THE FOUR GRAINS by P. Giddings

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Aug 20, 1894

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 20, No. 41.

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THE FOUR GRAINS.

By P. Giddings

BY P. GIDDINGS.

FARMER JOHN took out four grains of corn to plant, and began digging holes in which to put them.

"What are you digging those holes for?" asked the first grain.

"I am going to put you into one of them, and cover you with soil," said the farmer.

"Not me, sir!" replied the grain. "It is so very damp and dark under there. I would see no sunlight, nor anything else. Out here I can enjoy seeing all the passers-by, and they, too, can enjoy seeing me. It is so much pleasanter to grow on this dry, sunny surface, that I cannot see your reason for wanting me anywhere else—not to mention that hole. And I am just going to stay here, too."

"I am sorry for your decision," said the farmer. "I have cared for and brought up millions and millions of little ones like you in this same manner; but if you choose to reject my plan, you can have your choice."

The second grain said, "I, too, will not be hid in a hole. If I am put under the soil, I'll have to waste so much time getting out again. If I stay up here, I can grow so much faster. I do not exactly object to your plan, but it doesn't seem best for me to mingle with such damp and dirty surroundings. I am willing to be planted wherever else you want me, but I cannot go down into that hole. Leave me here."

"You can have your choice," said the farmer sadly.

The third grain said: "Plant me over there where those thorn bushes grow. I love companions. I shall be lonely here, and I cannot grow alone."

"No," said Farmer John; "they are bad companions. They can do you no good, but harm, and harm only. Believe me, my little grain, my plan for you is best."

Then the grain pouted and sulked, saying in a self-willed tone, "Over there I'll grow, or die."

"Your prediction is sadly true," replied the farmer. "But as, under the circumstances, it would do you no good to plant you here, I shall plant you where you select, that your self-appointed destruction may do the good of being a warning to others." So he planted the grain amongst the vicious thorns.

Farmer John seemed sad and cheerless as he looked on the last and only grain. "Where shall I plant you?" he asked.

"Put me wherever you will," was the cheery reply. "You know best. I am content to be buried beneath the soil, if that's the best place for me, if thereby I shall grow best and strongest. Your choice is mine."

The farmer, pleased and happy that one grain, at least, had confidence in him, placed him quietly in the little hole, and, before covering, kindly whispered, "Meekly wait, and murmur not."

The first grain was so foolish and vain that, seeing a bird flying by, he called out, "See what a beautiful grain I am." The bird came to see, and picked him up. He thought it was a kiss, but it was a sacrifice, and so ended the first grain. Poor thing!

The second grain thought he had learned a lesson not to call out after birds; so he quietly grew, and because he "had no deepness of earth, forthwith sprung up." He was really happy, and prided himself on his wise choice. He looked toward where the fourth grain was sown, and he saw no sign save the little mound which seemed to be the grave of that grain; and, with a satisfied smile, he said, "Foolish thing; he allowed himself to be buried, and now he is lost forever."

The third grain seemed to be growing, but, somehow or other—whether he became tired of his chosen companions I cannot tell—but he became unsatisfied and unhappy. The fact is, he was trying to grow amidst impossibilities. The thorns sucked up the moisture around him, and choked out all the life that was in him, and so he died in the midst of his boon companions.

The fourth grain had now made his appearance. He seemed healthy and vigorous. The second grain had already learned that, after all, the fourth grain was only buried that he may rise again to a better life. The second grain was beginning to feel the unpleasant results of hot days. "Aren't you thirsty?" he ventured to ask of the fourth.

"No," he replied; "my roots are deep down, and they supply me with all the drink I need. I feel fresh and cool."

"I wish I did," said the second. "On the contrary, I am dying of thirst. I wish my roots were as deep down as yours; but now it is too late." And thus he was scorched, and withered away, and died.

But the humble grain that was willing to be hidden away continued to send his shoots higher upward, and his roots deeper down. Soon the golden tassel waved in the air, and soon the full-grown corn was in the ear.

So much for the grains. Let us apply the lesson, and see what it means.

It means you, my little friends, who would have your own way, instead of mother's. When mother speaks, you must, like Jesus, go down—down, though it be to lowly Nazareth—and stay there, too, till duty bids you go elsewhere.

It means you, my young friends, who despise lowly duties as beneath your proud dignities. Garfield was, at one time, down as a cabin boy in a ship, but he rose to be chief in the cabinet of the Ship of State. "A haughty spirit before a fall." "A man's pride shall bring him low; but honor shall uphold the humble in spirit." God says they that humble themselves shall be exalted, and they that exalt themselves shall be abased. He means it, and will do it. Take care.

It means you, my young friends, who, contrary to your parents' better judgment, select the companionship of worldly pleasure seekers. It is far better to grow and live alone in a country cabin than in a city mansion with worldly companions. Rest assured they will stunt your growth, physically, mentally, and morally. Ah, more, they will choke not only your manhood, but your very life! Beware.

It means you, my Christian friends, who ought to visit and cheer those poor neighbors around you, but do not, because they are not of your creed or station. It means you who ought to go, but think Africa too benighted, India too heathen, China too pagan, and all the rest of them too dark in which to be planted. You would be planted in no such holes as those. But there is no place so well calculated for your growth and fruitfulness as the spot where the Master of the vineyard would have us grow.

It applies to everyone who names the name of Christ; that same mind which was in the Master should be in the servants. "The servant is not greater than his Master," "who, being in the form of God, counted it not a thing to be grasped to be on an equality with God, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, being made in the likeness of men; and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself." Phil. 2:6-8, Revised Version. From Bethlehem's cradle to Calvary's cross, this was the one continuous lesson that Jesus taught—humility.

He might have appeared to the world as a full-grown man, but, he chose to come as a helpless little infant. He might have been born of a queen, but he chose a lowly woman. He might have been born in a palace, but he chose a manger. He might have lived in Jerusalem, but he chose Nazareth. He was not too great to work as a carpenter, nor too learned to associate with fishermen. He was not too great to speak with a despised and outcast Samaritan woman, nor above asking to drink water from her pitcher. He was not above preparing a dinner on coals for his fishermen associates, while they toiled on Galilean water, for, "being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself." Let, therefore, this same "mind be in you which was in Christ Jesus."

What is more restful than humility? What grace so silently powerful, attractive, and desirable? Shall we be planted as he was? "For if we have been planted together in the likeness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection."

It is not for us to choose the place where we shall grow. The bush in Midian was holy because the Lord was there. Every spot of the Lord's vineyard is holy ground; despise not, therefore, any place where he would have you to be.

"Down in a green and shady bed, A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head As if to hide from view. "And yet it was a lovely flower, Its colors bright and fair; It might have decked a rosier bower, Instead of hiding there. "But there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed, And there diffused a sweet perfume Within that silent shade. "Oh, let me to this valley go, This pretty flower to see, That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility!"

Battle Creek, Mich.