THEY WENT AND TOLD JESUS.
ACROSS the bleak prairie the winter wind came,
The roofs of the settlement nearing;
It whistled and roared from the smithy's low door
To the barn at the end of the clearing;
It rattled the door of the minister's house,
At the window it whimpered and worried,
Then fought with the poor little column of smoke
That away from the rough chimney hurried.
Away from the hearth and a sorrowful group,
To the glow of its low embers creeping—
A father grown gray, a mother work-worn,
In the cradle a baby was sleeping;
While pitiful Jack, with a cheek thin and white,
Dried a boot, with the snow-water sodden,
That told its own tale of its frostbitten foot
And the wearisome way it had trodden.
From the care-tended coat on the minister's back
To the wee baby's sock mended lying,
Grim Poverty spoke in her forcible way,
As the pastor, with sorrowful sighing,
His purse counted over against his account,
Finding lack for the hearth and the table,—
No money to shoe little Jack yet awhile,
E'en the wolf at the door not a fable.
There was bitter temptation to faithless distrust,
There was fierce human bitterness growing,
As Paul Allan glanced at his wife,
So thin in the fitful light showing—
Poor Annie! The fair, happy darling at home,
The bride whom he vowed at the altar
To shelter and love—
Well, God knoweth best
How a good man may waver and falter.
With a slow, quiet step, Annie came to his side,
As she whispered a word brave and cheery:
"You know, dearest Paul, when the friends of our Lord,
With the toils of their mission grew weary,
They went and told Jesus.
Shall not you and I
So tell him?
The firelight was paling
So, close by the cradle, they told Jesus all,
And anew heard his promise unfailing
* * * * * * * *
A glow of warmth and light and cheer —
A rich man's house at evening—
A rich man's dreaming busy dreams
And golden tissues weaving.
A dancing sprite of, summers few
Exhausting childish pleasures
From out a hidden nook had brought
A host of by-gone treasures.
Just in the glimmer of the grate
She held a picture higher;
"Tell me, papa, of Uncle Paul,
Who saved you from the fire.
"I know he lives away out West,'
And preaches to the people;
But then you said the little church
Had neither bell nor steeple.
"So I'm afraid he must be poor.
Is Uncle Paul your brother?
And did you say, Our Father,' once
At night, to one dear mother?"
Out from the world of stocks and gold
The rich man's soul came peeping,
And glanced adown the whirling years,
Life's later scenes o'erleaping.
"God help me, Paul, I did forget."
The words were softly spoken,
When through the rust which riches bring
The childish voice had broken.
* * * * * * *
Good, loving words, and magic lines
That turned to gold when wanted,
Sped o'er the railway westward bound,
By love and memory haunted.
Was it a ray of stupid chance
That dim, old picture showing—
So prompting help for yonder home,
Where prairie winds were blowing?
O Jesus! Could we tell thee all,
And trust thy promise better,
But feel thy hand a helping one
And not a clasping fetter.
Content to hold that scar-marked hand
For guidance still forever,
The roughest winds of surly care
Should shake our dwelling never.
Ethel Lynn.