volume hung, its great leather covers and its hundreds of large, thick pages falling down on either side.
It was a splendid test, not only of the stoutness of the paper, but of the book-binder's art. There it hung for days, yet the leaf did not start, nor tear.
As often as I saw that silent parable, I thought to myself, "Now, how would you like to have that test applied to yourself? How would you like to have any leaf of your life taken at random, and your whole life hung up by it in the world's show window? Aren't there some leaves—many leaves—that wouldn't stand the strain? Aren't there some leaves—many leaves—that are too weak, not sound in fiber, loose in the stitching? Wouldn't you very much rather lie in the show window all nicely shut up in the covers? Ah, can you stand the test of the single leaf?"
That is what I said to myself; but as for addressing those questions to you, I wouldn't for the world be so impolite!
Just a Little Different.
So closely interwoven are the lines of our crowded existences, and so many powerful elements are involved in our modern living, that when even a trifle goes wrong at any part the most fearful consequences may easily result.
This was shown once by a dreadful explosion in the new power house of the New York Central Railroad in the heart of New York City. Ten were killed by the awful blast, scores were injured, and damage was done amounting to two million dollars.
The cause of the accident, as reported in the papers, was a train of six steel electric cars, sent out to have its brakes tested. The brakes did not work, and the train smashed into tilt, bumper, threw it to one side, and then crashed into a pier. The shock broke a gas-pipe, and it seems to have been the accumulated gas from this leak that, half an hour later, was exploded, probably by a chance electric spark. The train was not equipped with sand. Probably if sand had been used on the slippery rails the train could have been brought to a standstill without carrying away the bumper and breaking the gas-pipe.
If the train had had sand—if the brakes had worked properly—if the bumper had been stronger—if the gas-pipe had been laid deeper— if the broken pipe had been promptly mended—if no electric current had been short-circuited,—here are at least six "ifs," any one of which would have prevented the catastrophe.
Ah, as we look back upon our lives from the clear seeing of eternity, God grant that we may not be obliged to groan with an agony of grief, "If they had been just a little different!"