Part 17 (2/2)

'He was.'

'O, you kept track of him, did you?'

'Yes. He went back into the world, and the woman he loved repulsed him a second time, and with even more scorn than before.'

'Served him right.'

'Perhaps so; but after all, what could he do? Love is not made to order.

He loved one, not the other; that was his crime. Yet,--so strange a creature is man,--he came back after thirty years, just to see our Lady's grave.'

'What! Are you--'

'I am Mitch.e.l.l,--Reuben Mitch.e.l.l.'

MACARIUS THE MONK.

BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

In the old days, while yet the church was young, And men believed that praise of G.o.d was sung In curbing self as well as singing psalms, There lived a monk, Macarius by name, A holy man, to whom the faithful came With hungry hearts to hear the wonderous Word.

In sight of gus.h.i.+ng springs and sheltering palms, He lived upon the desert: from the marsh He drank the brackish water, and his food Was dates and roots,--and all his rule was harsh, For pampered flesh in those days warred with good,

From those who came in scores a few there were Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer, And these remained and took the hermit's vow.

A dozen saints there grew to be; and now Macarius, happy, lived in larger care.

He taught his brethren all the lore he knew, And as they learned, his pious rigors grew.

His whole intent was on the spirit's goal: He taught them silence--words disturb the soul; He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sorrow, And be prepared to-day for death to-morrow; To know that human life alone was given To test the souls of those who merit heaven; He bade the twelve in all things be as brothers, And die to self, to live and work for others.

”For so,” he said, ”we save our love and labors, And each one gives his own and takes his neighbor's.”

Thus long he taught, and while they silent heard, He prayed for fruitful soil to hold the word.

One day, beside the marsh they labored long,-- For worldly work makes sweeter sacred song,-- And when the cruel sun made hot the sand, And Afric's gnats the sweltering face and hand Tormenting stung, a pa.s.sing traveller stood And watched the workers by the reeking flood.

Macarius, nigh, with heat and toil was faint; The traveller saw, and to the suffering saint A bunch of luscious grapes in pity threw.

Most sweet and fresh and fair they were to view, A generous cl.u.s.ter, bursting-rich with wine.

Macarius longed to taste. ”The fruit is mine,”

He said, and sighed; ”but I, who daily teach, Feel now the bond to practice as I preach.”

He gave the cl.u.s.ter to the nearest one, And with his heavy toil went patient on.

As one athirst will greet a flowing brim, The tempting fruit made moist the mouth of him Who took the gift; but in the yearning eye Rose brighter light: to one whose lip was dry He gave the grapes, and bent him to his spade.

And he who took, unknown to any other, The sweet refreshment handed to a brother.

And so, from each to each, till round was made The circuit wholly--when the grapes at last, Untouched and tempting, to Macarius pa.s.sed.

”Now G.o.d be thanked!” he cried, and ceased to toil; ”The seed was good, but better was the soil.

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