THE gusty wind was howling in the trees
And drove the rain a pattering on the glass.
The night was dreary, and the village street
Was hid in darkness. By the fire I sat
Questioning if I should venture through the storm;
For there was one poor stricken lad I knew
Who wanted comfort-maybe wanted bread,
For he was poor, and all his friends were poor.
And I said, 'Shall I venture out to-night?'
And wavered, 'twas so very cold and drear.
And then there came the memory of a voice
And of a few words spoken long ago—
O long ago, so long, so long ago!
'You have full and plenty at your house at home.'
Across the valley from my father's fields,
Spread o'er its northern slope, were many farms
And quaint old homesteads, sheltered from the winds
In cuplike hollows by o'ershadowing woods.
There lived my clansfolk, and for long had lived
In generations, each succeeding each,
Till they were rooted in the very soil.
They were oldfashioned statesmen, strong of limb, Broad-chested, ruddy, tall and azure eyed.
With strong old clannish feelings, and imbued With notions that the outer world thought strange.
'Twas my delight in careless boyish days,
In plaid and bonnet donned, to range their lands,
And plunge into the deep and rifted ghylls
Where foamed the streams in many a white cascade,
Or rested here and there in quiet pools,
O'erlooked by crags whose ivy tendrils shook
With every breeze that wandered up the dell.
Far up the foxglove reared his stately head,
And old primæval trees with woodbine clad
Mingled their fragrance with the blushing rose.
But better still I loved when evening closed
To sit by some warm ingle side and hear
From aged clansfolk how my fathers lived,
And loved, and joyed, and sorrowed; how they died,
And where their graves were in the old churchyard.
For they were kind, and praised my growing strength,
And sorrowed that my fathers should have left
Their fields and pastures now to strangers let,
With their old homestead ruined and unroofed.
But there was one beside whose ingle oft
I sat, who was not of our kith or kin,
Yet lived amongst them, old and very poor :
Who, as she carded wool, or plied her wheel,
Or knit, would often talk of other things,
And warn me of the dangers of a world
She had only heard of. In one olden Book
She found her solace-so with sweet content
She looked upon her poverty and want :
For she was poor, so desolate and poor!
I well remember how with stealthy steps
Inevitable death approached her house,
And how I was entrusted with the care
Of her small pittance from the parish funds.
To give her, seeing I went oft that way.
Some boyish sport or other took me off;
Whether 'twas angling for the spotted trout,
Or following hound and horn, or joining in
The eager contests of the village green,
I know not, but the pittance I forgot
A day or so and then, ashamed, I went
And made apologies, and hoped no harm,
Said this or that had taken me away.
For I could little realise her deep
Privations so she looked at me, and smiled
So sad a smile, and smiled again and said,
‘You have full and plenty at your house at home.'
Then I renewed apologies and talked,
Not knowing what she meant or what to say;
But all she did was just to smile again
More bitterly, and to repeat her words.
God works in marvellous ways. I knew not then The meaning of her words, but often now
If indolence, or love of selfish joys
Would draw me off from duties stern and sad,
(O, grant, dear Lord, I may not vainly boast) I hear a voice within me saying, 'Go,
You have full and plenty at your house at home.'
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