It was springtime--blossoming time--mating time. The world was a riot
of color and perfume and song.
Every twig that a few weeks before had been a bare, unsightly stick
was now a miracle of dainty beauty. From the creek, below the little
girl's house, the orchard hill appeared against the soft, blue, sky a
wonderous, cumulus, cloud of fleecy whiteness flushed with a glow of
delicate pink. The meadows and pastures were studded with stars of
gold and pearl, of ruby and amethyst and silver. The fairy hands that
had thrown over the wood a filmy veil of dainty color now dressed each
tree and bush in robes of royal fabric woven from many tints of
shimmering, shining, green.
Through the amber light above new turned furrows; amid the jewel glint
of water in the sun; in the diamond sparkle of the morning; against
the changing opal skies of evening; the bees and all their winged kin
floated and darted, flashed and danced, and whirled, from flower to
flower and field to field, from blossom to blossom and tree to tree,
bearing their pollen messages of love and life while sweet voiced
birds, in their brightest plumage, burdened the perfumed air with the
passionate melody of their mating time.
All nature seemed bursting with eager desire to evidence a Creator's
power. Every tint and color, every breath of perfume, every note of
music, every darting flight or whirling dance, was a call to life--a
challenge to love--an invitation to mate--a declaration of God. The
world throbbed and exulted with the passion of the Giver of Life.
Life itself begat Religion.
Not the least of the Thirteen Truly Great Things of Life is Religion.
Religion is an exaltation of Life or it is nothing. To exalt Life
truly is to be most truly religious.
But the man, when he first awoke that morning, did not think of
Religion. His first thought was a thought of lazy gratitude that he
need not get up. It was Sunday. With a long sigh of sleepy content, he
turned toward the wall to escape the too bright light that, from the
open window, had awakened him and dozed again.
It was Sunday.
There are bitter cold, icy, snowy, Sundays in mid-winter when one hugs
the cheerless radiator and, shivering in chilly discomfort, wishes
that Sundays were months instead of days apart. There are stifling,
sticky, sweltering. Sundays in midsummer when one prays, if he can
pray at all, for the night to come. And there are blustering, rainy,
sleety, dismal, Sundays in the fall when the dead hours go in funeral
procession by and the world seems a gloomy tomb. But a Sunday in
blossoming time! That is different! The very milk wagons, as they
clattered, belated, down the street rattled a cheery note of
fellowship and good will. The long drawn call of the paper boy had in
it a hint of the joy of living. And the rumble of an occasional
passing cab came like a deep undertone of peace.
The streets were nearly empty. The stores and offices, with closed
doors, were deserted and still. A solitary policeman on the corner
appeared to be meditating, indifferent to his surroundings. The few
pedestrians to be seen moved leisurely and appeared as though in a
mood for reflective thought and quiet interest in the welfare of their
fellows. The hurrying, scrambling, jostling, rushing crowd; the
clanging, crashing, roaring turmoil; the racking madness, the fierce
confusion, the cruel selfishness of the week day world was as a
dreadful dream in the night. In the hard fought battle of life, the
world had called a truce, testifying thus to the place and power of
Religion.
This is not to say that the world professes Religion; but it _is_
to say that Religion possesses the world. In a thousand, thousand,
forms, Religion possesses the world. In thoughts, in deeds, in
words--in song and picture and story--in customs and laws and
industries--in society, state, and school--in all of the Thirteen
Truly Great Things of Life, Religion makes itself manifest and
declares its power over men. If one proclaim himself without Religion
then is its power made known in that one's peculiarity. If Religion
did not possess the world, to scorn it would mark no one as different
from his fellows, And this, too, is true: so imperial is the fact of
Religion, that he who would deny it is forced to believe so firmly in
his disbelief that he accepts the very thing he rejects, disguised in
a dress of his own making, and thus bows down in worship before a God
of his own creation.
To many, Sunday is a day of labor. To many others, it is a day of
roistering and debauch. To some, it is a day of idleness and
thoughtless pleasure. To some, it is a day of devotion and worship.
But still, I say, that, whatever men, as individuals, may do with the
day, the deserted streets, the silent stores, the closed banks, the
empty offices, evidence that, to the world, this day is not as other
days and give recognition--not to creeds and doctrines of warring
sects indeed--but, to Religion.
Again the man awoke. Coming slowly out of his sleep and turning
leisurely in his bed he looked through the open window at the day. And
still he did not think of Religion.
Leisurely he arose and, after his bath, shaved himself with particular
care. With particular care he dressed, not in the garb of every day,
but in fresher, newer, raiment. Thus did he, even as the world, give
unthinking testimony to the power and place of Religion.
Later, when the church bells sent their sweet voiced invitations
ringing over the city, the man went to church. He did not go to church
because he was a religious man nor because he was in a religious mood;
he went because it was his habit to go occasionally. Even as most men
sometimes go to church, so this man went. Nor did he, as a member of
any religious organization, feel it his duty to go. He went as he had
always gone--as thousands of others who, like himself, in habit of
dress and manner were giving unconscious testimony to the power of
Religion in the world, went, that day, to some place of public
worship.
The streets of the city were now well filled with people. Yesterday,
these same people, in the same streets, had rushed along with anxious,
eager, strained, expressions upon their faces that told of nerves
tense, minds intent, and bodies alert, in the battle they waged for
daily bread, for gain, and for all the things that are held by men to
be worth the struggle. To-morrow, these same people would again lose
themselves in the fierce and strenuous effort of their lives. But
to-day, they walked leisurely; they spoke calmly; they thought coolly;
they had time to notice each other; to greet each other, to smile, to
shake each others' hands. There were many children, too, who, dressed
in their Sunday clothes, with clean faces and subdued manners, even as
their parents, evidenced the power of Religion in the life of
humankind. And, even as their parents, the children knew it not. They
did not recognize the power of Religion in their lives.
The man did not think of the meaning of these things; though he felt
it, perhaps, somewhat as he felt the warm life of the sun filled air:
he sensed it, perhaps, as he sensed the beauty of the morning. He did
not realize, then, how, in his Dreams, Religion had subtly manifested
itself. He did not realize, that, in his Occupation, he was, every
day, revealing the influence of Religion in his life. He had seen
Religion but dimly when he had thought to follow the golden chain of
Knowledge, link by link, to its hidden end. Dimly had he seen it when
he was learning the value of Ignorance. And yet, in all of these
things it had been even as it would be in all the things that were yet
to come. No man can escape Religion. Man may escape particular forms
of Religion, indeed, but Religion itself he cannot escape.
With many others the man entered a church. An usher gravely led him to
a seat. I do not know what church it was to which the man went that
morning nor does it, for my story, matter that I do not know. My story
is not of churches nor of sects nor of creeds. This is my story: that
the man came to realize in his life the power of Religion.
It may have been the beauty of the morning that did it; it may have
been that the week just past was unusually hard and trying and that
the day of rest, therefore, was more than usual, needed: or, perhaps,
it was because the man had learned that he could never follow the
golden chain of Knowledge to its hidden end and had come to know the
value of Ignorance for Religion walks ever close to both Knowledge and
Ignorance, hand in hand with each; whatever it was that brought it
about, the man, that Sunday, came to realize the power of Religion in
the world and in his own manhood life.
It was very quiet in the church but it was not a sad quietness. The
people moved softly and, when they spoke at all, spoke in whispers but
there was no feeling of death in the air; rather was there a feeling
of life--a feeling of life, too, that was very unlike the feeling of
life in a crowded place of business or amusement. The sweet,
plaintively pleading, tones of the organ trembled in the air. The
glorious sunshine came through the stained glass windows softened and
subdued. Here and there heads were bowed. The people became very
still. And, in the stillness, the man felt strongly the spirit of the
day and place. The organ tones increased in volume. The choir filed
in. The preacher entered. The congregation arose to sing an old
triumphant hymn.
The man did not sing, but, as he listened to the music and followed
the words of the hymn, he smiled. The people were singing about
unknowable things--of streets of gold and gates of pearl--of crowns
and harps and the throne of God.
All his life, the man had known that hymn but he had never before
thought of it just as he thought of it that morning. He looked about
at the people who were singing. Who were they? Uneducated,
irresponsible, fanatical dreamers of no place or importance in the
week day world? No indeed! They were educated, responsible, practical,
hard headed, clear brained, people of power and influence--and--the
man smiled again--they were singing about unknowable things. For the
first time in his life, the man wondered at the strangeness of it all.
When the minister prayed, the man listened as he had never listened to
a prayer before. He felt baffled and bewildered as though he had
wandered into a strange land, among strange people, of whose customs
he was ignorant, and whose language he could neither speak nor
understand. Who was this man who seemed on such familiar terms with
the Infinite? Upon what did he base his assurance that the wealth of
blessings he asked for himself and his people would be granted or even
heard? Had he more than finite mind that he could know the Infinite?
The sermon that followed was largely a sermon about unknowable things.
It was full of beautiful, helpful, thoughts about things that it was
impossible for anyone to really know anything about. Very familiar
were the things that the minister said that morning. Since his
childhood, the man had heard them over and over many times; but he had
never before thought of them in just that way.
The sermon was finished and the beautifully mysterious and impressive
words of the benediction were spoken as the people stood with bowed
heads, hushed and still. Again the deep tones of the organ trembled in
the air as the crowd poured forth from the building into the street.
The man was thoughtful and troubled. He felt as one, who, meeting an
old friend after many years, finds him changed beyond recognition. He
was as one visiting, after years of absence, his old home to find the
familiar landmarks all gone with the years. He was sadly conscious
that something had gone out of his life--that something exceedingly
precious had been taken away from him and that it could never be
replaced.
Seriously, sadly, the man asked himself: must his belief in Religion
go as his faith in fairies had gone? Was Religion, after all, but a
beautiful game played by the grown up world, even as children play?
And if, indeed, his faith must go because songs and prayers and
sermons have to do so largely with unknowable things, what of the
spirit of the world expressed in the day that is so set apart from all
other days? Sunday is a fact knowable enough. And the atmosphere of
the church is another fact as knowable as the atmosphere of a race
track, a foundry, or a political convention. And the fruits of
Religion in the lives of men--these are as clearly knowable as the
fruits of drunkenness, or gambling, or licentiousness. The man was as
sure of the fruits of Religion as he was sure that the sun was
shining--that the day, so warm and bright, was unlike the cold, hard,
stormy, days of winter. And still--and still--the songs and prayers
and sermons about unknowable things--must his belief in Religion go as
his faith in fairies had gone?
Unknowable things? Yes--as unknowable as that mysterious something
that colors the trees and plants and flowers with tints of infinite
shadings--as unknowable as that which puts the flavor in the peach,
the strength in the corn, the perfume in the rose--as unknowable as
the awful force that reveals itself in the lightning flash or speaks
in the rolling thunder--as unknowable as the mysterious hand that
holds the compass needle to the north and swings the star worlds far
beyond the farthest reach of the boasting eye of Science. Unknowable?
Yes--as unknowable as that which lies safe hidden behind the most
commonplace facts of life--as unknowable indeed, as Life itself.
"Nature," said the man, in answer to himself, and smiled at the
foolishness of his own answer. Is nature then so knowable? Are all her
laws revealed; all her secrets known; all her ways understood; all her
mysteries made clear? Do the wise men, after all, know more of nature
than they do of God? Do they know more of earth than of heaven? Do
they know more of a man's mind than they do of his soul? And yet--and
yet--does one refuse to live because he cannot understand the mystery
of life? Does one deny the earth because the secrets of Mature are
unknowable? Does one refuse to think because thoughts are not material
things--because no one has ever seen a thought to say from whence it
came or whither it went?
Disbelief demands a knowledge as exact as that demanded by belief. To
deny the unknowable is as impossible as to affirm it. If it be true
that man knows too much to believe in miracles these days, it is just
as true that he does not know enough to disbelieve in them. And, after
all, there is no reason why anyone should believe in miracles; neither
is there any reason why one should disbelieve in them.
Every altar is an altar to an unknown God. But man does not refuse to
believe in bread because he cannot understand the mystery of the wheat
field. One believes in a garden, not because he knows how, from the
same soil, water, and air, Nature produces strawberries, potatoes,
sweet corn, tomatoes, or lettuce, but because fresh vegetables are
good. The hungry man neither believes nor disbelieves but sits down to
the table and, if he be a right minded man, gives thanks to the God of
gardens who, in ways so unknowable, gives such knowable gifts to man.
Nor was the man, at this time, able to distinguish clearly between
Religion and the things that men have piled about and hung upon
Religion. Therefore was he troubled about his waning belief and
worried because of his growing doubt. He did not wish to doubt; he
wished to believe.
In all these many years, through intellectual pride or selfish
ambition, because of an earnest but mistaken purpose to make clear, or
in a pious zeal to emphasize, men have been piling things about and
hanging things upon Religion; and, always, they have insisted that
this vast accumulation of things _is_ Religion.
These things that men have hung upon Religion are no more a part of
Religion than the ivy that grows upon the stone wall of a fortress is
a part of the nation's defensive strength. These things that men have
piled about Religion belong to it no more than a pile of trash dumped
at the foot of a cliff belongs to the everlasting hills. But these
traditions and customs of men, with their ever multiplying confusions
of doctrines and creeds and sects, beautiful as they are, hide
Religion even as the ivy hides the wall. Even as the accumulated trash
of the ages piled at the foot of the cliff is of interest to the
archaeologist and the seeker after curious junk, so these things that
men have piled about Religion are of interest. But the observer, in
admiration of the ivy, is in danger of ignoring the stern reality of
the fortress. The curious digger in the pile of trash, if his interest
be great, heeds not the grandeur of the cliff that towers above his
head.
That afternoon the man went for a long walk. He wished to think out,
if he could, the things that troubled him.
Without plan on his part, his walk led toward a quarter of the city
where he had never been before and where he came at last to an old
cemetery. The ancient iron gates, between their vine clad columns of
stone, were invitingly open and within the enclosure were great trees
that locked their green arms above the silent, grass grown, graves as
though in sheltering kindness for the dead. Tempted by the beauty of
the place the man entered, and, in the deep shade of the old trees,
screened from the road by their mossy trunks, found a seat. Here and
there, among the old graves under the trees, a few people moved
slowly; pausing often to decipher the inscriptions upon the leaning
and fallen tombstones. So old was that ancient burying place that
there was left among the living no one to keep the flowers upon the
graves and visitors came only from idle curiosity.
And it was so, that, as the man sat there under the quiet old trees,
the graves with their leaning and fallen tombstones, or, perhaps, the
day itself, led his mind back to those companion graves that marked
the passing of his boyhood--back to father and mother and to their
religion--back to the religion of his Yesterdays. And the week of toil
and strife, of struggle and of storm, slipped far, far, away. The
disturbing questions, the doubt and the uncertainty of the morning,
raised as the fogs lift to leave the landscape clear.
It was such a little way from the boy's home to the church that, when
the weather was fine, they always walked. And surely no day could have
been finer than that Sunday to which the man went back. As the boy,
all washed and combed and dressed in his Sunday best, sat on the big
gate post waiting for his father and mother, it seemed to him that
every living thing about the place knew what day it was. In the
pasture across the road, the horses, leisurely cropping the new grass,
paused often to lift their heads and look about with an air of kindly
interest in things to which they would have given no heed at all had
they been in week day harness. And one old gray, finding an inviting
spot, lay down to roll--got up--and, because it felt so good, lay down
again upon his other side; and then, as if regretting that he had no
more sides to rub, stretched himself out with such a huge sigh of
content that the boy on the gate post laughed; whereat the horse
raised his head and looked at him as though to say: "Little boy, don't
you know that it is Sunday?" Under the big elm, in the corner of the
pasture, the cows stood, with half closed eyes, chewing their cuds
with an air of pious meditation. The hens strolled sedately about
singing solemnly: ca-w-w, ca-w-w, ca-w-w, and the old red rooster,
standing on tiptoe, flapped his wings as if to crow then checked
himself suddenly and looked around as if to say: "Bless me, I nearly
forgot what day it is!" Then the clear, mellow, tones of the church
bell floated across the little valley and the boy's parents came out
of the house. The dog, stretched at full length on the porch, lifted
his head but did not offer to follow. He, too, seemed to know, thought
the boy as he climbed down from the post to walk soberly away with his
parents.
Before they reached the lower end of the garden, the little girl with
her mother and uncle came out of their house and, at the gate, waited
for them while the little girl waved her hand in greeting. Then the
two men and the two women walked on ahead and, as the boy and girl
followed, the boy, looking shyly at his companion, saw the sunlight on
her soft, brown, hair that was so prettily arranged with a blue
ribbon--saw the merry eyes under the broad brim of her best hat--saw
the flushed, softly rounded, cheek with the dimple, the curve of the
red lips, and the dainty chin--saw her dress so clean and white and
starched--saw and wondered if the angels in heaven could be more
beautiful than this little girl.
So they went, that Sunday, down the hill, across the creek, and up the
gentle slope beyond, until they came to the cross roads where the
white church stood under the old elm and maple trees. Already there
were many teams standing under the sheds or tied to the hitch racks
along the side of the road. And by the roads that led away in four
directions, through the fields and meadows and pastures of the farms,
other country folk were coming from their homes and their labors to
worship the God of seedtime and harvest.
There were no ushers in that church of the Yesterdays for there would
be no strangers save those who would come with their friends; but the
preacher himself was at the door to greet his people or was moving
here and there among them, asking with care for the absent ones.
Neither was there a great organ to fill the air with its trembling
tones; but, at the humble instrument that served as well, the mother
of the little girl presided, while the boy's father led the country
choir. And the sunlight of that Sunday streamed through the open
windows, softened only by the delicate traceries of gently waving
branches and softly rustling leaves.
And in the songs and prayers and sermons of that worship in the
Yesterdays, the boy heard the same unknowable things that the man had
heard that morning in the city church. Among those people, the boy
felt stirring the same spirit that had moved the man. The old preacher
was long ago resting in the cemetery on the hill, with the boy's
parents, the mother of the little girl, and many, many, others of his
flock. A new and more modern minister would be giving, now, to the
children of that old congregation, the newest and most modern things
that theologians do not know about Religion. But the same old spirit
would be there still; doing the same work for the glory of the race.
And the boy in the Yesterdays, as he listened to the songs and prayers
and sermons, had wondered in his heart about the things he heard--even
as the man, he had asked himself many unanswerable questions... But
there had been no doubt in the questions of the boy. There had been no
disbelief in his wonder. Because the girl's mother played the
organ--because the boy's father sang in the choir--because his mother
and the little girl were there beside him--the boy believed that which
he could not understand.
"By their fruits"--it is a text as good for grown up children as for
boys and girls.
What the preachers say about Religion matters little after all. It is
the fathers and mothers and the little girls who keep the faith of the
world alive. The _words_ of those sermons and prayers and songs
in his Yesterdays would go with the boy no farther than the church
door; but that which was in the hearts of those who sang and preached
and prayed--that which song and sermon and prayer attempted but could
not express--_that_ would go with the boy through all the years
of his life. From _that_ the man could never get wholly away. It
became as much a part of him as his love for his parents was a part.
When church and Sunday school were over the boy went home to the
miracle of the Sunday dinner. And, even as the unknowable things upon
the Sunday dinner table contributed to his manhood's physical strength
and health, so the things expressed by the day that is set apart from
all other days contributed to that strength of manhood that is more
vital than the strength of bone and muscle and nerve and sinew. In the
book wherein it is written: "Man shall not live by bread alone," it is
written, also: "Except ye become as little children."
Slowly the man arose. Slowly and regretfully he turned to leave his
place under the great trees that, in the solemn, quiet, twilight of
the old cemetery, locked their arms protectingly above the dead.
"Except ye become as little children."
Must men in Religion be always trying to grow up? Are the wisest and
the greatest among scholars nearer the secrets of the unknowable
power, that, through Religion, possesses the world, than the
unthinking children are? As the man in the late afternoon went out
through the ancient iron gates, between the vine covered columns of
stone, he knew that his belief in Religion would not go as his faith
in fairies had gone. Because of those companion graves and all that
they meant to him--because of the little girl in his Yesterdays--his
faith in Religion would not go.
* * * * *
The woman, alone in her room, sat at the open window looking out over
the city. The long, spring, Sunday was drawing to its close. Above the
roofs of the houses across the street, above the towering stories of
the buildings in the down town districts, above factory chimneys,
church steeples, temple dome, and cathedral spire, she saw the evening
sky light with the glory of the passing day. Over a triumphant arch in
the west, through which the sun had gone, a mighty cloud curtain of
purple was draped, fold on fold, all laced and looped with silver and
edged with scarlet flame. Above the curtain, far flung across the wide
sky, banners of rose and crimson and gold flashed and gleamed; while,
marching in serried ranks, following the pathway of the sun, went
innumerable thousands of cloud soldiers in their uniforms of light.
Slowly the procession passed--the gleaming banners vanished--the
marching armies disappeared--the curtain in the west was drawn close.
The woman at the window watched until the last of the light was gone
and, in the still sky above, the stars hung motionless. Like a
benediction, the sweet mystery of twilight had come upon the land.
Like a softly breathed blessing from heaven, the night had come.
Because of the experience through which she had passed in the week
just gone, that day, dedicated to Religion, had held for the woman a
new meaning.
Looking into the darkness that hid the city from her eyes she
shuddered. There were so many there to whom the night came not as a
blessing, but as a curse. Out there, in the soft darkness into which
the woman looked, dreadful crimes were being committed, horrid deeds
were being planned. Out there, in the quiet night, wretched poverty,
gaunt pain, and loathsome disease were pulling down their victims. Out
there, in the blackness, hideous licentiousness, beastly passion,
debasing pleasure were stalking their prey. Out there, murderers of
souls were lying in wait; robbers of hearts were creeping stealthily;
slayers of purity were watching; killers of innocence were lurking. To
the woman at the window, that night, the twinkling lights of the city
were as beacon fires on the outskirts of hell.
And to-morrow--to-morrow--she must go down into that hell. All that
was there in the darkness, she must see, she must know, she must feel.
All those things of evil would be watching her, crowding her, touching
her, hungering for her; placing pitfalls in her way; longing for her
to slip; waiting for her to fall; testing her, trying her, always
ready with a damnable readiness; always hoping with a hellish hope.
Into that she must go--even into that--this woman, who knew herself to
be a woman, must go.
And what--what--of her dreams? Could she, she asked herself that
night, could she go into that life, day after day, and still have a
heart left for dreaming? Against the unclean strength that threatened
her, where would she find the strength to keep her womanhood pure and
strong for the holy mission of womanhood?
Clear and sweet from out the darkness of the night came the sound of a
bell. Then another, and another, and another, until, from every
quarter of the city, their music came, as though in answer to her
question. Some, near at hand, rang loud, triumphant, peals as though
rejoicing over victories already won; others, farther away, in softer
tones, seemed to promise strength for present need; while still
others, in more distant places, sounding soft and far away, seemed to
gently warn, to beckon, to call, to plead. Lifting her tear filled
eyes from the lights of the streets the woman looked at the stars,
and, so looking, saw, lifting into the sky, the church spires of the
city.
In a little, the music of the bells ceased. But the woman, at the
window, sat still with her face upturned to the stars.
Gone, now, were the city lights that to her had seemed as beacon fires
on the outskirts of hell. Gone, now, the horrors of that life to which
night comes not as a benediction. Gone, now, her fears for her dreams.
The woman lived again a Sunday evening in her Yesterdays.
It may have been the flaming glory of the sky; it may have been the
music of the bells; it may have been the stars--whatever it was--the
woman went again into the long ago. Once again she went back into her
Yesterdays--to a Sunday evening in her Yesterdays.
The little girl was on the front porch of her home with mother. The
sun was going down behind the great trees in the old churchyard at the
cross roads while, across the valley, the voice of the bell was
calling the people to evening worship. And, with the ringing of the
bell, the boy and his mother came to sit with them while the men were
gone to church.
Then, while the mothers, seated in their easy chairs, talked in low
tones, the boy and the girl, side by side, on the steps of the porch,
watched the light go out of the sky and tried to count the stars as
they came. As the twilight deepened, the elms in the pasture across
the road, the maples along the drive, and the willows down by the
creek, became shadowy and indistinct. From the orchard, an owl sent
forth his quavering call and was answered by his mate from the roof of
the barn. Down in the shadow of the little valley, a whip-poor-will
cried plaintively, and, now and then, a bat came darting out of the
dusk on swift and silent wings. And there, in the darkness across the
valley, shone the single light of the church. The children gave up
trying to count the stars and grew very still, as, together, they
watched the lights of the church. Then one of the mothers laughed, a
low happy laugh, and the children began telling each other about God.
Many things the boy and the girl told each other about God. And who is
there to say that the things they told were not just as true as many
things that older children tell? Though, I suppose, as the boy and
girl did not quarrel or become angry with each other that Sunday
evening, their talk about God could scarcely be considered orthodox.
Their service under the stars was not at all regular, I know. With
childish awe and reverence--with hushed voices--they only told each
other about God. They did not discuss theology--they were not church
members--they were only children.
Then, by and by, the father and uncle came, and, with his parents, the
boy went home, calling through the dark, as he went, many good
nights--each call sounding fainter and farther away. And, when she
could neither hear nor make him hear more, the little girl went with
her mother into the house, where, when she was ready for bed, she
knelt to pray that old familiar prayer of the Yesterdays--forgetting
not in her prayer to ask God to bless and keep the boy.
Oh, childish prayers of the Yesterdays! Made in the strength of a
childish faith, what power divine is in them to keep the race from
death! Oh, childish understanding of God, deep grounded in that wisdom
to which scholars can never attain! Does the Master of Life still set
little children among His disciples in vain?
The woman no longer feared that which lay in the darkness of the city.
She knew, now, that she would have strength to keep the treasures of
her womanhood safe for him should he come to lead her into the life of
her dreams. She knew, now, what it was that would help her--that would
enable her to keep that which Life had committed to her.
As she turned from the window, strength and peace were in her heart.
As she knelt beside her bed to pray, her prayer was that prayer of her
Yesterdays. The prayer of a child it was--the prayer of a woman who
knows that she is a woman it was also.