Gleanings by the Way

by John A. Clark

Some sixteen hundred years before the first advent of the Lord's Anionted, there lived in Bethlehem a man of wealth and distinction. He possessed extensive flocks and herds, and fields, and all the usual resources of oriental riches. Palestine was then the land that flowed with milk and honey. Though there had been periods when for the sins of the people the heavens were shut, and the dews and rains withheld—till the blight of sterility seemed to have impressed its dreary iron aspect upon every smiling valley and sunny hill:—at the time to which we refer it was not so. That whole region then poured forth its productions most luxuriantly, for the blessing of the Lord was upon the land. And now the season of the barley harvest had arrived, and the reapers went forth with their sickles to cut down the bearded and bending grain.

This opulent citizen of Bethlehem, to whom we have referred, when the rising sun, ascending the deep blue arch of heaven and pouring its full orbed radiance over hill and dale, had drank up the dew drops of morning, rode forth into the country amid vine-clad hills, and beneath groves of olive and palm till he reached his own paternal estate. The bright luminary of day now poured down a full tide of heat and effulgence over the whole surrounding scene. The reapers were plying their glittering steel, and gathering the falling grain into sheaves. The sound of rustic music came upon his ears as he rode along through the fields. It was the song of the reapers. He approached them. They were his own hired servants. Though they were poor, and had to toil for their daily bread, their wealthy employer did not despise them. He was one who feared the Lord, and saw in every human form a brother. Kind were his words as he approached the reapers, and full of pious sentiment—for his salutation was, The Lord be with you.

Those sun-burnt and swarthy laborers, suspending for a moment their toil, respectfully and piously responded, The Lord bless thee. I know not what other pleasant discourse followed. An object of deep interest now presented itself to the rich owner of these grounds. In a distant part of the field was to be seen the slender and delicate form of a young female walking hither and thither to gather up the scattered heads of barley that had escaped the hand of the reaper. Then said he to his servant who was set over the reapers: Whose damsel is this? And he replied, It is the Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi.

That lone female, whose hand was gathering the scattered heads of barley, had known better days. She had been nursed in the lap of ease. She dwelt in Moab. A stranger came there. He had been reared near Siloa's sacred stream. He had been instructed in the divine law and his intellect had been beautified and expanded, and his heart softened and refined by its heavenly teaching. He was young and beautiful, and full of manly dignity. This interesting Moabitess saw the stranger. His dark lustrous eye met hers with an interest that mutually increased till love burned bright in both their bosoms. They were joined in wedded love, and her Mahlon was all her own! No, not all—for death, the insatiable archer, had fixed his eye upon him. Only a short period elapsed, and Mahlon was numbered with the dead! She saw his bright eye forever shut, and the dark grave closing over his pale, unbreathing corse.

Mahlon had a father, but he too had found a grave in that Moabitish land where they now sojourned. Mahlon had a brother, but that brother had fallen beneath the shaft of death, and his dust slumbered fast by the side of his dead father. Mahlon had a mother. Poor lone widow! Her name was once Naomi—pleasant, but now she chose to be called Mara—bitter—for the Almighty had dealt very bitterly with her. She had buried all she most loved in a stranger land. Why should she not now return to her native land—to the altars of her fathers—and the home of her childhood?

Shall she go alone? No—not while Mahlon's widow lives. The hour of parting came. Her two daughters-in-law—for both of her sons had taken them wives in the land of Moab—had already accompanied her several miles on her way to the land of her nativity. But the moment of separation had now come! They stood under a cluster of palms—a cool, refreshing spring sent forth its waters which flowed and gurgled along beside them. All nature smiled around them, but their hearts were sad. This widowed, childless mother—after a long painful struggle of silent feeling, said unto her two daughters-in-law, go return each to your mother's house. The Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead and with me. Then she kissed them each. And they lifted up their voice and wept. How could they part? They said, surely we will return with thee unto thy people.—And she said—nay—I have nothing to offer you: I go back to my country stript of friends, and substance. Therefore turn again my daughters, why will ye go with me?

The deep fountains of feeling were again broken up, and they again lifted up their voices and wept. Then Orpah clasping the mother of her buried Chilion in her arms, fell on her neck, and, sobbing long and loud, kissed her and bid her a final adieu.

Not so the beautiful, but now faded and care-worn Ruth. Hers was a love stronger than death. Many waters could not drown it. She refused to separate herself from the mother of him she had loved. They still lingered under the shade of the clustering palms. Orpah had taken her final leave, and her retiring form had now vanished from their view. The sad widowed mother, now preparing to start on her way, again addressed Ruth, still lingering at her side—Behold thy sister-in-law has gone back unto her people, and unto her gods. Return thou after thy sister-in-law.

But the fair and lovely Moabitess nobly replied—Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me. So onward they two went together to the holy land. It was the beginning of the barley harvest when they reached Bethlehem. They were quite destitute, and scarcely knew how they were to provide themselves with the means of subsistence. But the eternal God in whom they trusted, and who feeds the fowls of the air, clothes the grass of the field, and decks the expanded petals of the lily with hues more brilliant and beautiful than those reflected from the shining robes of royalty—had not forgotten the poor—had not forgotten to insert in his law when ye reap the harvest of your land—thou shalt not wholly reap the corners of the field, neither shalt thou gather the gleanings of thy harvest. * * * Thou shalt leave them for the poor and stranger: I am the Lord your God. This divine injunction was reiterated again and again. When thou cuttest down thine harvest in thy field, and hast forgot a sheaf in the field, thou shalt not go again to fetch it: it shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless, and for the widow; that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the works of thine hands. Here was a merciful provision for the poor. The devoted Moabitess who had left country and home for her love to Naomi, was not backward in offering to go forth to glean in the field after the reapers. It was on this errand, that she walked into the country, and patiently toiled beneath the rays of the scorching sun.

It was while thus engaged, that Boaz, the rich Bethlehemite, came to his reapers, and first saw the lovely stranger. How she afterwards sped, those acquainted with the sacred story need not be told. It only remains for us to add, that she gleaned in the field until even, and beat out all that she had gleaned: and it was an ephah of of barley. And she took it up and went into the city; and her mother-in-law saw what she had gleaned; and she brought forth and gave to her that she had received after she was sufficed. And her mother-in-law said unto her, Where hast thou gleaned to-day? and where wroughtest thou? blessed be he that did take knowledge of thee!