A LABORER IN THE VINEYARD

New Zealand Tablet, 30 December 1915, Page 7

A LABORER IN THE VINEYARD

‘ Father, the carrier came while you were away and here is a letter for you.’ Father Luke’s tired eyes opened quickly and a little flush of pleasure spread over his pale face as he bent from the saddle to take the precious missive from the careful hand of John, his Cniuese catechist, who was. also his house boy and general manager, ‘ Thank you, John, did the carrier bring the provisions from Yen Chou also?’

Receiving an affirmative reply, he dismounted stiffly from his steaming marc, giving the animal an affectionate pat as John took the bridle reins from him."

‘Rub her clown a bit, lad, tor she is tired like her master.’

As he crossed the strip of hare earth that, led to his tiny dwelling, the weary droop partly left his shoulders and the tired lines in his thin boyish face, caused by care and hard days in the saddle, relaxed in a happy smile, for the letter in his hand was from America —from home. Wearily enough, however, he dropped into a bamboo chair by the door and tearing the envelope open quickly he. began to read with leisurely enjoyment.

It was a long letter closely written on many thin sheets. His home letters were always long, and though the news was often months old before it reached the sleepy little village in the interior of Southern Shan Tung, where the carrier came at certain periods only, still it was of the greatest interest to him, and he watched and waited eagerly for the letters. They were the one link that bound him to the world of loving friends which he had left ten years ago, to labor in the vineyard of the Lord and in as hard and barren a vineyard as China he had found the goal of his heart’s desires.

There was much news in this letter. The first part was written in his mother’s fine, precise hand. The most astounding information was that Margery, dear little Margery, who was a baby of eight years when he left America, was going to enter the Convent of the Good Shepherd, in their home city. ‘ I wish she were coming to China/ he reflected, as he tried to picture her in the white habit. ‘ She would be too frail for China,’ he remembered sadly. When he opened the letter something had fallen out unheeded, but as he read the firm masculine hand that followed his mother’s, a wave of feeling swept over him, and he reached for the fallen article. Sure enough it was a ticket-really and truly a ticket to America. With dimming eyes he read : ‘ We are growing old, my son, your mother and I, and Margery is leaving us. We want to see you once more before we die. I dared not send you the money to come home, for I knew.the temptation would be too great to spend it on your poor Chinese—but they will be’ there when you get back, and I am sure you can obtain permission for a short visit home. Come, my boy, and make us happy—all together once .again. The last few pages were from Margery, as had been the custom since she was able to print.

* Luke, dear, do come soon, for I’m dying to see my big missionary brother, and as mother lias told you. I am going to the convent. Perhaps you could be here when I receive the habit. What a happiness that would be! Do come soon !-’

Then there had been more news and much love from them all. ; ! ; _ /' Father Luke sat very still after he had finished 'reading, but his heart was singing wild hymns of joy.

To go home—after ten years—to see father, mother, Margery, the old friends beautiful home—where the parents would soon be alone. 'To visit his old collegeto meet the old fellows—the church where he had said his first Mass. Oh, it was too good to be truehome—home. The Bishop would let him go, he reflected, .for on the occasion of his last visit to Yen he had said :

‘ Father. Delmore, you are looking badly worn, I wish I could send you home for a rest. , Maybe we can find the money before long.’ Then he added, whimsically, ‘ You ought to begin to save, Father’; and John, who was present, had laughed at the idea of Father Luke saving anything, for every bit of money and nearly every gift of food that came his way went to the relief of the many poof he met on his trips around the country, so that sometimes they both went to bed without very much supper, for John would not touch a morsel his master did not share.

While the priest sat musing happily, John returned and, stretching himself on the ground close by, lay regarding Father Luke wistfully through his dark, patient eyes. A letter from America was almost as much of an event to him as it was to the priest, and was about, the only thing that ever aroused the young Chinese from the characteristic indolence of his race to anything like excitement. When John ran out to the edge of the village to meet him on his return from a mission trip--instead of sauntering leisurely—the priest knew a letter had come. Sometimes he read bits of his letters to the hoy and told him about America and his home and people there, and "John’s interest in that far country was keen, where things were so wonderful, and not drowsy and nnprogressivo as here in China. The reading of the letters meant far more to him than the priest ever suspected for the boy, deprived of his people and remembering vividly his uncle’s cruelty, bad an intense love for the saintly missionary who was giving bis life so generously in a foreign land, away from his people who loved him, for the souls of the thankless natives. John’s opinion of his fellow-countrymen had passed rough several stages: from aversion and disgust to intense pi tv and love such as his master had for them, which Father Luke had noticed with interest. His whole character had been shaped by daily contact with the pood priest who saw in John possibilities which he took pains to develop. Indeed. John knew well that he owed his very existence to the priest, for had he not intervened when the merciless uncle would have disposed of him in the barbarous way the Chinese take to do away with unwelcome children. John’s parents, who were of the better class, reallv loved him despite the fact that one foot was slightly twisted, causing him to limp when he walked. When he was six years old, they both died, of fever, and his uncle, deeming him worthless because not perfectly sound, was making preparations to drown him when Father Luke, new to China and her ways and stung with the horror of it all, bought him from that individual for a small sum and wasted exhortation. He never forgot the pitiful look in the child’s eyes while lie made a hasty bargain with the uncle. John became bis and he fed, clothed, and taught him, and grew very fond of him. How much of this affection was returned the priest but dimly guessed, for with the stolid indifference of bis race, John made no sign. He learned rapidly— now, at the age of sixteen, he could read, write, and speak, teach catechism and serve Mass as well as cookwhat there was to cook—and look after things while the priest was away from Yen. Once a* native priest, travelling to the interior, had spent the night with them, and John, in whom a new hope was aroused, had plied him with questions and forthwith applied himselfwith greater zeal than ever to his studies; but with his usual reticence he spoke but little of his hopes.

This day lie lav patiently regarding liis friend and waiting until he should speak. After a long time had elapsed Father Luke came out.of his dreams and smiled down at him.

" * Good news, Father V; he asked slowly. '■; 'V': \; . ‘ Oh, very good news indeed, John. My little sister is to be a nun for one thing. "A,: Sister of the Good Shepherd. They wear a' beautiful white habit and live a beautiful life.’

. John had seen Sisters once when the priest had taken him to Yen Chou, and he regarded them as angels too beautiful and holy to be looked upon. So he sat upright at the news. ‘ Only I can’t realise she is grown up,’ went on the priest. ‘ She was so little when I came here, but ten y eats is a long time. You have grown up a lot yourself in ten years, John.’ ‘ Yes, Father,’ said the young catechist, half proudly— tugging at an imaginary loose thread on the sleeve of his long, loose jacket and looking embarrassed. ; What is the matter, John? Anything happen while I was away?’ ; ‘ No, Father, only the usual things. I taught the catechism and went to see the old woman who was dying.’ ' ‘ - , ; ‘ How is she V r ‘.She died Father./ ii, / Did ; she ask for me V

‘ No, Father, the priests from the joss-house were there with their charms but she did not speak at all.’ Father Luke sighed. It was hard-sometimes, working in the vineyard of China, to see the fruit of the labor lost— the blight of paganism and superstition is hard to conquer : but he was brave and patient. Well, John, you wanted somethingwliat is it?’ ‘ Father, do you think I could study more and be a priest?’

Father Luke looked at the anxious face, tense now that the secret was out, and something that had long been forming in his mind rose up and confronted him. Why, yes — perhapsyou want to?’ ‘With all my heartFather — but I am afraid—do you think this will hinder ?’ He pointed to the despised foot that had nearly cost him his life.

‘I don’t know—John. We will ask the Bishop when ho comes.’

‘But that won’t be for such a long time, Father. When he was here he said I ought to be a priest. I didn’t have courage to ask him then, but since Father Ling was here, I have wished so much that I could be like him. Couldn’t you write to -the Bishop, Father?’ !? • ‘Yes, I could,suppose, John, but he can hardly send any more boys now: he hasn’t any money, you know, so I think you had better keep on studying hard, and I’ll help you more so you will be ready when the chance comes. You are such a help to me now, John—

; I dislike to lose you.’ ‘ Yes, Father, but you can get another catechist, but not many Chinese boys can be priests. I can learn —only this— ’ his flee fell again as he looked at ; his foot. v _ ‘I don’t think .that will hinder, John. You are strong enough otherwise and you learn easily. We will pray to the Blessed Virgin; she got me over here, and if God wants you to be a priest she will help us.’ The young'Chinese wriggled himself closer to the priest’s chair and half knelt beside him. ‘l’ve been praying for a long time, Father,’ he said, but I’ll keep on. I don’t want to leave you, Father, but I can do more good by being a priest than •> by staying here. . But I’ll never forget that you saved Imy life nor all;that you have done for me,’ he went on f averting his face as emotion choked his voice—' and * I pray always so that you may go back once more to ! your people, who love you as I love you ’ he finished huskily. Then before the astonished priest could reply, he | sprang to his feet and hid his feelings under his usual I expression. , . k ■ ‘ It’s supper time now and it’s going to be such l a good supper to-night, Father. You are not to come |ip until it is ready.’ With his usual cheerful grin ho

disappeared into the cabin. The priest,' glad ’of the prolonged, rest, drew his well worn breviary from his pocket and. tried to finish his Office, but too : ranch that was out of the ordinary had happened that day and his mind would not stay fixed on the beautiful psalms. He was going home— write to the Bishop—but if he went home now what would become of John. He had never seen John so strangely moved before, so eager determined. If only his foot—.— A thought flashed through his mind that made all the light die out of his face; an overwhelming thought, yet one to be reckoned with. Savory odors from John’s culinary quarters drove him to action. - He reach-the letter from home once more, then taking some pieces of paper from his pocket, he wrote two short letters. This done, he rose and walked to the tiny . patch of garden on the other side of his little church where John laboriously cultivated some camellias and a few struggling rose bushes. .

There slowly he let it engulf, him and slowly drove it back again, as he nervously pulled to pieces several —of John’s cherished camellias whose snowy beauty reminded him vaguely of Margery, whom he would see in her white habit. The sun was going down over the mountains, lighting up their ragged sides to something like .splendor. No doubt, it was rising at . home on Margery and mother hurrying to an early Mass through ''-the quiet streets. He had always said that China was beautiful only in the setting sun— it seemed suddenly sordid, barren, ugly, and unbearable. Every night when he could, he went to the flower garden to watch the sunset and his heart sent love messages to the loved ones on whom its first morning rays were shining. There was no beauty in it this night, the ache in his heart excluded all thoughts of peace or beauty, but he watched it from habit. As he waited for it to dis-

appear behind the hills he began to think what it would mean to leave China forever. Suppose his Bishop ordered him to leave it and never return. Then he knew he loved it, that the souls of those who were so dear to Christ were dear to.him also. A last ray of golden light glittered on the nearest peak, and with this came the thought of Calvary and the price-that was paid there for these—his people—his flock. They were his people and he loved them: It was perfectly right and he was satisfied. He would never leave China.

When John came’to find him, he was kneeling before the altar in the little church and his prayer was the most unselfish in the world. It was just that the dear ones at home would forgive him for not coming and that they would understand. He looked ten years older and more haggard, but to the boy’s anxious questions he denied any illness and proved it by partaking generously of the ‘good supper.’ ", That night, under the stars, he told John very casually that there had been a ticket to America in his letter which he probably would never use any way so there was no reason why John could not go to America to study. Some money had been sent, too, with which they could buy a small outfit and he should start at once. He also told him that there was a doctor

over there who used to be a -'classmate of his who thought nothing of straightening twisted . feet. He would send a letter to him and John would be well

cared for. Indeed, John’s case was simple. The priest had often thought of trying to make a set of braces for him, but had always hoped a chance would come to have a doctor do it. The chance had come.

John said little jbut ..his heart was overflowing. He guessed something of the sacrifice, but not all, for he did not, “know what Father Luke knew that his time

in the vineyard was limited ! . that if he were ever, to see his home again, it must be soon and -with this chance gone it would probably be never. - : Ji A week later he accompanied the boy to Kiao Chou Bay—where a coasting steamer would carry, him to Hong Kongand there he would sail for San Francisco. John’s stoicism failed him at last and the

wistful, _ lonely look..in the great almond, eyes turned

|f ' the priest sick at heart. It reminded him of the child .. who had waited so patiently to know whether he was to be drowned or turned over to the foreigner who was v so frantically with his uncle. John felt - .lio necessity for Oriental repression now. He kissed the priest’s hand and murmured incoherent sayings when i parting time came, then he set himself resolutely and marched on board, Father Luke watched the vessel disappear through tear-blinded eyes, tor he felt sure he would not see John again and he knew he could never : find another like him. Besides, John was going where his heart longed N to go—to America and home. - v % When he arrived in Yen some days later he found a great raw-boned Chinese asleep across his doorway.- ./■ He was a messenger and bore a letter from the Bishop. My . Dear Father Delrhore,— heard indirectly through Father Richard, what you did with the opportunity your people offered you. I can say only one thing: May God bless you and may your reward be exceedingly great. Yours in Christ, ❖ August Henninghaus. Father Luke smiled when he read it, for his heart ' was light. When he had put up his horse, he stopped for a moment in the little flower spot beside the church ,to watch the sunset, softening all the rugged features of the grim old mountains. His missionary heart yearned over all those who dwell ,in the whose souls were so dear to God, and he forgot weariness, pain, and loneliness in the great peace and joy that x 'filled his heart. ‘ The dearest country in the world ’—he murmured \ to himself—‘ except America—is China !’ —Exchange.