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 be truth enough,
He'll be a saint.
Patience.
If he live long enough.
John.
Well, now I tell you, such wild men as he,—
Men who have crazy crotchets in their heads,—
Can't make a woman happy. Don't you see?
He isn't settled. He has wandered off
From the old landmarks, and has lost himself
I may judge wrongly; but if truth were told
There'd be excuse for Grace, I warrant ye.
Grace is a right good girl, or was, before
She married David.
Patience.
Everybody says
He makes provision for his family,
Like a good husband.
Peter.
We can hardly tell.
When men get loose in their theology
The screws are started up in everything.
Of course, I don't apologize for Grace.
I think she might have done more prudently
Than introduce her troubles here to-night,
But, after all, we do not know the cause
That stirs her fretfulness.
Well, let it go!
What does the evening's talk amount to? Who
Is wiser for the wisdom of the hour?
The good old paths are good enough for me.
The fathers walked to heaven in them, and we,
By following mekly where they trod, may reach
The home they found. There will be mysteries;
Let those who like, bother their heads with them.
If Ruth and David seek to fathom all,
I wish them patience in their bootless quest.
For one, I'm glad the misty talk is done,
And we, alone.
Patience.
And I.
John.
I, too.
Prudence.
And I.