Bitter-Sweet | Page 7

toil?Endurance; saintly fortitude by pain;?By sickness, patience; faith and trust by fear;?But the great stimulus that spurs to life,?And crowds to generous development?Each chastened power and passion of the soul,?Is the temptation of the soul to sin,?Resisted, and re-conquered, evermore.
Ruth.
I am content; and now that I have caught?Bright glimpses of the outlines of your scheme,?As of a landscape, graded to the sky,?And seen through trees while passing, I desire?No vision further till I make survey?In some good time when I may come alone,?And drink its beauty and its blessedness.?I've been forgetful in my earnestness,?And wearied everyone with talk. These boys?Are restive grown, or nodding in their chairs,?And older heads are set, as if for sleep.?I beg their pardon for my theft of time,?And will offend no more.
David.
Ruth, is it right?To leave a brother in such a plight as this--?Either to imitate your courtesy,?Or by your act to be adjudged a boor?
Ruth.
Heaven grant you never note a sin of mine?Save of your own construction!
Israel.
Let it pass!?I see the spell of thoughtfulness is gone,?Or going swiftly. I will not complain;?But ere these lads are fastened to their games,?And thoughts arise discordant with our theme,?Let us with gratitude approach the throne?And worship God. I wish once more to lead?Your hearts in prayer, and follow with my own?The leading of your song of thankfulness.?Then will I lease and leave you for the night?To such divertisement as suits the time,?And meets your humor.
[They all arise and the old man prays.]
Ruth.
[After a pause.]
David, let us see?Whether your memory prove as true as mine.?Do you recall the promise made by you?This night one year ago,--to write a hymn?For this occasion?
David.
I recall, and keep.?Here are the copies, written fairly out.?Here,--father, Mary, Ruth, and all the rest;?There's one for each. Now what shall be the tune?
Israel.
The old One Hundredth--noblest tune of tunes!?Old tunes are precious to me as old paths?In which I wandered when a happy boy.?In truth, they are the old paths of my soul,?Oft trod, well worn, familiar, up to God.
THE HYMN.
[In which all unite to sing.]
For Summer's bloom and Autumn's blight,?For bending wheat and blasted maize,?For health and sickness, Lord of light,?And Lord of darkness, hear our praise!
We trace to Thee our joys and woes--?To Thee of causes still the cause,--?We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows;?We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws.
We bring no sorrows to Thy throne;?We come to Thee with no complaint;?In Providence Thy will is done,?And that is sacred to the saint
Here on this blest Thanksgiving Night;?We raise to Thee our grateful voice;?For what Thou doest, Lord, is right;?And thus believing, we rejoice.
Grace.
A good old tune, indeed, and strongly sung;?But, in my mind, the man who wrote the hymn?Had seemed more modest, had he paused a while.?Ere by a trick he furnished other tongues?With words he only has the heart to sing.
David.
Oh, Grace! Dear Grace!
Ruth.
You may well cry for grace,?If that's the company you have to keep.
Grace.
I thought you convert to his sophistry.?It makes no difference to him, you know,?Whether I plague or please.
Ruth.
It does to you.
Israel.
There, children! No more bitter words like those!?I do not understand them; they awake?A sad uneasiness within my heart.?I found but Christian meaning in the hymn;?Aye, I could say amen to every line,?As to the breathings of my own poor prayer.?But let us talk no more. I'll to my bed.?Good-night, my children! Happy thoughts be yours?Till sleep arrive--then happy dreams till dawn!
All.
Father, good-night!
[ISRAEL retires.]
Ruth.
There, little boys and girls--?Off to the kitchen! Now there's fun for you.?Play blind-man's-buff until you break your heads;?And then sit down beside the roaring fire,?And with wild stories scare yourselves to death.?We'll all be out there, by and by. Meanwhile,?I'll try the cellar; and if David, here,?Will promise good behavior, he shall be?My candle-bearer, basket-bearer, and--?But no! The pitcher I will bear myself.?I'll never trust a pitcher to a man?Under this house, and--seventy years of age.
[_The children rush out of the room with a
shout, which wakes the baby_.]
That noisy little youngster on the floor?Slept through theology but wakes with mirth--?Precocious little creature! He must go?Up to his chamber. Come, Grace, take him off--?Basket and all. Mary will lend a hand,?And keep you company until he sleeps.
[GRACE and_ MARY remove the cradle to the chamber,
and_ DAVID and_ RUTH retire to the cellar.]
John.
[Rising and yawning]
Isn't she the strangest girl you ever saw?
Prudence.
Queer, rather, I should say. Grace, now, is strange.?I think she treats her husband shamefully.?I can't imagine what possesses her,?Thus to toss taunts at him with every word.?If in his doctrines there