Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Day by day the monarch went out to reap his corn
and bind up his sheaves.]
THE
WONDROUS SICKLE
And Other Stories
BY
A. L. O. E.
_Authoress of "Ned Franks,"_
_"The White Bear's Dean," &c._
[Illustration]
London
GALL AND INGLIS, 25 PATERNOSTER SQUARE;
_AND EDINBURGH._
Contents.
——————
THE WONDROUS SICKLE
THE ZAMINDAR
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VILLAGE AND THE CITY
THE STRAIT GATE
AN HOUR OF PERIL
THE GENEROUS BENEFACTOR
THE DESECRATED TEMPLE
THE TWENTY-FOUR PIECES OF SILVER
THE BAD BARGAIN
THE ILL-FAVOURED BRIDE
THE LADDER OF LIFE
THE BRAHMIN BOY
THE
WONDROUS SICKLE
And Other Stories
THE
WONDROUS SICKLE.
[Illustration]
FATH MASIH had been appointed "patwari" * in a large village. Though
many Hindus and Mahomedans in that village had been annoyed at the
situation being given to a Christian, and some bigoted individuals
annoyed him as much as they could, the poor in general were pleased.
Here was a man who dealt justly; here was a man who took no bribes;
here was a man ready to listen to the appeal of the humblest, a friend
of the widow and the orphan. The people thought better of Christianity,
when they saw the life led by the Christian.
* The business of the patwari is to measure land, keep a map of
the district, &c. His is a small office under Government, giving
considerable opportunity for fleecing the peasantry.
Fath Masih and his wife were almost shut out from intercourse with any
others of their own faith. The only Christian whom they ever saw was
Ishák, who had a place in the Forest Department at a station ten miles
distant, and who, about once a-month, managed to come over and see
them. Ishák was a pious man, and a warm friend of Fath Masih. It might
be expected that the meeting between the two Christians would be a
great pleasure to both. It would, indeed, have been so, had not Ishák,
every time that he came to Durhiala, found Fath Masih more and more in
low health, and depressed in spirits.
"I can hardly endure this life," said the poor patwari, one day, as
he sat under the shade of a banyan beside his friend. "My wife and I
have no one with whom to hold Christian converse. There is no church
in which, on Sundays, our souls can be refreshed by hearing the Word
of God. When we are in trouble, there is no one to remind us that the
Lord chasteneth those whom He loveth. If we look to the right, behold,
a Hindu temple,—to the left, we see through the trees the domes of a
Mahomedan mosque. It is very depressing!"
"It is so, indeed," replied Ishák, who was himself in much the same
position. "But you have still the comfort of the Bible and prayer."
The face of Fath Masih grew only the sadder. He gave a deep sigh
before he replied,—"The worst of all is that I am losing my pleasure
in reading the Bible, and all my comfort in prayer. My soul, from want
of Christian intercourse, is becoming dry, like a field that never is
watered. I fear that were my Lord to send a message to me, as He did to
Ephesus of old, it would be, 'I have something against thee: thou hast
fallen from thy first love'" (Rev. ii. 4). The words ended with a deep
sigh.
Ishák looked anxiously at his friend, whose melancholy was evidently
affecting his health.
"Does your wife feel the loneliness as much as you do?" asked Ishák,
after a pause.
"Perhaps not," replied Fath Masih gravely. "Many women come to visit
my wife, both Mahomedan and Hindu, but their talk is mere gossip. They
show their jewels, expect my wife to take pleasure in their weddings,
and mourn at their funerals. But, of course, there is no religious
intercourse between them."
Ishák looked almost as grave as his friend on hearing this. He had
noticed that Moni's dress was less distinctively Christian than it had
been in the city in which she had formerly dwelt; that she wore more
gaudy ornaments, as if to look like the women around her. He fancied
that Fath Masih was not quite satisfied with his wife, and felt that,
in this heathen place, her love, like his own, was growing cold.
"I sometimes wonder whether I ought to stop in Durhiala," said Fath
Masih.
"Your present situation was procured with much difficulty," observed
his friend; "and I remember how fervently you thanked God for granting
your prayers at last, and enabling you to be independent of all
assistance from the Mission."
"Yes, I was thankful, and I am thankful, for this," replied Fath Masih.
"I think it a mean thing, and a wrong thing, for a man who can support
himself to be always coming for help, and taking from the store, which
is all too small to supply the wants of such as are really unable to
work. I have seen men—with a great show of religion, too—who seemed
to me like the leech, with their one cry of 'Give, give!' Thank God!
I am able to help the good cause a little myself, instead of sitting
with folded hands, expecting others to put bread into the mouth of
a sluggard." Fath Masih followed the excellent example of those who
always give at least a tenth of whatever they possess to God, and find
that they are never the poorer for so doing.
"Were you to leave your post here, you would be dependent again,"
observed Ishák.
"That is what keeps me here, and the thought that God sent me here,"
said Fath Masih. "But am I right in believing that He sent me here,
when my soul is in danger of starving for lack of spiritual food? Its
life seems to be decreasing day by day. If we remain here long, I fear
that we shall be 'dead' Christians—Christians only in name!" Fath Masih
turned his face aside, to hide the tears that had started into his eyes.
Ishák said nothing more at that time, and indeed had then no
opportunity to continue the subject, for Moni gave notice that she had
served up the evening meal.
The food was eaten almost in silence. Fath Masih felt too sad and too
ill to care to eat much, and his friend was lost in thought. But when
the "pilau" was succeeded by fruit, as the heap of ripe mangoes rapidly
lessened, Ishák, in a cheerful tone, engaged in conversation, and even
Fath Masih, swallowing the luscious golden juice, seemed to forget half
his gloom. Ishák offered to tell a story, and Moni, as well as her
husband, gladly listened.
"Once upon a time there was a king, good and just, and beloved by his
subjects. But he had not been long seated on the throne before his
health began to fail. Re cared not to go forth from his palace, and all
its beautiful adornments gave him no pleasure. The feast spread before
him he scarcely tasted, for all his appetite was gone. The king grew
thin, his form wasted, he had no spirit either for work or amusement.
At last, the courtiers whispered amongst themselves, 'Alas! Alas! Our
king is gradually wasting away! He will not long remain in this world!'
"Many doctors were sent for; various were the opinions which they gave
as to the cause of the king's illness, the nature of his disease. Some
persons even hinted at poison. Much medicine was given to the king, but
still he grew no better. He seemed at last unable to do anything but
recline on cushions, taking hardly any nourishment, and finding solace
in nothing but smoking his hookah. It was commonly reported in the
city, 'Our good king is going to die.'
"At last, a very famous physician from a neighbouring country was sent
by its friendly king. The fame of this physician had been spread far
and wide, so numerous had been the cures which he had wrought. It was
said, 'Our king's last chance is from this man's skill; if it fail in
this case, all hope is lost!'
"The physician was admitted to the presence of the king, whom he found
pale and almost lifeless, with closed eyes, extended on his soft couch.
The physician felt the king's pulse, inquired into his symptoms, and
then asked for twenty-four hours before deciding on his case.
"Those twenty-four hours were a time of great anxiety to many both
within and without the palace, and most of all to the poor sick king.
"The next day the physician returned with something wrapped up in an
embroidered cloth, and with a countenance so cheerful that the hearts
of all gathered hope.
"'Have you, O physician! found out any cure for my grievous sickness?'
asked the king.
"'I have found something, O Ruler of the world! which, by the favour
of the All-merciful, may work a cure, if used with courage and
perseverance,' said the physician.
"'I will shrink from no remedy, however painful,' cried the king, 'if
only my lost health can be restored.'
"The physician slowly opened the folds of the cloth, and behold! a
bright sickle, with handle of carved ivory, appeared in view. The
attendants looked on in wonder, for they knew not by what magic power a
sickle could work a cure.
"Then said the physician, 'Every day, O mighty Monarch! take this
sickle in your royal hand, and descend into yon field in which I behold
corn ripening in the sunshine. Ply the sickle with force and vigour,
until the ivory handle almost cleave to the hand that grasps it, and
the toil-drops stand on your Majesty's brow. Then, returning to the
palace, deign to partake of the food which will then be set before your
Majesty. Persevere in thus using my sickle until yon field be reaped,
and if my lord's health be not improved, let his servant's head be the
forfeit.'
"The sick monarch agreed to try the virtue of the wonderful sickle,
which, when not actually used, was, by his command, to be kept locked
up in a sandal-wood chest. No one was to touch one ear of corn in the
little field except the king, who hoped to gather health from its
reaping.
"He went forth alone on the following morning with the wonderful
sickle, nor returned till his hand almost clave to the ivory, and the
toil-drops stood on his brow.
"Bring me food—and quickly!' cried the king, 'I am half dead with
fatigue!' And he threw himself back on his cushions.
"Food was served in silver vessels. The courtiers looked on wondering
as the king proceeded to eat it.
"'Yesterday,' whispered one, 'the dishes went away almost as full as
when they were brought. To-day the king has almost finished the pilau,
and now he is busy with the curry and rice!'
"After a plentiful meal, the king, who was usually sleepless, fell into
a long, deep slumber. When he awoke, he observed with a smile, 'I have
not had such a sleep for many months. There must be magic virtue in the
sickle.'
"Day by day the monarch went out to reap his corn, and bind up his
sheaves, which were always given to the poor. Day by day he returned
weary, and very hungry. His step grew firmer, his eye brighter, he
was far more cheerful and hopeful. Soon the king gave audience to
ambassadors, then felt able again to judge the cause of the poor in
person. All the dwellers in the city rejoiced to see his returning
health, all praised the gifted physician, and sick grandees offered the
latter thousands of rupees for magic sickles like that used by the king.
"When all the corn in the little field had been reaped by the royal
hand, the monarch sent for the physician. He loaded the doctor with
praises and costly gifts, and permitted him to return to his own land.
The wonderful sickle was preserved amongst the choicest treasures of
the king."
"Was there really magic virtue in the sickle?" asked Fath Masih, when
Ishák had finished his story.
Ishák's only reply was a smile.
"I suspect that the real medicine in it was the work which it made the
king do, and the cure was the effect of that work on the monarch's
health and spirits," observed Moni, who was a very intelligent woman.
"True," was Ishák's reply, "and it was not without a purpose that I
have told you this story, which I read in a book long ago. Fath Masih!
Your soul is faint, you are almost weary of life; you think that you
are placed in a spiritual desert; I see in it a field, yea, a promising
field of corn. You are surrounded by enemies of your faith; there is
not one amongst them that is not a possible convert to that faith.
To the Hindu temple and Mahomedan mosque throng beings with immortal
souls, souls that our Lord died to save, souls that may be won for Him.
Take the sharp weapon of God's Word in your hand; grasp it by the ivory
handle of prayer. Why hath God brought you to this dark place but that
your light may shine to His glory! There is little danger of love dying
out when it is actively, prayerfully engaged in work for the good of
souls."
Fath Masih made no reply, his eyes were fixed on the ground. A painful
consciousness had come upon him that his conduct had been that of the
man who buried his talent in the earth. He was becoming less and less
"fervent in spirit," because not "serving the Lord."
No more was said in conversation on the subject, but when Ishák that
evening led the family devotions, he earnestly prayed that the Holy
Spirit of God might be shed into the heart of each present, that not
one might stand idle when the Lord saith, 'Go work in my vineyard;'
but that all might inherit the blessing promised to those who, turning
'many to righteousness, shall shine as the stars for ever and ever.'
(Daniel xii. 3).
"We are all weakness!" he cried. "But Thou, O Lord, art our strength!
Thou canst put treasure into earthen vessels; Thou canst touch the dumb
lips with living fire; Thou canst give power to the feeblest reaper;
and from Thee alone we look for the harvest, the precious harvest of
souls!"
Ishák departed on the following morning, and a longer time than usual
elapsed before he was again able to revisit his friend. The weather
being exceedingly hot, Ishák started on his long walk to Durhiala
whilst the stars were yet shining in the sky, and arrived about two
hours after sunrise.
As Ishák approached the village, he met ten or twelve little children,
some of whom had primers in their hands, and who were smilingly
repeating to each other some simple rhyme which they had just been
learning.
"What! Is there a school in Durhiala?" asked Ishák of the eldest child
of the party.
"No, there never was a school," said the child; "but the patwari's bibi
lets us come to her of a morning, and teaches us 'bhajans' * and our
letters, and when we learn well, she sometimes gives us fruit."
* A wild kind of song, much admired by Hindus.
"And she tells us such nice stories!" cried a smiling, bright-eyed
little girl.
"What kind of stories?" asked Ishák.
Then half-a-dozen eager voices answered at once—
"Oh! About the Holy Baby that was put in a manger."
"About the Lord who loves little children."
"About the song of the angels."
"About the lost sheep and the Good Shepherd!"
Ishák smiled on the eager little pupils, and passed on, with a silent
thanksgiving to God that Moni had laid her hand to the sickle.
One lame little girl came limping after the rest.
Ishák stopped to speak to her also. "Have you too been to the patwari's
bibi?" he asked.
The child looked up timidly into his face, and reading kindness there
she replied, "She has been putting something on my bad boils to make
them well."
"Is the bibi clever at making people well?" inquired Ishák.
The girl looked rather doubtful. "She could not make little brother
well, though she tried," was the child's reply. "She sat beside him
all night long, but he died in the morning, and poor mother sobbed and
wailed, for he was her only boy."
"Did the bibi not try to comfort her?" asked Ishák gently, stooping
down to listen to the scarcely audible reply.
"The bibi told mother that she had lost her own—her only little baby;
but she said that God had comforted her in her trouble, for she knew
that her baby had gone to be with the Lord Jesus, who carries little
lambs in His bosom."
Again a silent thanksgiving arose from the heart of Ishák. "My friend's
wife is like the woman who hid leaven in three measures of meal,"
he said to himself. "Oh! May God make this once childless woman the
spiritual mother of many!"
Ishák had now come in view of the patwari's house. He saw Fath
Masih, who was engaged in such earnest conversation with an
intelligent-looking young man, that he did not notice the approach of
his friend.
Tired as he was, Ishák would not interrupt the conversation, for, from
the earnest manner of the speakers, and the few words which reached his
ears, it was evident that it was on the subject of religion. Ishák saw
Fath Masih place a little book in the young man's hand, and heard his
parting words, "You promise to read it—and with prayer!"
The reply Ishák could not hear, but he read it in the thoughtful
countenance of the young man as he turned and departed with a copy of
the Gospel in his hand.
Then Fath Masih caught sight of Ishák, and hastened to welcome him,
with a countenance beaming with joy. As he grasped his friend's hand,
he exclaimed, "O Ishák, I thank God for bringing me here! I think that
there are three real inquirers in this place!"
"You too have laid your hand to the sickle," said Ishák; "and, to judge
from your face, you do not find the work irksome."
"It is a blessed, blessed work!" exclaimed Fath Masih. "God forgive me
for leaving it so long undone! I feel now that not only missionaries,
but every Christian in India should pass on the glad tidings to others.
I used to content myself with praying, 'Lord! The harvest is great;
send forth more labourers into Thy harvest.' Now I myself have heard
His call, and venture humbly to say, 'Here am I, send me!'"
"But do not your efforts raise up much opposition?" asked Ishák. "Do
you not bring yourself into trouble?"
"I have sometimes a little of that trouble which is coupled with a
blessing," replied Fath Masih cheerfully. "But I never now feel that
weariness, that deadness of spirit which oppressed me when last you
were here. My experience has been something like that of the king in
your story," he added, smiling; "I find that health, and vigour, and
joy come from the use of the wonderful sickle!"
[Illustration]
THE ZAMINDAR.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE sun had set; the red glow had just died away in the sky, but
the moon had risen. A railway official, named Karim, stood on the
platform of the small station of Banda, watching for an expected train.
A zamindar (peasant) * named Matrá, came up to him, and asked him
respectfully when the train from Calcutta would arrive.
* In parts of India, a farmer.
"I expect it in ten minutes," answered Karim.
The zamindar sat down on the ground, like one who is very weary. As
Karim looked at him, pity arose in the official's heart. Matrá was
quite young, scarcely eighteen years of age, but lines of care were
already on his features. His blanket was little better than a rag. His
limbs, naturally strong and graceful, were thin as if from lack of
food. As he sat on the ground, a deep sigh came from the poor zamindar.
"You seem tired," observed Karim kindly.
"I was up before the sun, and have been driving the plough all the
day," said Matrá; "and now I have just walked seven miles to this
station."
"Are you going a long journey?" asked Karim, who noticed that the
zamindar had no bundle with him, not even a hookah or brass lota.
"I am not going on any journey," replied the zamindar. "I have come to
meet the train, because I hope that it may bring my father."
"You must be very anxious to see him that you come so far after a long
day's work," observed Karim, seating himself beside the zamindar on an
empty box which chanced to be on the platform.
It was pleasant to the zamindar to have some one to converse with, some
one who spoke in a friendly tone, and who was willing to listen. Matrá
was soon telling his simple story.
"My father is a sepoy," he said, "and it is ten or twelve years since
he left our village to march away with his regiment. I can remember
that day very well; how grand I thought it to see the sepoys marching,
and hear the music playing. But we have never had anything but trouble
since that unlucky day. First came my marriage."
"Was that a trouble?" asked Karim, smiling.
"It did not seem so at the time. We had fine clothes, and feasting,
and drum-beating, and fireworks let off in our village. It was a
grand 'tamasha!' The girl's family were Chhatries, so, of course, my
grandfather would have all done in good style, and many rupees were
given both to the father of the bride and the Brahmins, and there were
jewels to buy besides. Then first my grandfather fell into debt, and in
debt we have been ever since. It is easier to get into a bog than out
of it."
Karim nodded his head in assent.
[Illustration: "You must be very anxious to see him that you come so
far after a long day's work," observed Karim.]
"Before the girl came to live with us," continued the young zamindar,
"as she was playing with her little companions on the top of the house,
she fell over, broke her neck, and was taken up dead!"
Matrá could not be expected to mourn much for a child-wife whom he had
hardly seen. Karim rightly guessed that the zamindar's evident regret
was chiefly on account of the debt incurred by the expense of such a
profitless marriage. "And what were your other troubles?" he asked.
"My grandfather fell sick not long after this, and sick he continued
for years. He had no son but my father, and my father was far away
with the army. Mere boy as I was, I did what I could, looked after the
buffaloes, and worked in the fields, but I could not do the work of a
man. And there was always the debt a-growing, like the gourds in the
rains."
"Did your father do nothing to help you?" inquired Karim.
"He sent several times five-rupee notes," said the zamindar, "but it
was like throwing stones into a bog, which swallows them up and you see
no more of them. The money-lenders could never have enough. My mother
fretted and went on pilgrimage, and bathed at holy ghauts, and did
pujá at many shrines. But she took the smallpox and died, though she
had made many offerings to the goddess of smallpox." Matrá sighed very
deeply; the loss of his mother lay much more heavily on his heart than
that of his little wife.
"You have indeed had troubles," observed Karim.
"You have not heard the end of them," said the poor young zamindar. "My
grandfather died at last. I paid all the respect I could to his body. I
feasted for days a hundred neighbours who came to its burning, gave a
cow and many rupees to the Máhá-Brahmin, and myself carried the ashes
to the Ganges, though it was just the season when the corn was ripe
for reaping. If I had been in the bog of debt before, I was now up to
my eyes! It's heartless work watering one's fields in the dry season,
and seeing the corn springing up so green, when one knows that the
money-lender may sweep down any day like the locusts, and eat up all
the fruit of one's toil!"
"Is not running into debt at all the cause of the mischief?" observed
Karim.
"What is to be done?" said the zamindar sadly. "Wedding and funeral
ceremonies are the ruin of the poor, and bad seasons which come now and
then, when there's drought, and the heat dries up all the crop."
"Have you no relations to help you?" asked Karim.
"Not one on earth but my poor old grandmother, who is now scarcely able
even to spin or card cotton; and my father, who has been so long away.
But he is coming back at last!" said the zamindar, and a look of joy
beamed on his careworn face. "I had a letter from him some weeks ago
(I've learned to read a little in a village school), and I made out
that he would be here before the rabi * harvest is ripe; the corn is
green enough yet, but I thought that after work, I would come over here
to meet him. Maybe my father will arrive sooner than he said; any-ways,
I would not miss my chance of the first sight of him, if I had to walk
twenty miles."
* The spring harvest. Let it be borne in mind that there are two annual
harvests at least in some parts of India, so that the zamindar may
often be seen ploughing in one field, while a rich crop covers the next
one.
"Would you remember the face of the father whom you have not seen since
you were a child?" asked Karim.
"I know that he was tall—taller than any other peasant in our
village—and that he used to seat me on his shoulder, and then I could
pluck mangoes from the high boughs," replied Matrá, brightening at the
recollection of the happy time which he had had with his father. "I
can't just bring his face to my mind—I wish that I could—but surely I
should know him if he arrived. How long the train is of coming!" he
said suddenly, looking down the long, dark line of railway.
"The whistle has not yet sounded," said the official; "we shall have
notice when the train is drawing near."