One of the Psalms that everybody loves is a song that David made when he remembered the days before he came to Saul’s camp.  He remembered the days and nights he used to spend in the fields with the sheep, when he was just a shepherd boy; and he thought to himself that God had taken care of him just as carefully as he used to care for the little lambs.  It is a beautiful song; I wish we knew the music that David made for it, but we only know his words.  I will tell it to you now, and then you may learn it, to say for yourselves.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:  thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

THE HIDDEN SERVANTS[1]

[1] Adapted, with quotations, from the poem in The Hidden Servants, by Francesca Alexander (Little, Brown & Co.).

This is a legend about a hermit who lived long ago.  He lived high up on the mountain-side in a tiny cave; his food was roots and acorns, a bit of bread given by a peasant, or a cheese brought by a woman who wanted his prayers; his work was praying, and thinking about God.  For forty years he lived so, preaching to the people, praying for them, comforting them in trouble, and, most of all, worshiping in his heart.  There was just one thing he cared about:  it was to make his soul so pure and perfect that it could be one of the stones in God’s great Temple of Heaven.

One day, after the forty years, he had a great longing to know how far along he had got with his work,—­how it looked to the Heavenly Father.  And he prayed that he might be shown a man—­

   “Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown
   To the selfsame measure as his own;
   Whose treasure on the celestial shore
   Could neither be less than his nor more.”

As he looked up from his prayer, a white-robed angel stood in the path before him.  The hermit bowed before the messenger with great gladness, for he knew that his wish was answered.  “Go to the nearest town,” the angel said, “and there, in the public square, you will find a mountebank (a clown) making the people laugh for money.  He is the man you seek, his soul has grown to the selfsame stature as your own; his treasure on the celestial shore is neither less than yours nor more.”

When the angel had faded from sight, the hermit bowed his head again, but this time with great sorrow and fear.  Had his forty years of prayer been a terrible mistake, and was his soul indeed like a clown, fooling in the market-place?  He knew not what to think.  Almost he hoped he should not find the man, and could believe that he had dreamed the angel vision.  But when he came, after a long, toilful walk, to the village, and the square, alas! there was the clown, doing his silly tricks for the crowd.