Sunday dawned in San Francisco; Sunday in the camp
of the refugees. On a green knoll in Golden Gate
Park, between the conservatory and the tennis courts,
a white-haired minister of the Gospel gathered his
flock. It was the Sabbath day and in the turmoil
and confusion the minister did not forget his duty.
Two upright stakes and a cross-piece gave him a rude
pulpit, and beside him stood a young man with a battered
brass cornet. Far over the park stole a melody
that drew hundreds of men and women from their tents.
Of all denominations and all creeds, they gathered
on that green knoll, and the men uncovered while the
solemn voice repeated the words of a grand old hymn,
known wherever men and women meet to worship the Lord:
“Other refuge have I none, hangs my helpless
soul on Thee; Leave, oh, leave me not alone, still
support and comfort me!”
A moment before there had been shouting and confusion
in the driveway where some red-striped artillerymen
were herding a squad of gesticulating Chinamen as
men herd sheep. The shouting died away as the
minister’s voice rose and fell and out of the
stillness came the sobs of women. One little
woman in blue was making no sound, but the tears were
streaming down her cheeks. Her husband, a sturdy
young fellow in his shirt sleeves, put his arm about
her shoulders and tried to comfort her as the reading
went on.
“All my trust on Thee is stayed; all my help
from Thee I bring; Cover my defenseless head with
the shadow of Thy wing.”
Then the cornet took up the air again and those helpless
persons followed it in quivering tones, the white-haired
man of God leading them with closed eyes. When
the last verse was over, the minister raised his hands.
“Let us pray,” said he, and his congregation
sank down in the grass before him. It was a simple
prayer, such a prayer as might be offered by a man
without a home or a shelter over his head—and
nothing left to him but an unshaken faith in his Creator.
“Oh, Lord, Thy ways are past finding out, but
we still have faith in Thee. We know not why
Thou hast visited these people and left them homeless.
Thou knowest the reason of this desolation and of our
utter helplessness. We call on Thee for help
in the hour of our great need. Bless the people
of this city, the sorrowing ones, the bereaved, gather
them under Thy mighty wing and soothe aching hearts
this day.”
The women were crying again, and one big man dug his
knuckles into his eyes without shame. The man
who could have listened to such a prayer unmoved was
not in Golden Gate Park that day.
The Frightful Loss of Life and Wealth.
