HOP PICKING.—THE LAST POLE.
(Frontispiece to Volume.)
The Little Gleaner no doubt is read and welcomed as well by the aged and middle-aged as the young, for whom it is especially intended. In the southern counties, the readers of the Little Gleaner, of all ages, are more or less familiar with "the last pole." In the counties more north, where we hope the Little Gleaner is read with equal interest, many dear children have never seen that lovely and charming sight of Nature in cultivation, the hop garden. To us who, by the hand of Providence, are located in these hop-growing districts, the hop gardens in the months of August and September are always interesting, and share largely in our love and admiration for the products of Nature and industry combined.
For the information of those not so familiar as ourselves with the hop plant under cultivation, we would say that many hundreds of poor people find employment for a few weeks in the autumn at hop picking, by which they are able to earn a little money, which is useful in helping them to pay their rent and provide the necessaries of life. This time is looked forward to, year by year, with deep interest by such.
Among the customs and ceremonies of the hop gardens, at the time of picking, or gathering, there is generally a little ceremony in pulling and picking the last pole. In September, 1886, the writer of these lines was one of the pickers in a very lovely hop garden in Kent, and witnessed the pulling down of many thousands of these heavily-laden hop poles, in all their fresh and lively beauty. But lo and behold! it came not only to the last day, and the last hill (or stool of three poles), but to the last pole, which was selected beforehand, and remained standing until all the others were picked. Then comes the master himself, and takes down this last pole, amid the waving of hats, and shouts of "Hurrah! Hurrah!" But was this all? No, no! There were sad hearts that sighed as they remembered the days of adversity endured by them, and as they wondered what was to be their next employment, and how their table was to be supplied during the coming winter, should it not be their turn to be gathered in like the poles that had passed under their hands. But one poor, trembling heart among the rest could not help thinking of that last great day, when the last stone of that great temple not made with hands should be carried up with shouts of "Grace, grace unto it!" and the following lines came softly into the mind—
"The moon and stars shall lose their light;
The sun shall sink in endless night;
Both heaven and earth shall pass away;
The works of Nature all decay.
"But they who in the Lord confide,
And shelter in His wounded side,
Shall see the danger overpast,
Stand every storm, and live at last."
What! those poor bruised reeds who fear that they shall never hold up their heads again—shall they outlive the moon? Shall they outshine the sun?
However, let us return to our subject—the last pole—and reflect.
"We, like the crowded poles, all stand,
And all are sure to fall;
The dog and hook[13] are in God's hand,
And soon will reach us all."
Yes, my dear young readers, whatever may be those delightsome games of which you are so fond, the last game will soon come. Yea, how soon will be the end of all our earthly pleasures none of us can tell. If we look forward to any day or time of some kind of pleasure, it may seem to approach us very slowly, but how soon do we look behind us, and say, "Alas! that too has gone, never, never more to return."
In like manner also we miss a dear brother or dear sister, a friend, schoolmate, or teacher; perhaps a dear, loving mother or father. "Ah!" we say, "they will never return again." Sometimes we reflect with sorrow upon some unkind words or actions towards them—some pain and grief that we caused them. Perhaps we were too proud or too stubborn to ask their forgiveness while they were with us, so we let the sun go down upon our wrath, and now we can never forgive ourselves. Though they are gone, we see them still—
"We see their smiles, we see their tears;
The grave can never hide them;
A few more days, or months, or years,
A few more sighs, a few more tears,
And we shall lie beside them."
Seeing that it is quite uncertain which of us will be the next to have our earthly ties cut, and all our bloom and beauty stripped off, may I ask my dear young friends what are their thoughts on the subject? Whether it is passed over with indifference, presuming you shall be as well off in the end as other people, or are there moments when thoughts arise like these—"Oh, if death should overtake me as I am—so careless, so unconcerned, so thoughtless, and yet unpardoned! Oh, if my name should be left out—and how can I expect anything else—so prayerless as I am, for the most part, and my performance so unlike prayer when I do make the attempt? Oh, if I could but know that the dear Lord had a favour towards me! Why, if all the world were mine, I would lay it all down this minute to be sure that Jesus died for me"? And is there sometimes a little thought stealing from thine heart, and a tear like a drop of the morning dew trickling from thine eye, which says, "Oh, if ever I should be able to say, 'Bless the Lord, O my soul,' how I should leap for joy to be thus quite sure of being the Lord's"? Then, if this is your feeling after Christ Jesus, I will tell you how it will be with you some day. The Lord, who has said, "Seek, and ye shall find," will give you the desire of your heart, even pardon and peace through faith in His blood, and at last—
"When shivering in the arms of death,
When friends shall watch thy parting breath,
Though then thy lips can no more speak,
Though deathly paleness clads thy cheek,
Glory shall fill thy soul."
T. G.