nothing; and it never struck him to think of the young corn blades'
struggling life. Nay, once, when his wife asked him if the wheat was
doing well, he answered, "Very fairly," and nothing more. But she then,
because the evening was fine and the fairer weather had revived her
failing powers, said she would walk out by the cornfields herself.
And so it came to pass that they went out together. And together they
looked all along the long green ridges of wheat, and watched the blades
as they quivered and glistened in the breeze which sprang up with the
setting sun. Together they walked, together they looked; looking at the
same things and with the same human eyes; even as they had walked, and
looked, and lived together for years, but with a world dividing their
hearts; and what was ever to unite them?
Even then, as they moved along, she murmured half aloud, half to
herself, thinking of the anxiety that had passed away: "Thou visitest
the earth, and blessest it; thou makest it very plenteous."
To which he answered, if answer it may be called, "Why are you always
so gloomy? Why should Scripture be quoted about such common things?"
And she looked in his face and smiled, but did not speak; and he could
not read the smile, for the life of her heart was as hidden to him as
the life of the corn blades in the field.
And so they went home together, no more being said by either; for, as
she turned round, the sight of the setting sun and of the young freshly
growing wheat blades brought tears into her eyes.
_She_ might never see the harvest upon earth again; for her that other
was at hand, whereof the reapers were to be angels.
And when she opened her Bible that night she wrote on the flyleaf the
text she had quoted to her husband, and after the text the date of the
day, and after the date the words, "Bless me, even me also, oh, my
Father, that I may bring forth fruit with patience!"
Very peaceful were the next few weeks that followed, for all nature
seemed to rejoice in the weather, and the corn blades shot up till they
were nearly two feet high, and about them the Master of the Harvest had
no complaints to make.
But at the end of that time, behold, the earth began to be hard and
dry again, for once more rain was wanted; and by degrees the growing
plants failed for want of moisture and nourishment, and lost power and
colour, and became weak and yellow in hue. And once more the husbandmen
began to fear and tremble, and once more the brow of the Master of the
Harvest was overclouded with angry apprehension.
And as the man got more and more anxious about the fate of his crops,
he grew more and more irritable and distrustful, and railed as before,
only louder now, against the heavens because there was no rain; against
the earth because it lacked moisture; against the corn plants because
they had waxed feeble.
Nay, once, when his sick wife reproved him gently, praying him to
remember how his fears had been turned to joy before, he reproached her
in his turn for sitting in the house and pretending to judge of what
she could know nothing about, and bade her come out and see for herself
how all things were working together for ill.
And although he spoke it in bitter jest, and she was very ill, she said
she would go, and went.
So once more they walked out together, and once more looked over the
cornfields; but when he stretched out his arm and pointed to the long
ridges of blades, and she saw them shrunken and faded in hue, her heart
was grieved within her, and she turned aside and wept over them.
Nevertheless, she said she durst not cease from hope, since an hour
might renew the face of the earth, if God so willed; neither should she
dare to complain, _even the harvest were to fail_. At which words the
Master of the Harvest stopped short, amazed, to look at his wife, for
her soul was growing stronger as her body grew weaker, and she dared to
say things now which she would have had no courage to utter before.
But of all this he knew nothing, and what he thought, as he listened,
was that she was as weak in mind as in body; and what he said was that
a man must be an idiot who would not complain when he saw the bread
taken from under his very eyes!
And his murmurings and her tears sent a shudder all along the long
ridges of sickly corn blades, and they asked one of another, "Why does
he murmur? and, Why does she weep? Are we not doing all we can? Do we
slumber or sleep, and let opportunities pass by unused? Are we not
watching and waiting against the times of refreshing? Shall we not
be found ready at last? Why does he murmur? and, Why does she weep?
Is she, too, fading and waiting? Has she, too, a master who has lost
patience?"
Meantime, when she opened her Bible that night, she wrote on the
flyleaf the text, "Wherefore should a man complain, a man for the
punishment of his sins?" and after the text the date of the day, and
after the date the words, "Thou dost turn Thy face from us, and we are
troubled; but, Lord, how long, how long?"
And by and by came on the long-delayed times of refreshing, but so
slowly and imperfectly that the change in the corn could scarcely
be detected for a while. Nevertheless, it told at last, and stems
struggled up among the blades, and burst forth into flowers, which
gradually ripened into ears of grain. But a struggle it had been, and
continued to be, for the measure of moisture was scant, and the due
amount of warmth in the air was wanting. Nevertheless, by struggling
and effort the young wheat advanced, little by little, in growth;
preparing itself, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, as best
it could, for the great day of the harvest. As best it could! Would the
Master of the Harvest ask more? Alas! he had still something to find
fault with, for when he looked at the ears and saw that they were small
and poor, he grumbled, and said the yield would be less than it ought
to be, and the harvest would be bad.
And as more weeks went on, and the same weather continued, and the
progress was very, very slow, he spoke out of his vexation to his wife
at home, to his friends at the market, and to the husbandmen who passed
by and talked with him about the crops.
And the voice of his discontent was breathed over the cornfield, all
along the long ridges where the plants were labouring, and waiting, and
watching. And they shuddered and murmured: "How cruel to complain! Had
we been idle, had we been negligent, had we been indifferent, we might
have passed away without bearing fruit at all. How cruel to complain!"
But of all this the Master of the Harvest heard nothing, so he did not
cease to complain.
Meantime, another week or two went on, and people as they glanced over
the land wished that a few good rainy days would come and do their work
decidedly, so that the corn ears might fill. And behold, while the wish
was yet on their lips, the sky became charged with clouds, darkness
spread over the country, a wild wind rose, and the growling of thunder
announced a storm. And such a storm! People hid from it in cellars and
closets and dark corners, as if now, for the first time, they believed
in a God, and were trembling at the new-found fact; as if they could
never discover Him in His sunshine and blessings, but only thus in His
tempests and wrath.
And all along the long ridges of wheat plants drove the rain-laden
blast, and they bent down before it and rose up again, like the waves
of a labouring sea. Ears over ears they bowed down; ears above ears
they rose up. They bowed down as if they knew that to resist was
destruction; they rose up as if they had a hope beyond the storm. Only
here and there, where the whirlwinds were the strongest, they fell down
and could not lift themselves again. So the damage done was but little,
and the general good was great. But when the Master of the Harvest
saw here and there patches of overweighted corn yet dripping from the
thunder showers, he grew angry for them, and forgot to think of the
long ridges that stretched over his fields, where the corn ears were
swelling and rejoicing.
And he came in gloomy to his home, when his wife was hoping that now,
at last, all would be well; and when she looked at him the tumult of
her soul grew beyond control, and she knelt down before him as he sat
moody in his chair, and threw her arms round him, and cried out: "It is
of the Lord's mercies that we are not utterly consumed. Oh, husband!
pray for the corn and for me, that it may go well with us at the last!
Carry me upstairs!" And his anger was checked by fear, and he carried
her upstairs and laid her on the bed, and said it must be the storm
which had shaken her nerves. But whether he prayed for either the corn
or her that night she never knew.
And presently came a new distress: for when the days of rain had
accomplished their gracious work, and every one was satisfied, behold,
they did not cease. And as hitherto the cry had gone up for water on
the furrows, so now men's hearts failed them for fear lest it should
continue to overflowing, and lest mildew should set in upon the full,
rich ears, and the glorious crops should be lost.
And the Master of the Harvest walked out by his cornfields, his face
darker than ever. And he railed against the rain because it would not
cease; against the sun because it would not shine; against the wheat
because it might perish before the harvest.
"But why does he always and only complain?" moaned the corn plants, as
the new terror was breathed over the field. "Have we not done our best
from the first? And has not mercy been with us, sooner or later, all
along? When moisture was scant, and we throve but little, why did he
not rejoice over that little, and wait, as we did, for more? Now that
abundance has come, and we swell triumphant in strength and in hope,
why does he not share our joy in the present, and wait in trust, as
we do, for the future ripening change? Why does he always complain?
Has he himself some hard master, who would fain reap where he has not
sown, and gather where he has not strewed, and who has no pity for his
servants who strive?"
But of all this the Master of the Harvest heard nothing. And when the
days of rain had rolled into weeks and the weeks into months, and the
autumn set in, and the corn still stood up green in the ridges, as if
it never meant to ripen at all, the boldest and most hopeful became
uneasy, and the Master of the Harvest despaired.
But his wife had risen no more from her bed, where she lay in sickness
and suffering, yet in patient trust, watching the sky through the
window that faced her pillow, looking for the relief that came at last.
For even at the eleventh hour, when hope seemed almost over, and men
had half learned to submit to their expected trial, the dark days began
to be varied by a few hours of sunshine; and though these passed away,
and the gloom and rain returned again, yet they also passed away in
their turn, and the sun shone out once more.
And the poor sick wife, as she watched, said to those around her that
the weather was gradually changing, and that all would come right at
last; and sighing a prayer that it might be so with herself also, she
had her Bible brought to the bed, and wrote in the flyleaf the text,
"Some thirty, some sixty, some an hundredfold"; and after the text the
date of the day, for on that day the sun had been shining steadily for
many hours. And after the date the words, "Unto whom much is given,
of him shall much be required; yet if Thou, Lord, be extreme to mark
iniquity, O Lord, who may stand?"
And day by day, the hours of sunshine were more in number, and the
hours of rain and darkness fewer, and by degrees the green corn ears
ripened into yellow, and the yellow turned into gold, and the harvest
was ready, and the labourers not wanting. And the bursting corn broke
out into songs of rejoicing, and cried, "At least we have not waited
and watched in vain! Surely goodness and mercy have followed us all the
days of our life, and we are crowned with glory and honour. Where is
the Master of the Harvest, that he may claim his own with joy?"
But the Master of the Harvest was bending over the bed of his dying
wife.
And she whispered that her Bible should be brought, and he brought
it, and she said, "Open it at the flyleaf at the end, and write, 'It
is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in
dishonour, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised
in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body!'"
And she bade him add the date of the day, and after the date of the
day, the words, "O Lord, in Thy mercy say of me--She hath done what she
could!" And then she laid her hand in his, and so fell asleep in hope.
And the harvest of the earth was gathered into barns, and the
gathering-day of rejoicing was over, and the Master of it all sat alone
by his fireside, with his wife's Bible on his knee. And he read the
texts and the dates and the prayers, from the first day when the corn
seeds were held back by drought; and as he read a new heart seemed to
burst out within him from the old one--a heart which the Lord of the
other Harvest was making soft, and the springing whereof He would bless.
And henceforth, in his going out and coming in from watching the fruits
of the earth, the texts and the dates and the prayers were ever present
in his mind, often rising to his lips; and he murmured and complained
no more, let the seasons be what they would and his fears however
great; for the thought of the late-sprung seed in his own dry cold
heart, and of the long suffering of Him who was Lord and Master of all,
was with him night and day. And more and more as he prayed for help,
that the weary struggle might be blessed, and the newborn watching and
waiting not be in vain, so more and more there came over his spirit a
yearning for that other harvest, where he and she who had gone before
might be gathered in together.
And thus--in one hope of their calling--the long-divided hearts were
united at last.
FOOTNOTE:
[23] From "Parables from Nature."
A THANKSGIVING DINNER[24]
BY EDNA PAYSON BRETT.
Ministers' sons, somehow, have a bad reputation.
Little Johnnie was one and he thought it pretty hard
to have to go to church on Thanksgiving Day. But the
pink-frosted cakes----
"OH, DEAR!" puffed a certain little boy one bright Thanksgiving
morning, as he jerked his chubby neck into the stiffest of white
collars. "Great fun, isn't it, having to sit up in meeting for a couple
of hours straight as a telegraph pole when I might be playing football
and beating the Haddam team all to hollow! This is what comes of your
pa's being the minister, I s'pose."
But Johnnie, for that was his name, continued his dressing, the ten
years of his young life having taught him how useless it is to make a
fuss over what has to be done.
In a few minutes he had finished, and was quite satisfied with his
appearance, but for his shoes. These he eyed for a moment, and
concluding that they would not pass inspection, started for the
woodshed to give them a shine.
On his way he passed the open dining-room door, and suddenly halted.
"Oh! Why can't I have a nice little lunch during sermon time?"
He took a step back and peeped slyly into the room; then stole across
to the old-fashioned cupboard, stealthily opening the doors, and such
an array of good things you never beheld! Sally was the best cook in
Brockton any day, but on Thanksgiving she could work wonders.
He looked with longing eyes from one dish to another. Now the big pies
were out of the question, and the cranberry tarts--he felt of them
lovingly--but no, they were altogether too sticky. He stood on tiptoe
to see what was on the second shelf. To his delight he found a platter
filled with just the daintiest little pink-frosted cakes you ever saw.
"O-oo, thimble cakes!" he exclaimed. "You are just the fellows I want!
I'll take you along to church with me." He cast one quick glance
around, then grabbed a handful of the tiny cakes and crammed them into
his trousers' pocket.
"Lucky for me ma isn't going to meeting to-day," chuckled the naughty
boy, "and I don't believe grandma'd ever tell on me if I carried along
the turkey!"
The early bell had now begun to ring, and Johnnie started for the
village church.
"Come, my son," said Doctor Goodwin, as they entered the meeting-house,
"you are to sit in the front seat with grandma this morning: she is
particularly anxious to hear every word of the sermon to-day. And
where's your contribution, boy? You haven't forgotten that?"
"No, sir," meekly answered Johnnie, "it's tied up in my handkerchief."
But his heart sank--the front seat! How ever was his lunch to come in
now?
The opening hymn had been sung, the prayer of thanksgiving offered, and
now, as the collection was about to be taken, the pastor begged his
people to be especially generous to the poor on this day.
Up in the front pew sat Johnnie, but never a word of the notice did he
hear, so busy was he planning out his own little affair. It wasn't such
easy planning either, just supposing he got caught!
But what was that? Johnnie jumped as if he had been struck. However,
it was nothing but the money plate under his nose, and the good Deacon
Simms standing calmly by.
To the guilty boy it seemed as if the deacon must have been waiting for
ten minutes at the least, and in a great flurry he began to fumble for
his handkerchief. What _had_ he done with it? Oh, there it was at last,
way down in the depths of his right trousers' pocket.
He caught hold of the knotted corner, and out came the handkerchief
with a whisk and a flourish, and scatter, rattle, helter-skelter, out
flew a half-dozen pink thimble cakes, down upon the floor, back into
Mrs. Smiley's pew, and to Johnnie's horror one pat into the deacon's
plate!
The good man's eyes tried not to twinkle as he removed the unusual
offering, and passed on more quickly than was his wont.
Miserable Johnnie, with his face as red as a rooster's comb and eyes
cast down in shame, saw nothing but the green squares on the carpet
and the dreadful pink-frosted cakes. He was sure that every one in the
church was glaring at him; probably even grandma had forsaken him, and
each moment he dreaded--he knew not what.
To his surprise, the service seemed to go right on as usual. Another
hymn was sung, and then there was a general settling down for the
sermon. Very soon he began to grow tired of just gazing at the floor,
yet he dared not look up, and by and by the heavy eyes drooped and
Johnny was fast asleep.
All was now quiet in the meeting-house save the calm, steady voice of
the preacher. Pretty soon a wee creature dressed all in soft brown
stole across the floor of a certain pew. She was a courageous little
body indeed, but what mother would not venture a good deal for her
hungry babies? Such a repast as this was certainly the opportunity of
a lifetime. Looking cautiously around, then concluding that all was
safe, she disappeared down a hole in a corner way under the seat. In a
twinkling she was back again; this time, however, she was not alone.
Four little ones pattered after Mamma Mouse, and eight bright eyes
spied a dinner worth running for.
Never mind what they did; but when Johnnie awoke at the strains of the
closing hymn and tried to remember what had gone wrong, he saw nothing
of the pink-frosted cakes save some scattered crumbs.
What could have become of them, he thought, in bewilderment.
He hardly knew how he got out of the church that day, but he found
himself rushing down the road a sadder and a wiser boy. Grandma and
papa had remained to chat. Johnnie did not feel like chatting to-day.
When he reached the house he did not go in, but out to the hayloft,
his favourite resort in time of trouble. When the dinner bell sounded,
notwithstanding the delicious Thanksgiving odours which had been wafted
even to the barn, it was an unwelcome summons; yet go he must, and
walking sheepishly into the dining-room, he slunk into his chair.
"Well, John," said his father, as he helped him to turkey, "I
understand that you did not forget the poor to-day. Eh, my son?"
"The poor?" What could he mean? Johnnie was too puzzled to speak.
Then his father went on to tell how little Mrs. Mouse and her babies
had nibbled a wondrous dinner of pink thimble cakes on the floor of pew
number one while Johnnie slept. Grandma and Mrs. Smiley had told him
all about it on the way home; besides, he had seen enough himself from
the pulpit.
Johnny bravely bore the laugh at his expense, and as the merriment died
away heaved a deep sigh of relief, and exclaimed, "Well, I'm glad
somebody had a feast, even if it wasn't the fellow 'twas meant for!
Humph, _'twas_ quite a setup for poor church mice, wasn't it? But they
needn't be looking for another next year. You don't catch me trying
that again--no-sir-ee!"
FOOTNOTE:
[24] From the _Youth's Companion_, November 29, 1900.
TWO OLD BOYS[25]
BY PAULINE SHACKLEFORD COLYAR.
Walter's two grandfathers were a pair of jolly chums,
_as boys_. There is plenty of humour in this tale of a
turkey hunt.
"DAY after to-morrow will be Thanksgiving," said Walter, taking his
seat beside Grandpa Davis on the top step of the front gallery.
"And no turkey for dinner, neither," retorted Grandma Davis, while her
bright steel needles clicked in and out of the sock she was knitting.
The old man was smoking his evening pipe, and sat for a moment with his
eyes fixed meditatively upon the blue hills massed in the distance.
"Have we got so pore as all that, Mother?" he asked, after a while,
glancing over his shoulder at his wife, who was rocking to and fro just
back of him.
"I'm obleeged to own to the truth," answered the old lady dejectedly.
"What with the wild varmints in the woods and one thing an' another,
I'm about cleaned out of all the poultry I ever had. It's downright
disheartenin'."
"Well, then," asserted Grandpa Davis, with an unmirthful chuckle, "it
don't appear to me as we've got so powerful much to be thankful about
this year."
"Why, Grandpa!" cried Walter, in shocked surprise, "I never did hear
you talk like that before."
"Never had so much call to do it, mebbe," interposed the old man
cynically.
The last rays of the setting sun touched the two silvered heads, and
rested there like a benediction, before disappearing below the horizon.
Silence had fallen upon the little group, and a bullfrog down in the
fishpond was croaking dismally.
"Why don't you go hunting, and try to kill you a turkey for
Thanksgiving?" ventured Walter, slipping his arm insinuatingly through
his grandfather's. "I saw a great big flock of wild ones down on the
branch last week, and I got right close up to them before they flew."
"I reckon there ought to be a smart sight of game round and about them
cane brakes along that branch," said the old man slowly, as though
thinking aloud. "It used to be ahead of any strip of woods in all these
parts, when me and Dick was boys. But nobody ain't hunted there, to my
knowledge, not sence me and him fell out."
"I wish you and Grandpa Dun were friends," sighed Walter. "It does
seem too bad to have two grandpas living right side by side, and not
speaking."
"I ain't got no ill-will in my heart for Dick," replied Grandpa Davis,
"but he is too everlastin' hard-headed to knock under, and I'll be
blamed if I go more'n halfway toward makin' up."
"That's just exactly what Grandpa Dun says about you," Walter assured
him very earnestly.
"Wouldn't wonder if he did," said the old man pointedly. "Dick is
always ben a mighty hand to talk, and he'd drap dead in his tracks if
he couldn't get in the last word."
Be this as it might, the breach had begun when the Davis cattle broke
down the worm fence and demolished the Dun crop of corn, and it
widened when the Dun hogs found their way through an old water gap and
rooted up a field of the Davis sweet potatoes. Several times similar
depredations were repeated, and then shotguns were used on both sides
with telling effect. The climax was reached when John Dun eloped with
Rebecca, the only child of the Davises.
The young couple were forbidden their respective homes, though the farm
they rented was scarce half a mile away, and the weeks rolled into
months without sign of their parents relenting.
When Walter was born, however, the two grandmothers stole over, without
their husbands' knowledge, and mingled their tears in happy communion
over the tiny blue-eyed mite.
It was a memorable day at each of the houses when the sturdy little
fellow made his way, unbidden and unattended, to pay his first call,
and ever afterward (though they would not admit it, even to themselves)
the grandfathers watched for his coming, and vied with each other in
trying to win the highest place in his young affections.