HOW THE PASTOR FOUND HIS ILLUSTRATION.
By S. E. Hyatt
The bleak autumn wind was moaning and sobbing among the elms that surrounded Pastor Perkins’ house in the little country village of Amish. ’Twas Saturday evening, and the sun was slowly sinking behind a bank of dark cloud. And through the chilling air, now and then, slowly fell a snowflake—the first white-winged heralds of winter. The pastor’s good wife was busy preparing supper, singing while at her labor, as Priscilla, the Puritan maiden, sang psalms while at her spinning. The pastor was in his quaint study, adding a few finishing touches to his sermon for Sunday morning’s service. Looking up from his desk, he peered out of the window thoughtfully, trying to resurrect from his mental graves some forgotten illustration, with which to embellish his sermon, and touch the hearts of his hearers. But just then, coming over the hill, he saw the head of a man appear in sight. Partly unconsciously while he thought, and partly from curiosity to know who it might be (for it was a stranger), he gazed at the approaching figure. Nearer and still nearer he came, trudging along the road, now passing between the willows, now coming up the hill on which the pastor’s house stood. Arousing from his thoughtful stupor, the pastor arose and walked to the window. The man was now sufficiently near for the pastor to see that he was carrying a small bundle. The stranger’s form was bent with age; his clothes ragged and dirty; his face showed signs of disappointment, sorrow, and care. The good pastor had by this time become quite deeply interested in this queer stranger. He stepped to his study door, and in a kindly tone called: “Mary, come in here a moment.” But while he listened for the answering footsteps of his wife, he heard a rap at the front door. Walking to the end of the hallway, he opened the door, and there stood the man that had already excited his curiosity. In a tone of entreaty and words that showed lack of education, the tired-looking stranger said: “Please, mister, will ye gimme somethin’ to eat?” The pastor was a true Christian, and his heart was ever filled with sympathy for the outcast and needy, so with a smile and words of welcome, he invited the tramp into his house. After giving him a chair by the fire, which glowed brightly and cheerfully in the large, old-fashioned stove, the pastor began to converse with his unpolished visitor, first upon the weather, and then in regard to his homeless, wandering life. The tramp, seemingly surprised that anyone should have such an interest in him, his face lighting up with an expression of home-like comfort, and placing his feet on the hearth of the stove, began:— “Mister, I had a home once, jest as nice as this here one of yours. I was workin’ in a fact’ry down here in St. Louis; and my home wa’n’t paid fer, quite all; an’ I had a small mortgage on’t. Then I got throwed out of work, my wife got sick an’ died.”—At this the poor ragged stranger’s eyes filled with tears, his voice trembled, his throat choked up, and for a few moments he could not speak. Calming himself at length, he continued: “Then I got discouraged an’ went to drinkin’.” “Did you have any children?” interrupted the pastor, who had been deeply touched by this pathetic story. “Yes sir, we—we”—and again his eyes filled with tears, and he could not speak. At this the good pastor said:— “Your life has indeed been one of sorrow, but the Lord says: ‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.’” The tramp sat in silence, and looked thoughtfully at the shadows as they danced and shimmered on the wall. Presently he asked: “Are you a preacher?” to which the affirmative answer was given. Again the stranger spoke: “But I’ve been so wicked, I haven’t been comforted.” The pastor now saw marked signs of penitence, and so thought it a favorable time to urge upon him the importance of being a Christian. “Did you ever pray?” asked the pastor. “No; I don’t know how to pray,” was the reply. “Then,” said the pastor, “I will teach you how.” They knelt. The pastor prayed, and then he said the Lord’s prayer, repeated by the tramp. After arising, the stranger said: “Did ye say in that are prayer, ‘Our Father which art in heaven’?” “Yes,” replied good Pastor Perkins. “Then me and you are brothers, ain’t we?” “Then will you please give your brother some supper and a place to stay all night?” Just then the benignant face of Mrs. Perkins was seen at the sitting-room door, and announced that supper was ready. After supper came further conversation, principally upon the first steps in Christian experience. Then came prayers, at which the penitent made his first attempt alone. The next morning, when the pastor’s uninvited guest left, he bade his host a touching farewell. He who came there without Christ, went away a Christian. That day the pastor’s sermon was from the words, “I was a stranger, and ye took me in.” And as he told the story of the poor tramp, many were the moist eyes and tender hearts in his audience. He had found his illustration.