The Cornflower, and Other Poems

AT THE SICK CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL

A little crippled figure, two big pathetic eyes,A face that looked unchildish, so wan it was and wise;I watched her as the homesick tears came chasing down each cheek."I had to come," she whispered low, "I was so tired and weak.My spine, you know! I used to be so strong, and tall, and straight!I went to school and learned to read and write upon a slate,And add up figures – such a lot, and play with all my might,Until I hurt my back – since then I just ache day and night.'Tis most a year since I could stand, or walk around at all;All I am good for now, you see, is just to cry and crawl."Poor, pale-faced thing! there came to us the laughter gay and sweetOf little ones let out from school, the sound of flying feet.She listened for a moment, then turned her to the wallTo hide the tears. "Oh, me!" she cried, "I'm tired of it all.I feel so hurt and useless, why can't I run aboutAs others do?" "Some day, please God, you will," I said, but doubtWas in the eyes she turned on mine, and doubt was in her tone."Perhaps," she faltered, then the pain grew harsh; the plaintive moanSmote sharply on my heart. I knew she had but lately comeFrom mother's care and father's love, and all the joys of home."I wished I'd lived on earth," she sobbed, "a long, long time ago,When Jesus came at eventide, because He loved folks so,And just by stretching out His hand made all the sick folks well.If it were now, oh, wouldn't I creep close to Him, and tellAll that I wanted Him to do. I'd kneel down low and say:'It is my back, dear Jesus, please cure it right away.I'm tired of being weak and sick, I want to jump and run,And play at games, and laugh out loud, and have such heaps of fun!Be good to your poor crippled girl,' and He would touch me – so —And every atom of the pain and crookedness would go."I held her close, and kissed her, and soothed her off to rest,So frail she was, so homesick for the ones she loved the best!But yesterday I saw her, and would have passed her byHad I not caught the greeting smile, the glance so bright and shy."Can this be you?" I questioned. She laughed, "O yes, I thoughtYou'd hardly know me when you came, I've changed, oh, such a lot!For see how tall and straight I am! My back don't hurt at all,And I can stand and I can walk – I never have to crawl.I'll tell you, it's a secret, I raced with nurse last night.Just think of it! I raced and won," and then, in sheer delight,She laughed so loudly and so long the nurse looked in to say,"Is not this little girl of ours quite boisterous to-day?""They are so good to me," she said, "I know I'll want to cryWhen I start off for home next week, and have to say good-bye.What if I hadn't come at all?" – the sweet blue eyes grew wet —"My back would ache and throb and hurt – I'd be a cripple yet.For folks as poor as my folks are, they haven't much to spareFor nurse's bills, and doctor's bills, and all – but won't they stareWhen I go home, red-cheeked and straight, and fat as I can be?My daddy, he will never take his dear eyes off of me;My mamma, she will cry some tears, and bend her head and pray,While all the others kiss and hug; then I can hear her say:'Give me my girlie, she's been gone so many long months – five,'And hold me close – oh, I will be the gladdest thing alive!"

CHRISTY AND THE PIPERS

'Twas a score of years since I'd heard the pipes,But the other night I heard them;There are sweet old memories in my heart,And the music woke and stirred them.In the armories, at the big paradeThe highland regiment was giving,A half-dozen pipers piping away —Ah! 'twas music, as sure as your living.Donald's lowland, he shook his head at me,And glowered with every feature,And a pretty young lassie just behindSaid: "Oh, what a funny old creature!"But the skirl o' the pipes got in my ears,In my eyes, and made them misty;I laughed and I cried, and Donald said low:"Dinna act so daft, noo, Christy!""Do ye no see the elder sitting there?Dinna act sae daft, my wooman.Can ye no hear the airs o' auld lang syneWi'oot fashin' yersel' sae, wooman?"But the skirl o' the pipes got in my heart,It got in my throat and choked me,It got in my feet, and tapped my toes,And my shame-faced Donald poked me."But isn't it grand? O, isn't it grand?""Ay, a fine auld player is Mylands,But the pipes' wild sound disna stir my bluid" —He was not born in the highlands.Do you know what I saw as I sat there?I saw the hills and the heather,The green, and the lads and the lassies thereAll dancing the reels together.I saw our glen, half hid, and the rocksStanding guard like grim old watchmen.Oh, the land o' heather and hill and lochMust e'en be dear to a Scotchman.And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and braveTheir flag to the breeze unfurling,As they marched away on a morning fairTo the bagpipes' merry skirling.My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek,I could hear him proudly saying:"Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,For you'll hear our pipers playing."Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose —Braver men, you cannot find them —And few, so few, came marching homeTo the loved ones left behind them.'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm,With a stubborn foe before them;A soldier's grave in a far off land,And God's blue sky bending o'er them.As I hearkened to sweet old martial airsI could hear my brother saying:"Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,For you'll hear our pipers playing."There are only harps in heaven, I'm told,And maybe I shouldn't say it,For a harp of gold's a wondrous thingIn a hand that's skilled to play it.But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's callThey heard morning, noon, and even,And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart,They will hear in the streets of heaven.They marched to the old belovèd airs'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle;'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears'Mid the clamor and clang of battle.O a harp when an angel strikes the stringsIs softer and sweeter, but tryAs I will, I cannot fancy a harpIn the hands of, say, Peter MacKay.And were an angel to proffer him one,Methinks I can hear him saying:"'Twas not on an instrument like the sameThat Pete MacKay will be playing,"For she neffer set eyes on it before,Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer;She'd break the strings if she took it in hand,She couldn't do it, whateffer."So please be excusing old Pete MacKay —But hark! bring the chanter to me,I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,'And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.'"I told this to Donald late that night;He said, as he sipped his toddy,"Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night?Yersel' is the doited body."And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven?Ah, Christy, I'm that astoondedI'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye,For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded."Well, if it is heresy to believeIn the promise of the Father,"Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,"I am heretical, rather.I believe when the last loud trump shall sound,The old flag again unfurling,My highland lads will come marching homeTo the bagpipes grandly skirling.

THE STABLE-BOY'S GUEST

The Wise Men came to the inn that night,"Now open to us," they cried,"We have journeyed far that we might kneelTo One who doth here abide."The door was opened with eager haste."Of whom do ye come in quest?Can it be that a lord of high degreeIs with us this night as guest?"The Wise Men answered: "The eastern skyIs luminous still, and clear,With the radiance of a golden starThat hath led our footsteps here."Blessed, O keeper, this inn of thine,Both thatch and foundation stone,For the open door and hearth-fire warmWhen the King came to His own!""The King! the King!" loud the keeper's cry,"The King in this house of mine!Lights ho! lights ho! set the place aglow,Bring forth the meat and the wine!"The King! let the guest-room be prepared —Honor and homage we payTo royal son of a royal lineWho tarries with us to-day!"From room to room of the inn they went,The Wise Men and keeper proud,But not a trace of the One they soughtFound they in that motley crowd."You have other guests?" the Wise Men asked,And the keeper's face flamed red;"But a straggling pair who came so lateThey found neither room nor bed.""My masters," a lad said timidly,"As I gave the cattle feed,Came creeping down to the stable doorA woman in sorest need."I made her a bed in the manger low,At head of the oxen mild,And, masters, I heard a moan of pain,Then the cry of a new-born child.""A prince shalt thou be!" the Wise Men cried,"For hearkening to that moan,A prince shalt thou be for succor givenWhen the King came to His own!""Nay, I'm but a stable-boy," he smiled,With his eager eyes aglow;"No King, but a little naked child,Sleeps out in my manger low."Hast come to these homes of ours, O Christ,In quest of a meal or bed,And found no welcoming cheer set forth,Nor place to pillow thine head?Give us a heart aflame with love,Filled with a pity divine,Then come Thou as beggar, or babe, or king,The best that we have is Thine.

SOLDIERS ALL

They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town;Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gownConfiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair."We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful careOf all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's callWent sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!""Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord,A host is praying for the men, I want to say a wordFor those who stay at home and wait – the mothers and the wives.Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!"The Bishop prayed: "Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just;The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust."He never got that prayer of his in any printed book,It came straight from the heart of him, his deep voice, how it shook!And something glistened in his eye and down his flushed cheek ran.I like a Bishop best of all when he is just a man."Amen!" they cried out louder still, but I bent low my head;"Dear Christ, be kind to hearts that break for loved ones dying – dead;Keep close to women folk who wait beset with anxious fears,The wan-faced watchers whose dim eyes are filled with bitter tears!I know, dear Christ, how hard it is," I whispered as I kneeled,"For long ago my bonnie boy fell on the battlefield.Find comfort for the broken hearts of those weighed down to-dayWith love and longing for the ones in danger far away.""They will not shrink," the Bishop prayed, "nor fear a soldier's grave;Nay, each man will acquit himself like Briton true and brave.God of battles, march with them, keep guard by day and night,And arm them with a trust in Thee when they go up to fight!""Amen!" a sound of muffled sobs. The deep voice trembled some,But I, with hot tears on my face, prayed hard for those at home:"Keep watch and ward of all that wait in fever of unrest,Who said good-bye and let them go, the ones they loved the best!O comfort, Christ! Above the din of martial clamor, hark!The saddest sound in all God's world – a crying in the dark."

AS GOOD AS A GIRL

Oh, a big broad-shouldered fellow was Ben,And homely as you would see,Such an awkward walker and stammering talker,And as bashful as he could be.The son of a lone, widowed mother was he,And right well did he act his part,A giant at sowing and reaping and mowing —His farm was the pride of his heart.His mother depended on his strong arm;In the cottage so neat and trimHe kept the fires burning, did sweeping and churning —Oh, the odd jobs saved up for him!"My Ben's a comfort," she said every day,With pride that made his head whirl,"As handy at sweeping as he is at reaping —Ben is just as good as a girl!""A six-foot fellow to work round the house!We'll call him 'Miss Ben,'" said the girls;But Ben, heaven bless him, never let this distress himTill there came a day when the curlsAnd blue eyes of Gladys, the prettiest girl,And the proudest in all the place,His young heart set beating at every chance meeting —Though she only laughed in his face."I'll have none but a gay and a gallant man" —Her lips took a scornful curl —"Your pride is in hearing your mother declaring,'Ben is just as good as a girl!'"But sweet little Marjory laughed not at Ben;He was homely, awkward, shy,But she liked the fellow whose voice was so mellow,And she smiled as she passed him by.He went to the front when the war broke out,And filled his post like a man;The good-natured giant was bold and defiantAs soon as the battle began.You'd never have thought of the broom and the churn,Nor of the nickname "Miss Ben,"Had you heard his voice cheering, seen his arm clearingA path for his own gallant men.Capt. Benjamin Brooks he came riding homeWhen the war was over and done,As homely and backward, as shy and as awkward,As tender and loyal a son.Now Gladys gave him her sunniest smile —On heroes she ever did dote —And the proud little beauty felt it her dutyTo be kind to this young man of note.But Ben, wise fellow, liked Marjory best;He knew her lips did not curlWhen mother said sweetly, "Ben does work so neatly —He is just as good as a girl!"So he wooed and won this Marjory true,And made her his loving bride,While Gladys she fretted, bemoaned and regrettedThe goal she had missed by her pride.To-day Ben is filling a prominent place,A statesman, honest and bold;He frees the opprest, and he helps the distrest,Wins love, which is better than gold.For the very grandest men you can findIn this great world's busy whirlAre men like my farmer – no praise need be warmerThan "he's just as good as a girl."

FOOL'S LUCK

The Allans o' Airlie they set muckle storeOn ancestry, acres, and siller,Nor cared to remember the good days of yore,Nor grandfather Allan, the miller —The honest old miller."We're wealthy fowk now, tak' oor place wi' the best,"Said the heid o' the Allans, one Dougal,A man whom Dame Fortune had royally blest,Of sensible habits, and frugal —Uncommonly frugal."We're honored by great fowk and wise fowk, now min',O' the kirk each Allan's a pillar —What more could we spier o' a providence kin',Unless 'twere a little more siller —A little more siller."For it's get what ye can, and keep what ye get;Ye'll fin' this an unco' guid motto,We chose it lang syne, and we stick to it yet,Altho' not sae close as we ought to —Not nearly sae close as we ought to."There is ane o' the name is a spendthrift, an ass;The reason tae ye I'll discover:Oor gran'faither marrit an Inverness lass,Juist because he happened to luve her —Foolish mon, he happened to luve her!"And the wild Highland strain is still i' the bluid —'Tis i' Colin, as sure's you're leeving;Ye ken how it is wi' the whole Highland brood —'Tis a' for spending and geeving."Gin ye're freen' o' the clan, why, ask what ye may,Ye'll get o' the best, ay, get double;Gin ye're foe o' the clan, weel, juist gang your wayIf so be ye're no hunting trouble."Brither Colin was daft when a lad at the school,Wi' ways and wi' morals improper,Had high flowing notions – poor family fool,His notions ha' made him a pauper."What owns he? Bare acres a few, and a house,Yet when we, last year, were expectingTwa relatives, ane puir as ony church mouse,Ane freighted wi' wealth, unreflecting,"He spat oot graun' like, 'Sin' ye're ower fond o' pelf'Ye can hae,' said he, 'the rich pairty,But I'll tak' the mon that is puir as mysel'And gie him a welcome right hearty' —A welcome right hearty."Gosh! I had tae lauch at the feckless auld monAs he stood there, his bonnet-strings twirling;Ye'd think he was chief o' a whole Highland clanThat marched to the pibroch's mad skirling."Ah! hot-headed, high-handed, go as you please,These Highlanders no worth a copper,Wi' their kilt and hose, and their uncovered knees —A bold dress, and highly improper!"Oor Colin's the same; hark ye, Davy and Jock,Go no to the hills for your mating;Twa weel dowered lassies o' guid lowland stock,'Tis for such I'd hae ye both waiting."Ho! it's get what ye can, and keep what ye get, —What is it ye whisper amang ye?What! oor rich uncle's deid – weel, weel, dinna fret,Ah'm certain that he wouldna wrang me."He promised to leave everything he possest —Before witness promised it fairly —To the most deserving, the noblest and bestO' a' the Allans o' Airlie."Ye ken I'm the mon. Here's the lawyer at hand,(I'm richer a'ready and prooder)Hark ye! 'Give and bequeath my gowd and my land' —Mr. Grant, I pray ye, speak looder."I'll buy me the laird's castle doon by the park —Oh, me! but I'll step aboot rarely.'To my nephew, Colin' – it canna' be – hark!'To the grandest Allan o' Airlie.'"To Colin! I'd ficht, but I've no got the pluck,I'm auld, and I'm broken, I tell ye;I ca'd him a fool – he has had a fool's luck,And noo he can buy me and sell me."Now hearken ye, lads, frae the morn till the nichtIt pays best tae act quite sincerely;Get what ye can – aweel, the motto's a'richt,But some things are gotten too dearly.Ay, some things are gotten too dearly."I'm thinkin' o' gran'faither's Inverness wife,Nor cattle nor siller she brought him,Juist a hairt fu' o' luve – some queer views o' life —How runs that auld ballad she taught him?"I've a lowly cot and a wide open door,Neither old nor young need pass by, sir;A piece of red gold for the brother that's poor —Ho, a rich, happy man am I, sir!""Aweel! there be lessons ye'll no learn in school,It tak's my breath away fairly —The ne'er-do-weel Colin, the family fool,And the graundest Allan o' Airlie!"

THE HARBOR LIGHTS OF HOME

J. Thomas Gordon left home one day,Left home for good and all —A boy has a right to have his own wayWhen he's nearly six foot tall;At least, this is what J. Thomas thought,And in his own young eyesThere were very few people quite so good,And fewer still quite so wise.What! tie as clever a lad as heDown to commonplace toil?Make J. Thomas Gordon a farmer lad,A simple son of the soil?Not if he knew it – 'twould be a sin;He wished to rise and soar.For men like himself who would do and dareDame Fortune had much in store.The world was in need of brains and brawn,J. Thomas said modestly,The clever young man was in great demand —They would see what they would see.He would make his mark in the busy world,Some day the daily pressWould herald the glad news forth to the throng,J. Thomas is a SUCCESS.Then would the doubters and sceptics allSay, with regret sincere,"To think that we gave his hopes and his aimsBut an unbelieving sneer!"As for him, he would kiss his mother,And give her wealth galore,Shake the hand of his father – maybe —Then back to the world once more.With big ambition and high conceitWas young J. Thomas filled;The warning of friends and their argumentsHis eloquence quickly stilled."You may go," said the irate father,"I'll not urge you to stay;You will learn your lesson, you headstrong fool,Be glad to come back some day."So J. Thomas Gordon left the farm,As boys have done before,And his mother began to count the hoursTill he would be home once more.The father wearied as time went on —Missed the boy from his side;But all through the years the fond mother keptHer love, her hope, and her pride.With a mother's beautiful faith, she said:"I know my boy will comeSo wealthy, so honored, noble and great,Proudly come marching home."And ever she looked at eventideInto the glowing westFor the dust of the carriage bringing herThe one that she loved the best.Ah! how she longed to look on his face,Her stalwart lad and true,With his sunburned cheek, and his ruddy hair,And his eyes so bright and blue.To those who said 'twas cruel of himNever a line to send,She had but one answer, with eyes ashine:"It will all come right in the end;He's busy making a name and place,And I must patient beTill this clever, ambitious lad of mineFinds time to come back to me."Important and wealthy and famous,Honored and wise and great!But look you, who can that ragged tramp be,Down there by the garden gate,Pale as if hunger had pressed him sore,Trembling because so weak,Pushed on by his longing, held back by shame —A tear on his poor pale cheek?'Tis he! Had he come back rich and greatShe'd have met him at the door,But she's down the path with her arms outspread,Because he has come back poor.Gone, gone are her day-dreams sweet and fair —Gone in the swift glad shockOf folding a ragged tramp in her arms,But love stands firm as a rock.She rang the dinner bell long and loud,The father came with speed;The welcome he gave the prodigalWas a tender one indeed."The young fool has learned his lesson,"J. Thomas whispered low."So he has – God bless him!" the father cried,"He'll make a good man, I know."Honest, unselfish, and true as steel,Our boy will stand the test;Kindly of thought and word and deed —The homely virtues are best.I knew when you went, and you know it now,That all this pride and style,This yearnin' to fill up the public eye,Isn't really worth the while."Oh, the happy face of the motherThat night as, kneeling low,Tom said the prayer that he used to sayAt her knee so long ago.A new J. Thomas had this to add —With his bonnie blue eyes wet —"Thank God for the home, for the faithful heartsThat never change or forget."Though far and wide on the world's rough seaThe children, reckless, roam,The boldest thanks God in some stress of stormFor the harbor lights of home.

THE PREACHER DOWN AT COLES

He was not especially handsome, he was not especially smart,A great big lumbering fellow with a soft and tender heart.His eyes were gray and honest, his smile a friendly one,He wore his parson's suit of black on days of state alone;At other times he went around in clothes the worse of wear,A blue cloth cap set jauntily upon his thick gray hair.He cared so little how he looked, so little how he drest,That he tired the patience sorely of the ones he loved the best.For a preacher, so they argued, should be dressed like one, of course,But in the winter it was tweeds, in summer it was worse;Ducks and flannels would be grimy, if the sad truth must be told,For he spaded up the gardens of the people who were old,And he ran down dusty highways at unministerial rate,Going errands for the people who really could not wait.His coat-sleeves would be short an inch, his trousers just the same,For the washerwoman had them every week that ever came.He cared so little how he looked, and never paused to thinkThat linen, duck, and flannel were such awful things to shrink.His wife, she was the primmest thing, as neat as any doll,And looked like one when walking by her husband big and tall.It almost broke her heart that he refused to give a thoughtTo how he looked, or do the thing, or say the thing he ought.Sometimes, though well she loved him, quite high her temper ran,For 'tis hard on any woman to have such a careless man.Think! when the conference president came visiting the place,The preacher down at Coles he had a badly battered face —One eye was black as black could be; he looked, so we've been told,More like a fierce prize-fighter than a shepherd of the fold."How did it happen?" questioned him the visitor so wise,With hint of laughter on his lips, and in his twinkling eyes."Old Betty Brown," the preacher said – his wife broke in just here,"A cross-grained spinster of the place who hates him, that is clear;And never did a woman have a meaner tongue than hers —The slighting things she says of him, the mischief that she stirs!""Fields have we," said the president, "in country and in town;Believe me, Madam, most of them can boast a Betty Brown."The preacher stroked his blackened eye, and laughed good-naturedly."She doesn't like me very well, but what of that?" said he."The other night I found the poor old creature sick in bed,She 'didn't want no prayin' done,' she very quickly said,So, seeing that she was so ill and worn she could not stir,I thought with care and patience I could milk the cow for her.I stroked old Spot caressingly, and placed my little can,But Spot she knew, and I came home a sadder, wiser man."The preacher down at Coles he was no orator at all,But sick, and sad, and sinful were glad to have him call.Not that he ever found a host of happy things to say;In fact, as far as talking went, he might have stayed away.But oh, the welcome that he got! I think his big right handGave such a grip that all the rest they seemed to understand.Some of the congregation would have liked a different man,He couldn't hope to please them all – few ministers that can.Once, at the district meeting, the good old farmer BowlesStood up and spoke his mind about the preacher down at Coles."There's not," he said, "you know it, too, a better man than he;An' you fault-findin', carpin' folk – I say this reverently —If the Lord 'd take an angel and gently turn him looseTo preach down here, do you suppose he'd please the hull caboose?Not much! It's human nature to quarrel with what we've got,An' this man is a better man than we deserve, a lot."But he did preach curious sermons, just as dry as they could be,And the old folks slumbered through them every Sabbath, peacefully;But they all woke up the moment the singing would begin,And not an ear was found too dull to drink the music in.For though the preacher could not boast an orator's smooth tongue,He could reach the people's heart-strings when he stood up there and sung.O the wondrous power and sweetness of the voice that filled the place!Everyone that heard it swelling grew the purer for a space.And men could not choose but listen to the singer standing there,Till their worldliness slipped from them, and their selfishness and care.Mourners turned their eyes all misty from the crosses tall and whiteWhere their loved ones slumbered softly all the day and all the night;Listening, faith rose triumphant over sorrow, loss, and pain,Heaven was not a far-off country, they would meet their own again.And the white-haired men and women wished the singing need not cease,For they seemed to see the beauty of the longed for Land of Peace.Upward soared that voice, and upward, with a sweetness naught could stem,Till each dim eye caught the glory of the new Jerusalem.He was such a curious fellow, the preacher down at Coles!One winter day the word was brought to town by Farmer BowlesThat in a little shanty, in the hollow by the mill,Were children gaunt with hunger, a mother sad and ill,The father just a drunkard, a vagabond who leftHis family for long, long weeks of love and care bereft.The squire talked of taking a big subscription up,And talked, and talked, while in that house was neither bite nor sup.O, these talking folks! these talking folks! the poor would starve and freezeIf the succoring and caring were done by such as these.The preacher down at Coles he had not very much to say;He harnessed up the old roan horse and hitched it to the sleigh,And piled in so much provisions that his wife said, tearfully,She didn't have a cake or pie left in the house for tea.He filled the sleigh with baskets, and with bundles – such a pile!Heaps of wood, and clothes, and victuals – everybody had to smileAs they watched the old roan canter down the crossroad, o'er the hill,To the little cheerless shanty in the hollow by the mill.The preacher built a fire and bade the children warm their toesWhile he heard the worn-out mother's tale of miseries and woes.He brought in a bag of flour, and a turkey big and fat —His dainty wife had meant to dine the Ladies' Aid on that.He brought in ham and butter, and potatoes in a sack,A pie or two, a loaf of cake, and doughnuts, such a stack!Ah! his wife and her good handmaid had been baking many a day,For the Ladies' Aid would dine there – he had lugged it all away.He brought in a pair of blankets, and a heavy woollen quilt;Betty Brown, who happened in there, said she thought that she would wilt,For these things the active members of the Missionary BandHad gathered for the heathen in a far-off foreign land."These belong unto the Lord, sir," Betty said, "I think you'll find."But he answered her quite gently, "Very well, He will not mind.""To see him making tea for the woman in the bedMade me wish I had been kinder to the preacher," Betty said.Though he was so big and clumsy he could step around so light,And to see him getting dinner to the children's huge delight!It was not till he had warmed them, and had fed them there, that day,That he whispered very softly: "Little children, let us pray."Then he gave them to the keeping of a Father kind and wiseIn a way that brought the tear-drops into hard old Betty's eyes.She felt an aching in her throat, and when she cried, "Amen!"Other folks might flout the preacher, Betty never would again.He took up the fresh air movement, but the people down at ColesShook their head – a preacher's work, they said, was saving precious souls,Not worrying lest the waifs and strays that throng the city streetShould pine for want of country air, and country food to eat.Lawyer Angus, at the meeting, spoke against new-fangled things;"Seems to me our preacher's bow, friends, has a muckle lot of strings."Merchant Jones said trade was failing, rent was high and clerks to pay;Not a dollar could he give them, he was very grieved to say.Old Squire Hays was buying timber, needed every cent and more;Doctor Blake sat coldly smiling – then the farmer took the floor."Wish," he said, "our hearts were bigger, an' our speeches not so long;I would move right here the preacher tunes us up a little song."Sing? I wish you could have heard him – simple songs of long ago,Old familiar things that held us – warm that golden voice and low —Songs of summer in the woodlands, cowslips yellow in the vale;Songs of summer in the city, and the children wan and pale,Till we saw the blist'ring pavement pressed by tired little feet,Heard the baby voices crying for the meadows wide and sweet."Now we'll take up the collection," said the wily farmer Bowles,And they showered in their money, did the people down at Coles."Here's a cheque," said lawyer Angus, "'tis the best that I can do;Man, you'd have us in the poorhouse if you sang your sermons through!"The very careless fellow still goes his cheery wayUnmindful of what people think or of what people say.Some still are finding fault with him – he doesn't mind it much —Laughs when they make remarks about his clothes and shoes and such,Declare his sermons have no point, and quarrel with his text,As people will, but oh, it makes his pretty wife so vext!"I think," she says, "as much of him as any woman can,But 'tis most aggravating to have such a careless man."There are those who think him perfect, shout his praises with a will.He has labored for the Master, he is laboring for Him still;And the grumbling does not move him, nor the praises sung abroad —Things like these seem only trifles to the man who works for God.Farmer Bowles summed up the total in his own original wayWhen he spoke at the Convention that was held the other day."Never knew a better worker, never knew a kinder man;Lots of preachers are more stylish, keep themselves so spic-and-spanYou could spot 'em out for preachers if you met 'em walkin' roundOver on the Fejee Islands, silk hat, long coat, I'll be bound.Our man's different, but, I tell you, when it comes to doing goodThere's not one can beat him at it, an' I want this understood.Ask the sad folks and the sinful, ask the fallen ones he's raised,Ask the sick folks and the poor folks, if you want to hear him praised.Orator? Well, maybe not, friends, but in caring for men's soulsThere stand few men half so faithful as the preacher down at Coles."