THE COUNTRY PARSON.

Dominion, Volume 6, Issue 1776, 14 June 1913, Page 25

THE COUNTRY PARSON.

HIS DAILY ROUND [Br One of Tiiem.] There aro no vicars or ministers or clergymen in tlio back-country-only "parsons." So lot me write as tho parson of that good back-country of a year or two ago. Tho days were busy enough: up early to feed the horses—for horses'come first, and in the country <a parson is judged by tho way he looks after tiiem. Then breakfast. and housework. What clever patient pooplo womenfolk must be to jo housework so devotedly! And then for the long road—longer because it is soft and deep hero and there because of the recent rains. After jogging quietly along for an hour, wo have our first stop, a visit to a farmhouse. "Anything wrong there?" No, just a friendly call, and a talk over \\ie weather, and tho price of wool, and a look at the baby

and a cup of morning tea-ami on ugaiu. This time tho' stop is longer, for it's dinner time; and tlio father of the family and his big lads como in. What wise opinions we pass 011 the Balkan' war! And we joke over our last football match

—wo were opponents there,'and get in <1 word or two lor tho Bible-in-sclioo's. Wa are 011 the same side in that, any way. But time is ilying, and it's the road for it again. How good of them to feed the pony while wo were at dinner! , Two or three miies nioro and a short stop.

Hardly anyono at home but tho mother and a couple of little onts (these never fail in a. country home!). But breadmaking is in progress, and we. talk about the children and their schooling, and their music and their Sunday school as the broad is kneaded out and put into the pans. Then on again. Another mile, and a big house—a station this lime. Bother it! What a nuisance it '.•> that one's clothes otc so muddy! But it can't be helped on country roads, and they're good sorts at the station. Afternoon tea. is jolly, and there's lots to talk about. They've had a trip down south' To the Grand National?' (I'm not so sure of my ground here!) And they've put a little organ in tho schooji—God bless them!—to help us in out monthly services. At the End of the Day. It's a struggle to reach tho road again. "Stay the night." "No,' I must get furthor." A few miles, and then a welcome light, and the travelling over, tho horse fed and rugged, and a country fireside—one of tho best places in tho world! Tea over—in a very babel of voices—we settle down to a smoke by the fire, and talk over the events of tho outside world; and discuss a farm that is ch/inging hands nearby. Then tho children go oilto bed, and we draw tho chairs closer, and talk about people and church matters and the school committee, and s\y some hard things about the way the county council keeps tho roads. Then all go to bed but tho father of the family, and together we seo tho fire go out. This is tho time when serious intimate talk comes spontaneously and naturally. Bo tells of the anxiety he feels about his eldest boy, who wants to leave homo and go to town; and the little difference ho has with his neighbour over tho way, and his hopes of being on a surer footing after the wool sale. And I tell of our church matters, and the section we are buying, and the confirmation classes that aro coming closer, and the- need of teaching about Someone who .cares for our life.

But tho fire is out! A warm handshake, and I'm shown to tho big fronl bedroom—and the day is over.

When the soft dews of kindly sleep My wearied eyelids gently steep, Bo my last thought Yes, the last thought can more easily bo turned to Him alter a long day of travel, and a low friendly natural words in tho sacred Name.

So the week passes by. Some evenings see one homeward bound, only to suait out in a new direction in the morning, or t» have a day among the township people. But Sunday is coming, and the best pony is ready'over-night. Thno after timo we look at tho weather, and take a good, long look before.wo have a word with the pony as he finishes his supper. Saturday night's a bad' night for sleep—for if tho rain comes, there'll bo few coming to church, on tho morrow. On tho wet Sundays we know what it means—"Where two or three are gathered together in My name"—it's often only two or three. v Tncn, too, the roa'ds will, be heavy and slow travelling, and there Won't bo much time for any meals. And the river, may get up—it's an anxious business crossing at the lonely ford. So tho Saturday night passes in broken slumber—half-awake listening for the rain. But the'morning's fine! , "New every morning is Thy love." How could one help feeling that on a jolly winter's morning. We begin with service at cloven at the township, in the little church we're so proud of—tho faithful gathering at His table, and the talk that takes tho place of the sermon. No clover argument needed here; no semipolitical speech; no echoes of tho labour unrest—just tho "old, old story." . The Schoolhouse Service. A snatch of lunch, and off a dozen miles J for. afternoon service in a littlo .sclioo.lhouse. It's an "uncomfy" place, and not over-clean. Some of the people sit on tho seats round tho wall, and some on top of. the desks. Whole families eomc— bailies and all.' Who minds a littlo infant prattle in the lessons or the prayers'? One baby makes too much noise, and is taken out to tho porch; another little mite, who is quite one of our friends, comes' wandering out to see why we are all alone in front; another littlo girl has to bo closely watched becauso she wants to put her chubby fingers in tho inkpots on tho desks. But the homely offering of prayers and praiso goes forward. Mary, who has been away to town for 6chool and music, plays the hymns on the school piano. And we all sing—not a single voice is silent. "Is all in time?" Bless you, no—but He who is listening is looking for. tho "melody in the hearts," and oftimes that is there in 6pite of a little outward discord. The school empties itself within tho hour, and we all shako hands, and have a word or two before we hurry on. It s a lonely road this time, away down to the big station. Just a house or twq ( on the way—and they come out to say "Goodday," and ask tho time, and inquire about some item of recent news. But we mustn't stay more than a minute, for time's precious to-day. At last tho station is in sight and the pony is left in friendly hands, and in we .hurry to tea. We are late, but thev are ussd to that, and do not mind. The hall is ready with chairs and a piano, and sonic of the station hands file in, and tho few neighbours, and again church makes a family gathering of master and man, mistress and maid, as side by side we sing and read and pray. A Country Wedding. Next week there is a couaitry wedding, and wherever we go people talk and talk about it. Of course everybody in the little corner of tho district will come. There are to bo three 'bridesmaids! That's rather unusual. And the cake is coming up from Wellington? And there s to bo the usual social evening? Yes, a wedding is an exciting day "out back. At twelve o'clock tho schoolhouse is packed, and wo begin tho ceremony. How well these fathers and mothers know it in tho back-blocks. "For better, for worse; for licher, for poorer; in sickness and in health." They've been through all that. They've had hard things to faco together; and years of anxiety over money till the farm was paid for; and sickness sometimes, without a doctor for miles and miles. But they know it. It has all been worth while. , , , After the service we hurry to tho homestead. It's a real big country dinner ready for us. Not for a moment could vou call it a "breakfast." Speeches in plenty are mado. Then we wait and talk and smoke till tea time. And tea is hardly over before a violin is tuned up ready for the =ongs and dancing. But how quiet and shy these country young men and girls are in a crowd. It s their mothers and fathers—who came "out back" from the town a dozen years ago—who are making all tho fun and singing songs and telling stories. And right till tho end cf the evening the parson, is part of tho family party—a welcomo help in tho healthy, homely fun that is going forward—and a natural part of it. But late at night, as he turns hoaioward to hie haoholor quarters, and thinks over it all— tho woddinjj

raid tlio good.wishes and the happiness of it—a liny woo bit'of loneliness comes close to him, and ho cannot shako it off. Just now and again there aro dark days—when oil? church in one little district was broken up tor a long limo because two families had fallen out; and there was the perpetual anxiety of seeing children in family after family untaught in the Christian faith. There was no Sunday school even, and the parents taught nothing. And now and again a lad we'd been proud of went off to town, and it was too much for him; for in'the back country strength isn't tested much. Then we were always hard up because horses took so much to keep well, and money was sometimes scare? in the chinch, and there was no time for study— and it was lonely. But now in town, with its endless round of meetings, and the too frequent sermons to write; and th? hurrv and personal worries—how often we look back to (hose peaceful, happy days among one's friends!