[Footnote B: Habakkuk iii. 3.]
[Illustration: Vignette]
The Two Windmills.
[Illustration: The Two Windmills]
Two neighbors, living on a
hill,
Had each—and side
by side—a mill.
The one was Jones,—a
thrifty wight—
Whose mill in every wind went
right.
The storm and tempest vainly
spent
Their rage upon it—round
it went!
E’en when the summer
breeze was light,
The whirling wings performed
their flight;
And hence a village saying
rose—
“As sure as Jones’s
mill, it goes.”
Not so with neighbor Smith’s—close
by;
Full half the time it would
not ply:
Save only when the wind was
west,
Still as a post it stood at
rest.
By every tempest it was battered,
By every thundergust ’twas
shattered;
Through many a rent the rain
did filter;
And, fair or foul, ’twas
out of kilter;
And thus the saying came at
last—
“Smith’s mill
is made for folks that fast.”
Now, who can read this riddle
right?
Two mills are standing on
a height—
One whirling brisk, whate’er
the weather,
The other, idle, weeks together!
Come, gentle reader, lend
thine ear,
And thou the simple truth
shalt hear;
And mark,—for here
the moral lurks,—
Smith held to faith, but not
to works;
While Jones believed in both,
and so,
By faith and practice, made
it go!
Smith prayed, and straight
sent in his bill,
Expecting Heaven to tend his
mill;
And grumbled sore, whene’er
he found
That wheels ungreased would
not go round.
Not so with Jones—for,
though as prayerful,
To grease his wheels he e’er
was careful,
And healed, with ready stitch,
each rent
That ruthless time or tempest
sent;
And thus, by works, his faith
expressed,
Good neighbor Jones by Heaven
was blessed.
The Ideal and the Actual.
My boat is on the bounding
tide,
Away, away from
surge and shore;
A waif upon the wave I ride,
Without a rudder
or an oar.
Blow as ye list, ye breezes,
blow—
The compass now
is nought to me;
Flow as ye will, ye billows,
flow,
If but ye bear
me out to sea.
Yon waving line of dusky blue,
Where care and
toil oppress the heart—
To thee I bid a long adieu,
And smile to feel
that thus we part.
There let the sweating ploughman
toil,
The yearning miser count his gain,
The fevered scholar waste his oil,
But I am bounding o’er the main!
How fresh these breezes to the
brow—
How dear this freedom to the soul;
Bright ocean, I am with thee now,
So let thy golden billows roll!
* * * * *
But stay—what means
this throbbing brain—
This heaving chest—these pulses quick?
Oh, take me to the land again,
For I am very, very sick!