The Deacon of Dobbinsville | Page 6

John Arch Morrison
that were heard in heaven. As nearly as he could hear, the
prayers ran something like this: "O Lord, thou didst have a purpose in

sending us through these wooded hills. May we be instrumental in
bringing light and salvation to this lonely cabin. Lord, talk to the heart
of this Mr. Benton, who sleeps on his bag of leaves. Bring something
before his mind that will break up his heart; disturb him even in his
sleep, Lord."
Jake's emotions overwhelmed him and he could keep silent no longer.
He bounded from his bed, crying, "O my God, save me, save me, save
me! Oh, do pray for me now! I am lost! lost! lost!"
Needless to say, the preachers were somewhat shocked, as people often
are when their prayers are answered sooner than they expect. The
convicted herdsman prostrated himself on the floor before the preachers
and poured out bitter tears of repentance. He wept and groaned, and
begged God to save him. But he seemed slow to grasp God's promises.
He prayed till the morning dawned. The preachers prayed with him.
Finally, just as the first grey streaks of the new day began to creep
between the logs, Jake's faith was anchored in God's promises, and the
glory of heaven flooded his soul. In the twinkling of an eye he was
made a new man. His joy knew no bounds. He leaped and shouted,
sang and whistled, and laughed and cried, all for the joy of his
new-found treasure.
When breakfast was over and the two ministers had bidden their new
convert a happy farewell, Jake sat down to read his Bible, which the
preachers had given him. His eyes fell upon these words, "Weeping
may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." (Psa. 30:5).
CHAPTER IV
The anteroom of the post office in a little Ohio town was crowded. The
train had arrived from the west, but it went as soon as it came, for it did
not stop. A scream of the whistle, the rumble of the wheels, and the
mighty monster dashed through the peaceful town at fifty miles an hour.
But the inhabitants were not so interested in the train, for they had seen
it pass in just this fashion year after year. But from the baggage coach
there came each evening a bag of mail, and this was the cause of the

gathering at the post office. While the postmaster and his assistant were
opening and distributing the mail behind the closed window in the post
office, the restless townspeople occupied themselves in social chat
discussing the local happenings of the day, or in reading the notices on
the bulletin board.
Everybody was at the post office at this hour. School children, happy at
the close of an irksome day of school, shouted boisterously at each
other in the street. Laboring men, with empty dinner pails in hand, sat
restfully on the curbstone just outside the post office door, and talked
of the happenings of the day. The village blacksmith wiped the honest
sweat from his brow, closed the shop door, and came down to the post
office, where he was met by his flaxen-haired girl of three summers.
She clasped her pink arms about the smith's grimy neck and told him
Mama was looking for a letter from Grandma, who had gone to
California for her health, and that she had come down to see how many
kisses Grandma had sent her. The town doctor, with a dignified air,
leaned against the side of the post office door and read the Chicago
paper that a previous mail had brought to him. The schoolmaster had
finished grading some test papers and had come down to the post office
just in time to be the third party to an interesting fist fight in which two
sixth grade boys were engaged with great zest, in the street. Two
out-of-town strangers, who were guests at the hotel just across the way,
came over and, seating themselves on a bench in front of the post office
engaged in conversation.
Finally the task behind the window was done. The mail was sorted and
placed alphabetically in the proper boxes. The postmaster flipped up
the window, and there was a mighty rush and a scramble--for who is
not eager to get a letter? Some received several letters and papers; some
only one letter; some only a paper; some only a catalogue. Some were
disappointed altogether, judging from facial expressions; some received
glad messages, some sad messages, some indifferent.
When the crowd was dispersed, the two strangers who had been seated
on the bench appeared at the window and called for their mail. The
postmaster handed to one of them a letter addressed, Evangelist Blank.

The address was written in
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