The Billings herald. [volume] (Billings, Mont.) 1882-1885, 1884-12-27
THE PARSONS COMFORTER.

Frederick Langbridge IN Good Words.l
Tho parson goes about his daily ways
With ell the parish troubles in his head;
And takes his Bible out, and reads and praya
Beside the sufferers chair, the dying Le,!.
Whate'er the secret skeleton may be,
Doubt, drink, or debt, that keeps within
his lair,
When parson comes, the owner turns tho
And let's him out to squeak and Ribh:r
there.
It seems possibility unguessed,.
Or little borne in mind. if haply known,
That he who cheers in trouble all the rest
May now and then have troubles Of ais
Alas! God knows he has his fec to fight,
His closet-atomy, severe and grim;
All others claim Lis comfort as OF right,
But, hapless parson! who shall comfort
himf
A friend he has to whom he may repair
Besides that Ono who carries all our grief;
And when his load is more than he can bear
He seeks his comforter, and finds relief.
He finds cottage, very poor and small,
The meanest tenement where all are mean;
Yet decency and order mark it all:
The panes are bright, the steps evere!y
clean.
Sometimes, but seldom, neighbors hear her
moan,
wrung by some sudden stress Of fercer
Often they hear her pray, but none has
No single soul has heard her lips complain
The parson entered, and a gracious smile
Over the poor, pinched features brightly
grows;
She lets the needles rest little while; .
"YUu're kindly welcome, sir!"--ah! that
He takes the book and opens at the place,
No need to ask her which her fayOrite
psalm;
And, as he reads, upon her tortured face
There comes holy rapture, deep and calm.
She murmurs softly with him as he reads
(She can repeat the Psalter through at
will:)
"He feeds me in green pastures, and He
He leads me forth besides the waters still"
He lifts the latch; his comforter Is there,
Fropt in the bed, where now for weeks she
Or. haply, seated knitting in her chair,
II this be one Of those rare "better days"
A tiny woman, stunted, lent, and thin;
Her features sharp with pain that always
wakes:
The nimble hand she holds the needles in
Is warped and wrenched by dire rheumatic
aches.
Sometimes she gets grateful change Of
pain,
Sometimes for half day she quits her
bed;
And, lying, sitting, crawls to bel again;
Always she knits; her needles are her
bread.
Too well she knows what It's a meal to miss
Often the CRATE has not q coal OF fire;
She has no hope of better things than this;
The future darkens, suffering grows more
dire.
Where will they take her, Il hetide it should
Her stiffened hand the needles cannot plyl
Not to the workhouse-God is very good;
He knows her weakness-He will let her
die.
Yea, through deaths shadowy valley
Twill not fear, for Thou dost show the
Thy holy oil is poured upon my head,
Thy loving kindness follows me for aye.
The readings done, and now tho prayer Is
said;
He bids farewell, and leaves her to her
pain:
But grace and blessing on his soul are she'd
He goes forth comforted and strong again.
He takes his way, on divers erranas bound,
Adler to plead, and warn, and comfort
woes;
That is the darkest house on all his round,
And yet, be sure, the happiest house he
knows.
VIII it not ease, poor soul, thy restless bed,
And make thee moro content, If that
can be,
70 know that from thy suffering, balm is
shed,
That comsorts him who comes to comfort
fhne7