A SPECIAL PROVIDENCE by Eleanor A. Hunter

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Aug 31, 1888

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 14, No. 34.

A SPECIAL PROVIDENCE.

By Eleanor A. Hunter

PEOPLE used to say that Colonel Fordyce was the wickedest man in Sanford. I am not sure that this was true; but I do know that he gloried in the title, and that he exerted himself to keep up his reputation. His capacity for drink, brutality, and profanity was the talk of the town.

One crisp autumn morning he was returning home after a night's dissipation. The sweet morning twilight grew fainter and fainter, while the pale, rosy hues in the east deepened in color. The hoar-frost lay like fairy lace upon the ground, only to melt like magic with the first beams of the rising sun, and pervading all the air was that lovely silence of the dawn, which comes like a blessing from on high just before the world awakes to resume its duties and its cares laid aside during the darkness of the night. It was a Sabbath morning, but neither the thought of the day nor the sight of its beauty, touched the heart of Colonel Fordyce. Indeed, the contrast was so sharp between this gracious morning, fresh from the hand of God, and the man made in his Creator's image, but now so marred by sin that every trace of likeness was destroyed, that it would not have seemed strange if shocked nature had cried out at him as he passed along. His path led him near a little one-roomed cabin, where lived the village whitewasher, an old colored man, Uncle Jake by name, with Aunt Nancy, his invalid wife. They were old, childless, and poor. Can there be three sadder words than these? Uncle Jake had supported himself and his wife by his trade, but now, enfeebled by age, and crippled by rheumatism, he was unable to work, and starvation seemed very near. As the Colonel passed the cabin door, he caught the sound of Uncle Jake's voice apparently engaged in earnest conversation with somebody.

"I wonder whom the old fellow is talking to so early in the morning," thought the Colonel. His curiosity was aroused, and gently unlatching the door he pushed it slightly open and looked in. He saw Uncle Jake's bent and gnarled old figure seated in a chair which was drawn close beside Aunt Nancy's bed. Her hand was clasped in his, and their eyes were closed, for Uncle Jake was talking to Him who is invisible.

"O blessed Mahster," said the trembling old voice, "dou know how 'tis, but it's a kind o' comfut to tell dee about it. We's cold and hungry—didn't have nothin' to eat yes-t-day, nor night before last. I don' cayah 'bout myself so much, but pore Nancy—she's mos' gone. Ef she don' have somethin' to eat right soon, she'll go suah, an' 'pears like I couldn' stan' dat nohow—not to hey her go dat way Lawd—to starve to death." Here the trembling voice broke and was silent. Presently he resumed: "We can't help ourselves no moah. We ain't got nobody but dee. Dar ware Jim; dou knows how he died fightin' for freedom down to Fort Fisher. Den dar ware Bill—he dune tuk the fever five yeahs back, an' he's gone too, an' dar ware lil' Alice—sweet lamb—been dead dis thirty yeahs. We ain't got no moah children; we got nobody but dee. Oh, Lawd, dou who didst kindle a fire of coals on de seashore, and brile a fish dy own self for dy pore hungry 'ciples, feed us, for we's dy children too. Whar's de ravens, Lawd, phat fed 'Lijah? Whar's de angels what fly to do dy bidding? Ain't dar one of 'em can be spared to fotch us a few mossels? 'cause we's so powerful hungry."

The Colonel listened at first with a scornful smile at the "superstitious old beggar," as he mentally termed him, but gradually a gentler feeling warmed his miserable heart than had visited it for many a day. He knew old Jake well, he had known his boys too, they used to play together, ah, how long ago! And now their father and mother were starving to death not twenty rods from the Colonel's own door. The poor fragment of conscience which he had left aroused itself, and stung him for his inhumanity. He went home as fast as he could go. When he reached the door he entered quietly, and proceeded at once to pantry and store-room. Selecting two large baskets, he filled them with provisions, most of which had been prepared for the Sunday's table. In one he placed a roasted chicken, a part of a roast of beef, bread, butter, a bottle of milk, and some sugar. The other he filled with potatoes, rice, a dozen of eggs, and various other substantials. He glanced from one to the other when they were filled.

He took the baskets, one in each hand—not for years had he borne so heavy a burden—and, carrying them back, set them gently on Jake's door-step.

"I wonder if he's praying yet," he said to himself; he listened again, and caught one faint murmur, "Dy will be done."

He knocked on the door, slipped out of sight, and waited.

"What's dat?" said old Jake in a startled tone; "'pears like 'twas a knock. P'raps de good Lawd's done heard me at last."

He crept slowly and painfully to the door, opened it, and saw the two baskets sitting there.

"Nancy," he cried, his voice strong with joy and excitement, "de good Lawd's done drop two bahskets right down outen de sky onto our do-step. He must a done it hisself, honey," he continued, clinging to the doorpost, "I don't see no angels, an' I don't hear notin' 'cept one of Harry Perkinses doves a cooin'. Bless de Lawd, O my soul, an' forgit not all his benefits. Here's milk, honey," said he joyously, as he began to unload his treasure. "An' I declare, frash aigs, an' bread an' butter, an a roas' chicken. I'll hobble out an' get some chips, and bile the kittle—no—fust of all, I'll beat up an aig in milk fur you, an' then we'll have breakfast, an' see if we can't try and return thanks. Bless the Lawd; he ain't forgit us yit."

The Colonel turned homeward, exhausted by his unwonted exertions, and with a throng of hateful and embittering thoughts springing up to choke the little seed of goodness which had so strangely sprouted in his soul. He entered his beautiful home and greeted his wife with more than his usual irritability of manner, and, seeking his room, lay down upon his bed to rest. When he arose, weary and unrefreshed, he gave orders that on the morrow a full stock of provisions and fuel should be sent to old Jake's. "And see to it," said he to his wife with a scowl, "that in the future, as long as they live, they lack for nothing."

A few days after this he met the minister of the church which his wife attended. "Ah, Parson," said he, "I have a story to tell you," and he related the incident which I have just written. "And that," he concluded, "is the way this God of yours answers prayer. Poor Uncle Jake thought the baskets floated right down from Heaven, but he was disillusioned next day when my man John trundled a wheelbarrow load of things up to his door, and told him they came from me."

"Uncle Jake was not so much mistaken as you think," responded the minister quietly. "And you are right—that is the way my God answers prayer. It does not matter to him who is the special agent of his providence so long as his bidding is fulfilled."

"Well," said the Colonel in astonishment, "it is the first time I ever knew myself to act in the capacity you mention."

"And Uncle Jake," continued the minister, smiling slightly, "tells me that now he knows where the bounty comes from, he is surer than ever that it is the Lord's doing, for no one else he thinks could have influenced you to do such a generous deed; and he is going to pray every day as long as he lives, for the salvation of your soul, Colonel Fordyce, and I hope that his prayer will be answered."

"Humph!" responded the Colonel, and walked away without a word.

Shortly afterward Colonel Fordyce died of an illness caused by excessive dissipation, and only the God to whom Uncle Jake so trustfully prayed knows whether his prayer was answered.—Eleanor A. Hunter, in the Advance.