p. 1 | THE FIG MERCHANT

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Aug 25, 1881

THE FIG MERCHANT.

"IN the name of the Prophet, figs!" Through the drowse of the noon afar Came droning the Arab vender's cry, As he threaded the thronged bazar. With the courage that comes of faith, He neither had thought nor care, Though the lip of the scornful Greek might curl, Or the insolent Frank might stare.

"In the name of the Prophet, figs!" A traveler, loitering near, Half screened in a niche's deep recess, Turned languidly round to hear. But scarce had the Arab passed, Ere a ripple, that seemed a sigh, Blurred faintly the calm of his lip, and broke In a haze on his dreaming eye.

"In the name of the Prophet, figs!" He listened with downcast face. "This Moslem," he said, "is brave to own His creed in the market-place; While I, with supremest trust, And a hope that can know no shame, Not once in the midst of this multitude Have thought of my Prophet's name.

"'In the name of the Prophet, figs!'" No vagueness about the way He honors the slow muezzin call, When his hour has come to pray. It matters not where he be, His worship his faith reveals; Would I have the manhood, amid these crowds, To kneel as the Arab kneels?

"'In the name of the Prophet, figs!'" It sinks to an echo sweet, Yet floats to me back with a pungent sting Of reproach, in this foreign street. It bids that, with faith as bold As the Moslem's, I bravely do All things whatsoever, or great, or small, In the name of my Prophet too!" —Independent.