CHAPTER VIII.

THE VILLAGE AND THE CITY

THE STRAIT GATE

AN HOUR OF PERIL

THE GENEROUS BENEFACTOR

THE DESECRATED TEMPLE

THE TWENTY-FOUR PIECES OF SILVER

THE BAD BARGAIN

THE ILL-FAVOURED BRIDE

THE LADDER OF LIFE

THE BRAHMIN BOY

THE

WONDROUS SICKLE

And Other Stories

THE

WONDROUS SICKLE.

[Illustration]

FATH MASIH had been appointed "patwari" * in a large village. Though many Hindus and Mahomedans in that village had been annoyed at the situation being given to a Christian, and some bigoted individuals annoyed him as much as they could, the poor in general were pleased. Here was a man who dealt justly; here was a man who took no bribes; here was a man ready to listen to the appeal of the humblest, a friend of the widow and the orphan. The people thought better of Christianity, when they saw the life led by the Christian.

* The business of the patwari is to measure land, keep a map of the district, &c. His is a small office under Government, giving considerable opportunity for fleecing the peasantry.

Fath Masih and his wife were almost shut out from intercourse with any others of their own faith. The only Christian whom they ever saw was Ishák, who had a place in the Forest Department at a station ten miles distant, and who, about once a-month, managed to come over and see them. Ishák was a pious man, and a warm friend of Fath Masih. It might be expected that the meeting between the two Christians would be a great pleasure to both. It would, indeed, have been so, had not Ishák, every time that he came to Durhiala, found Fath Masih more and more in low health, and depressed in spirits.

"I can hardly endure this life," said the poor patwari, one day, as he sat under the shade of a banyan beside his friend. "My wife and I have no one with whom to hold Christian converse. There is no church in which, on Sundays, our souls can be refreshed by hearing the Word of God. When we are in trouble, there is no one to remind us that the Lord chasteneth those whom He loveth. If we look to the right, behold, a Hindu temple,—to the left, we see through the trees the domes of a Mahomedan mosque. It is very depressing!"

"It is so, indeed," replied Ishák, who was himself in much the same position. "But you have still the comfort of the Bible and prayer."

The face of Fath Masih grew only the sadder. He gave a deep sigh before he replied,—"The worst of all is that I am losing my pleasure in reading the Bible, and all my comfort in prayer. My soul, from want of Christian intercourse, is becoming dry, like a field that never is watered. I fear that were my Lord to send a message to me, as He did to Ephesus of old, it would be, 'I have something against thee: thou hast fallen from thy first love'" (Rev. ii. 4). The words ended with a deep sigh.

Ishák looked anxiously at his friend, whose melancholy was evidently affecting his health.

"Does your wife feel the loneliness as much as you do?" asked Ishák, after a pause.

"Perhaps not," replied Fath Masih gravely. "Many women come to visit my wife, both Mahomedan and Hindu, but their talk is mere gossip. They show their jewels, expect my wife to take pleasure in their weddings, and mourn at their funerals. But, of course, there is no religious intercourse between them."

Ishák looked almost as grave as his friend on hearing this. He had noticed that Moni's dress was less distinctively Christian than it had been in the city in which she had formerly dwelt; that she wore more gaudy ornaments, as if to look like the women around her. He fancied that Fath Masih was not quite satisfied with his wife, and felt that, in this heathen place, her love, like his own, was growing cold.

"I sometimes wonder whether I ought to stop in Durhiala," said Fath Masih.

"Your present situation was procured with much difficulty," observed his friend; "and I remember how fervently you thanked God for granting your prayers at last, and enabling you to be independent of all assistance from the Mission."

"Yes, I was thankful, and I am thankful, for this," replied Fath Masih. "I think it a mean thing, and a wrong thing, for a man who can support himself to be always coming for help, and taking from the store, which is all too small to supply the wants of such as are really unable to work. I have seen men—with a great show of religion, too—who seemed to me like the leech, with their one cry of 'Give, give!' Thank God! I am able to help the good cause a little myself, instead of sitting with folded hands, expecting others to put bread into the mouth of a sluggard." Fath Masih followed the excellent example of those who always give at least a tenth of whatever they possess to God, and find that they are never the poorer for so doing.

"Were you to leave your post here, you would be dependent again," observed Ishák.

"That is what keeps me here, and the thought that God sent me here," said Fath Masih. "But am I right in believing that He sent me here, when my soul is in danger of starving for lack of spiritual food? Its life seems to be decreasing day by day. If we remain here long, I fear that we shall be 'dead' Christians—Christians only in name!" Fath Masih turned his face aside, to hide the tears that had started into his eyes.

Ishák said nothing more at that time, and indeed had then no opportunity to continue the subject, for Moni gave notice that she had served up the evening meal.

The food was eaten almost in silence. Fath Masih felt too sad and too ill to care to eat much, and his friend was lost in thought. But when the "pilau" was succeeded by fruit, as the heap of ripe mangoes rapidly lessened, Ishák, in a cheerful tone, engaged in conversation, and even Fath Masih, swallowing the luscious golden juice, seemed to forget half his gloom. Ishák offered to tell a story, and Moni, as well as her husband, gladly listened.

"Once upon a time there was a king, good and just, and beloved by his subjects. But he had not been long seated on the throne before his health began to fail. Re cared not to go forth from his palace, and all its beautiful adornments gave him no pleasure. The feast spread before him he scarcely tasted, for all his appetite was gone. The king grew thin, his form wasted, he had no spirit either for work or amusement. At last, the courtiers whispered amongst themselves, 'Alas! Alas! Our king is gradually wasting away! He will not long remain in this world!'

"Many doctors were sent for; various were the opinions which they gave as to the cause of the king's illness, the nature of his disease. Some persons even hinted at poison. Much medicine was given to the king, but still he grew no better. He seemed at last unable to do anything but recline on cushions, taking hardly any nourishment, and finding solace in nothing but smoking his hookah. It was commonly reported in the city, 'Our good king is going to die.'

"At last, a very famous physician from a neighbouring country was sent by its friendly king. The fame of this physician had been spread far and wide, so numerous had been the cures which he had wrought. It was said, 'Our king's last chance is from this man's skill; if it fail in this case, all hope is lost!'

"The physician was admitted to the presence of the king, whom he found pale and almost lifeless, with closed eyes, extended on his soft couch. The physician felt the king's pulse, inquired into his symptoms, and then asked for twenty-four hours before deciding on his case.

"Those twenty-four hours were a time of great anxiety to many both within and without the palace, and most of all to the poor sick king.

"The next day the physician returned with something wrapped up in an embroidered cloth, and with a countenance so cheerful that the hearts of all gathered hope.

"'Have you, O physician! found out any cure for my grievous sickness?' asked the king.

"'I have found something, O Ruler of the world! which, by the favour of the All-merciful, may work a cure, if used with courage and perseverance,' said the physician.

"'I will shrink from no remedy, however painful,' cried the king, 'if only my lost health can be restored.'

"The physician slowly opened the folds of the cloth, and behold! a bright sickle, with handle of carved ivory, appeared in view. The attendants looked on in wonder, for they knew not by what magic power a sickle could work a cure.

"Then said the physician, 'Every day, O mighty Monarch! take this sickle in your royal hand, and descend into yon field in which I behold corn ripening in the sunshine. Ply the sickle with force and vigour, until the ivory handle almost cleave to the hand that grasps it, and the toil-drops stand on your Majesty's brow. Then, returning to the palace, deign to partake of the food which will then be set before your Majesty. Persevere in thus using my sickle until yon field be reaped, and if my lord's health be not improved, let his servant's head be the forfeit.'

"The sick monarch agreed to try the virtue of the wonderful sickle, which, when not actually used, was, by his command, to be kept locked up in a sandal-wood chest. No one was to touch one ear of corn in the little field except the king, who hoped to gather health from its reaping.

"He went forth alone on the following morning with the wonderful sickle, nor returned till his hand almost clave to the ivory, and the toil-drops stood on his brow.

"Bring me food—and quickly!' cried the king, 'I am half dead with fatigue!' And he threw himself back on his cushions.

"Food was served in silver vessels. The courtiers looked on wondering as the king proceeded to eat it.

"'Yesterday,' whispered one, 'the dishes went away almost as full as when they were brought. To-day the king has almost finished the pilau, and now he is busy with the curry and rice!'

"After a plentiful meal, the king, who was usually sleepless, fell into a long, deep slumber. When he awoke, he observed with a smile, 'I have not had such a sleep for many months. There must be magic virtue in the sickle.'

"Day by day the monarch went out to reap his corn, and bind up his sheaves, which were always given to the poor. Day by day he returned weary, and very hungry. His step grew firmer, his eye brighter, he was far more cheerful and hopeful. Soon the king gave audience to ambassadors, then felt able again to judge the cause of the poor in person. All the dwellers in the city rejoiced to see his returning health, all praised the gifted physician, and sick grandees offered the latter thousands of rupees for magic sickles like that used by the king.

"When all the corn in the little field had been reaped by the royal hand, the monarch sent for the physician. He loaded the doctor with praises and costly gifts, and permitted him to return to his own land. The wonderful sickle was preserved amongst the choicest treasures of the king."

"Was there really magic virtue in the sickle?" asked Fath Masih, when Ishák had finished his story.

Ishák's only reply was a smile.

"I suspect that the real medicine in it was the work which it made the king do, and the cure was the effect of that work on the monarch's health and spirits," observed Moni, who was a very intelligent woman.

"True," was Ishák's reply, "and it was not without a purpose that I have told you this story, which I read in a book long ago. Fath Masih! Your soul is faint, you are almost weary of life; you think that you are placed in a spiritual desert; I see in it a field, yea, a promising field of corn. You are surrounded by enemies of your faith; there is not one amongst them that is not a possible convert to that faith. To the Hindu temple and Mahomedan mosque throng beings with immortal souls, souls that our Lord died to save, souls that may be won for Him. Take the sharp weapon of God's Word in your hand; grasp it by the ivory handle of prayer. Why hath God brought you to this dark place but that your light may shine to His glory! There is little danger of love dying out when it is actively, prayerfully engaged in work for the good of souls."

Fath Masih made no reply, his eyes were fixed on the ground. A painful consciousness had come upon him that his conduct had been that of the man who buried his talent in the earth. He was becoming less and less "fervent in spirit," because not "serving the Lord."

No more was said in conversation on the subject, but when Ishák that evening led the family devotions, he earnestly prayed that the Holy Spirit of God might be shed into the heart of each present, that not one might stand idle when the Lord saith, 'Go work in my vineyard;' but that all might inherit the blessing promised to those who, turning 'many to righteousness, shall shine as the stars for ever and ever.' (Daniel xii. 3).

"We are all weakness!" he cried. "But Thou, O Lord, art our strength! Thou canst put treasure into earthen vessels; Thou canst touch the dumb lips with living fire; Thou canst give power to the feeblest reaper; and from Thee alone we look for the harvest, the precious harvest of souls!"

Ishák departed on the following morning, and a longer time than usual elapsed before he was again able to revisit his friend. The weather being exceedingly hot, Ishák started on his long walk to Durhiala whilst the stars were yet shining in the sky, and arrived about two hours after sunrise.

As Ishák approached the village, he met ten or twelve little children, some of whom had primers in their hands, and who were smilingly repeating to each other some simple rhyme which they had just been learning.

"What! Is there a school in Durhiala?" asked Ishák of the eldest child of the party.

"No, there never was a school," said the child; "but the patwari's bibi lets us come to her of a morning, and teaches us 'bhajans' * and our letters, and when we learn well, she sometimes gives us fruit."

* A wild kind of song, much admired by Hindus.

"And she tells us such nice stories!" cried a smiling, bright-eyed little girl.

"What kind of stories?" asked Ishák.

Then half-a-dozen eager voices answered at once—

"Oh! About the Holy Baby that was put in a manger."

"About the Lord who loves little children."

"About the song of the angels."

"About the lost sheep and the Good Shepherd!"

Ishák smiled on the eager little pupils, and passed on, with a silent thanksgiving to God that Moni had laid her hand to the sickle.

One lame little girl came limping after the rest.

Ishák stopped to speak to her also. "Have you too been to the patwari's bibi?" he asked.

The child looked up timidly into his face, and reading kindness there she replied, "She has been putting something on my bad boils to make them well."

"Is the bibi clever at making people well?" inquired Ishák.

The girl looked rather doubtful. "She could not make little brother well, though she tried," was the child's reply. "She sat beside him all night long, but he died in the morning, and poor mother sobbed and wailed, for he was her only boy."

"Did the bibi not try to comfort her?" asked Ishák gently, stooping down to listen to the scarcely audible reply.

"The bibi told mother that she had lost her own—her only little baby; but she said that God had comforted her in her trouble, for she knew that her baby had gone to be with the Lord Jesus, who carries little lambs in His bosom."

Again a silent thanksgiving arose from the heart of Ishák. "My friend's wife is like the woman who hid leaven in three measures of meal," he said to himself. "Oh! May God make this once childless woman the spiritual mother of many!"

Ishák had now come in view of the patwari's house. He saw Fath Masih, who was engaged in such earnest conversation with an intelligent-looking young man, that he did not notice the approach of his friend.

Tired as he was, Ishák would not interrupt the conversation, for, from the earnest manner of the speakers, and the few words which reached his ears, it was evident that it was on the subject of religion. Ishák saw Fath Masih place a little book in the young man's hand, and heard his parting words, "You promise to read it—and with prayer!"

The reply Ishák could not hear, but he read it in the thoughtful countenance of the young man as he turned and departed with a copy of the Gospel in his hand.

Then Fath Masih caught sight of Ishák, and hastened to welcome him, with a countenance beaming with joy. As he grasped his friend's hand, he exclaimed, "O Ishák, I thank God for bringing me here! I think that there are three real inquirers in this place!"

"You too have laid your hand to the sickle," said Ishák; "and, to judge from your face, you do not find the work irksome."

"It is a blessed, blessed work!" exclaimed Fath Masih. "God forgive me for leaving it so long undone! I feel now that not only missionaries, but every Christian in India should pass on the glad tidings to others. I used to content myself with praying, 'Lord! The harvest is great; send forth more labourers into Thy harvest.' Now I myself have heard His call, and venture humbly to say, 'Here am I, send me!'"

"But do not your efforts raise up much opposition?" asked Ishák. "Do you not bring yourself into trouble?"

"I have sometimes a little of that trouble which is coupled with a blessing," replied Fath Masih cheerfully. "But I never now feel that weariness, that deadness of spirit which oppressed me when last you were here. My experience has been something like that of the king in your story," he added, smiling; "I find that health, and vigour, and joy come from the use of the wonderful sickle!"

[Illustration]

THE ZAMINDAR.

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