Part 3

"Blessed, O keeper, this inn of thine, Both thatch and foundation stone, For the open door and hearth-fire warm When 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 pay To royal son of a royal line Who 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 sought Found 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 late They found neither room nor bed."

"My masters," a lad said timidly, "As I gave the cattle feed, Came creeping down to the stable door A 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 given When 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 gown Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair. "We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful care Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call Went 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 word For 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-day With 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 trim He 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 him Till there came a day when the curls

And 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 defiant As 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 clearing A path for his own gallant men.

Capt. Benjamin Brooks he came riding home When 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 duty To be kind to this young man of note.

But Ben, wise fellow, liked Marjory best; He knew her lips did not curl When 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 regretted The 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 find In this great world's busy whirl Are men like my farmer--no praise need be warmer Than "he's just as good as a girl."

FOOL'S LUCK.

The Allans o' Airlie they set muckle store On 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 way If 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 expecting Twa 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 mon As he stood there, his bonnet-strings twirling; Ye'd think he was chief o' a whole Highland clan That 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 best O' 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 nicht It 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 way When he's nearly six foot tall; At least, this is what J. Thomas thought, And in his own young eyes There were very few people quite so good, And fewer still quite so wise.

What! tie as clever a lad as he Down 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 dare Dame 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 press Would herald the glad news forth to the throng, J. Thomas is a SUCCESS.

Then would the doubters and sceptics all Say, with regret sincere, "To think that we gave his hopes and his aims But 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 conceit Was young J. Thomas filled; The warning of friends and their arguments His 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 hours Till 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 kept Her love, her hope, and her pride. With a mother's beautiful faith, she said: "I know my boy will come So wealthy, so honored, noble and great, Proudly come marching home."

And ever she looked at eventide Into the glowing west For the dust of the carriage bringing her The 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 him Never 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 be Till this clever, ambitious lad of mine Finds 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 great She'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 shock Of 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 prodigal Was 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 mother That night as, kneeling low, Tom said the prayer that he used to say At 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 hearts That never change or forget."

* * * * *

Though far and wide on the world's rough sea The children, reckless, roam, The boldest thanks God in some stress of storm For 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 think That 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 thought To 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 hand Gave 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 Bowles Stood 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 loose To 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 white Where 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 Bowles That 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 left His 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 freeze If 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 smile As 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 toes While 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 Band Had 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 bed Made 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 wise In 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.