Chapter 13

The night comes on apace; The cricket's chirp, the woodland murmur's swell, Bid nature's changeling melodies efface The glamour of yon phantom spell. The flashing morn adown the glist'ning aisles, A dew-embowered hill and grove and lea, With ruthless light will scatter fairy wiles, Nor leave my love to me.

--E.D.P.

THE MISER AND THE ANGEL

'Twas cold and bleak that winter's night, When hover'd o'er the dying light, The miser hugg'd his shrunken form, And grudged the fire that made him warm.

The old worn latch arose and felt, He started up with threat'ning yell-- 'Begone!"--as in the open door A woman stood, faint and foot-sore.

"Just this," she begged, "this rotten board-- 'Twill not be missed from out your hoard." "Take it and go!" he thundered out-- "Oh, thanks," she moaned, and turned about.

Another shivering night he sat; A lad came in--"Please, Mister,"--"What?" "This piece of rope." He said not nay, But curs'd him as he went his way.

And once again there ventured nigh A child, who fled with frightened cry, As at her head a rusty key-- The gift she craved--he flung with glee.

* * * * *

The sands of life were nearly run; "What good to others have you done?" The angel ask'd. The miser sighed. "Not one kind act," he sadly cried.

"Not one? Did you ne'er give, nor lend Relief to neighbor, suppliant, friend?" The dying eyes were closed--he thought On all the misery he had wrought.

A ray of light! "I gave a board." "'Tis well--'twill span death's river ford." "A mouldy rope." "'Twill reach from earth To Heaven. What more of feeble worth?" "A rusty key." "Unlocks the gate. Is this the sum? No--not too late; The sinner's Friend has room for all,-- The least you do is not too small."

--E.D.P.

REST

For so He giveth His beloved sleep.

IN MEMORY OF MY MOTHER

A soul is gather'd home; At morn, at eve, on mission kind intent, Her footsteps evermore were wont to roam, Till years their ceaseless labor spent. Each day its olive leaf of grace brought in-- garner'd leaf from charity's broad field; Each day's good deeds redeem'd a life from sin, And gray'd anew her shield.

The lowly suppliant bless'd, When to the hovel came her welcome smile; The cold, the hungry, friendless and distress'd, With gen'rous aid she cheer'd the while; And not alone the desolate and poor Sought counsel of her wisdom and her love; The high-born and the cultured cross'd her door To share her treasure-trove.

A nature great and high, No puny thought could dwell within her breast; How sad to see her worth untimely die! Yet who may wail the needful rest? Her willing hand, her tireless step, her active brain, Rear'd lofty landmarks on the busy way; The haunts that knew her long'd with yearning vain, The reaper's scythe to stay.

The strife at last is o'er; The strife that all great souls must needs endure; And anchor'd fast on Eden's peaceful shore, Her roving bark is strong and sure. The world is full of workers for the right; "They also serve who only stand and wait." No waiting servant she; with armor bright She pass'd the pearly gate.

--E.D.P.

THE CHANGED CROSS

A little gilt-edge volume, Its covers reddish brown, It glossy leaves one burden bore, Without the cross, no crown.

I turned the pages slowly, The fly-leaf wore a name; With eyes suffused in quick response, I noted whence it came.

A tender message bade me Take up the lowly cross, For love and mercy's joint decree Apportions every loss.

"No cross--no crown"--the mandate, With cruel meaning falls; The heavy-laden soul shrinks back, The lonely way appals.

Ah, me! sweet friend, I thank thee; This little ray of light Steals o'er the darken'd firmament, Illuming sorrow's night.

End of Project Gutenberg's Idle Hour Stories, by Eugenia Dunlap Potts