Quiet Talks on Service

by S. D. Gordon

I was caught as I looked. That was the delight of his life. Not his money, nor his business, nor his social relations, though he took keen interest in all of these, but this. And the sound of his voice, and the sight of his face that morning, seemed to kindle the fires in my heart that I might, in my own way, as came best to me, be doing something of that same sort. That is what I mean by a deep-seated purpose, under every other, to try to win men.

I was telling this story one night to some people in his state, not thinking that I was within maybe two hundred miles of his home. And as the audience was dismissed I saw a man coming up the aisle toward the pulpit, apparently to meet me. So I went down his way. He looked like a business fellow, with a clean-cut way about him, and a strong manly face. Before we met I noticed something glistening in his eye, and yet a smile across his lips.

And he gripped my hand. I can feel that grip now. And he half-blurted out, "I'm one of those fellows! And there are a lot of us that are thanking God with full hearts for that man's library room." And the grip of that hand seemed to make the fires within burn just a bit stiffer.

In an after conversation this friend told me how he had wanted to be a Christian, but didn't seem to know just how. And nobody had ever spoken to him about it, he said, though so often he had wished somebody would. There are a great many just like him in that.

"Two Missing"--"Go Ye."

Same years ago I was a guest at a small wedding dinner party in New York City. A Scotch-Irish gentleman, well known in that city, an old friend, spoke across the table to me. He said he had heard recently a story of the Scottish hills that he wanted to tell. And we all listened as he told this simple tale. I have heard it since from other lips, variously told. But good gold shines better by the friction of use. And I want to tell it to you as my old friend from the Scotch end of Ireland told it that evening.

It was of a shepherd in the Scottish hills who had brought his sheep back to the fold for the night, and as he was arranging matters for the night he was surprised to find that two of the sheep were missing. He looked again. Yes, two were missing. And he knew which two. These shepherds are keen to know their sheep. He was much surprised, and went to the out-house of his dwelling to call his collie.

There she lay after the day's work suckling her own little ones. He called her. She looked up at him. He said, "Two are missing"--holding up two fingers--"Away by, Collie, and get them." Without moving she looked up into his face, as though she would say, "You wouldn't send me out again to-night?--it's been a long day--I'm so tired--not again to-night." So her eyes seemed to say. And again as many a time doubtless, "Away by, and get the sheep," he said. And out she went.

About midnight a scratching at the door aroused him. He found one of the sheep back. He cared for it. A bit of warm food, and the like. Then out again to the out-house. There the dog lay with her little ones. Again he called her. She looked up. "Get the other sheep," he said. I do not know if you men listening are as fond of a good collie as I am. Their eyes seem human to me, almost, sometimes. And hers seemed so as she looked up and seemed to be saying out of their great depths--"Not again--to-night?--haven't I been faithful?--I'm so tired--not again!"

And again as I suppose many a time before, "Away by, and get the sheep." And out she went. About two or three, again the scratching. And he found the last sheep back; badly torn; been down some ravine or gully. And the dog was plainly played. And yet she seemed to give a bit of a wag to her tired tail as though she would say, "There it is--I've done as you bade me--it's back."