The Benediction

Radio Record, Volume IV, Issue 24, 26 December 1930, Page 3

The Benediction

THE story of what radio meant in the life of a lonely old shepherd, and how in death it "helped him through."

By

A.E.

R.

ESPITE the fact that it was the middle of summer, a southerly was coming up. Already the southern sky was darkened with rapidly gathering clouds and the freshening wind had an unmistakable feeling of rain. Fearing that he might be caught without his coat, old Sam hurrried toward his whare. He was not making rapid progress, for he had long since seen the best years of his life; in fact he had been a shepherd

i, On this Watrarapa station for ten, =y ‘he had, elead, helped and had cut and shaped from its timbers enough $$ material to build his own whare. Now he needed a stick to‘help him ¥, along, and his haste to reach shelter RS before the storm broke left him ¥ panting for breath. Just before the door he paused, ¥ looked round, and whistled. ‘"‘Here, we boy!" he called, and an anxious * pause followed. Round the side of the whare came trotting an old collie. The old shepherd leant down and patted the shaggy head, and to-

gether the two entered the rude shelter. They were part of one another's lives, these two, and ‘both were growing old in the solitude of the back country. But Sam would not wish it otherwise, for he had grown to love the quietness and simplicity of the life. He had two great friends: his dog, Tim, and a radio set his employer had given him a year or so previous. Sam would have none of it at first, and it was hours before he could be persuaded to even touch the dials. However, curiosity eventually overcame his fear, and he cautiously advanced a timid hand. By a happy chance the first movement of the dials resulted in a burst of melody from the loudspeaker. After that Sam would not miss a minute when he was not out with the sheep. He had been given an interest in the happenings of the great world outside-an interest which made his days brighter and his homecomings eager. Hus simple meal over, and his dog fed, the old shepherd settled down in front of the fire to enjoy the evening programme. « + To-morrow night will be Christmas Eve, and we are presenting a special midnight church service. . ." Sam, with a guilty start, realised he had completely forgotten it was Christmas, and the thought of it revived haunting memories of the gay Christmases of his youth. Then he was young, happy, and surrounded by friends. He had no one now to wish him a merry Christmas-no one to care whether he lived or died, except im.

"Tim, old pal," he muttered, as the dog snuggled his head between the old man’s knees, "‘we’re Gutcasts, but we're cobbers."" And as ’ a bushy tail swished the uneven floor, two full brown eyes shining at him spoke their assent. Yes, they were cobbers, and who else mattered? "THe following afternoon, and grey clouds scudded overhead, driven by a strong wind. Occasional showers lashed the

old shepherd’s face as he knelt leaning over the bluff that rose steeply behind his whare. But Sam didn’t notice the weather-didn’t realise his clothes were sodden and his cap was gone. He was peering out of tear-dimmed eyes at a brown, huddled shape lying ominously still on a projecting ledge some fifty feet below. His face was working, and he was moaning piteously. His dog, his old companion and help-mate, lay down there crushed and broken. He couldn’t believe it-it had happened so suddenly. Tim had been rushing along the cliff edge, intent on turning back a sheep that had left the flock. The rain-sodden brink had given way and the dog made one desperate jump for safety. Sam could see him now, half on his side, his four feet pawing madly against the soil that wasn’t there. The almost human wail that rose when he finally hurtled downward still rang in the old man’s ears. _"Tim; Tim, old boy," he half sobbed. There was a faint responding stir as a tail moved just slightly-just enough to kindle a wild hope. Very cautiously, but without hesitation, Sam lowered himself over the cliff-edge, groping with his feet for holds. Infinitely slowly, and with an intense concentration on the rocky face before him, he worked his way toward the ledge where his dog lay. The exertion was almost too much for a man so old, but at last he reached it, shaking from the tremendous strain on his muscles and _ nerves. He crawled slowly along to the still form, and knelt beside it. His trembling hands moved over the shaggy coat, eagerly at first, but more slowly as no responsive tremor met his touch. He raised the limp head-there was just a move-

ment of the eyes and a slight swish of the tail, then no more. e Tim was dead. His dog; his pal, who had stuck by him, easing his labours, lessening his loneliness, had, after fifteen years of devoted service, left him. People said that when animals died they were finished with-cast aside. Sam pondered. Why shouldn't dogs like old Tim have some reward waiting for them on the other side? He shook his grey head dully. Perhaps everyone was wrong.

dog’s heaven. He fervently hoped re so, for his old comrade’s sake. Carefully, very carefully, his & hands clutching the rock wall, Sam 3 stood upright and looked over the ~ brink. He shuddered, and at the { movement sank back on the ledge, 4 every nerve fluttering. Below him eX lay his whare. He looked again ie and felt dizzy and slightly _ sick. Curious, but he’d never noticed the shack’s chimney was slanting so much. Perhaps it wasn’t soe noticeable from the ground. His & mind was wandering, and with an effort he brought it back to his ®

' place, and after pausing a few seconds to steady present terrible plight. He was certain he couldn’t climb up again, and now his dog’s need was past, he wondered how he had ever been able to get down to the ledge. His eyes returned to the still, brown form at his side. No, he couldn’t possibly take Tim. He’d have to leave him there. ; Feeling around and crawling backward and & forward along the ledge, he collected a heap of 4 5 stones, and these he ‘tenderly piled on the inert KX body. He placed the last stone in position, and with dimmed eyes paused for a moment in #4 wordless farewell. ry He crept along to the end of his restinghis nerves, turned round and slowly lowered his body over the void. Gradually he worked his way lower. His muscles ached and his ‘ 7s hands were cut and bleeding. Half way down (6 he rested awhile, panting heavily, and then cautiously lowered an exploring foot. He encountered nothing, and a _ dizzy nausea enveloped him, threatening to tear him from his hold to crash on the rocks beneath. But the spasm passed, and with his hands clinging desperately to a niche, and his whole body pressed hard against the cliff face, he forced himself to look downward. About four feet below him, but a little to one side, lay a small ledge a few inches in width. — It was his one chance. He waited a few moments, and with a coolness born of desperation, gradually lowered his body until he was crouching. His fingers sought eagerly for e}4 the crevice, found it, and clutched. His feet swung downward and to the side, groped,’ and touched the ledge. He’d done it, and in a rush of exhilaration (Concluded on page 8.) Sfersiton © ho

The Benediction (Continued from page 8.)

unknowingly slackened his hold. It was his undoing. His fingers, grown careless, suddenly clutched in vain at crumbling, treacherous rock. A shriek, followed a little later by a dull, horrifying thud, and all was still. . . . [T was dark, and the rain was still. pouring down, beating cruelly on the unresponsive, crumpled body which lay at the foot of the black cliff walls. The old man had lain there over four hours, seemingly lifeless, but with just a flicker of life remaining within the pitiful, rain-sodden form. He moved feebly and groaned with the pain that enveloped him as consciousness returned. He couldn't think clearly, and his body was racked with an agony that threatened any moment to serid him back into unconsciousness. Very slowly, covering a few inches -at a time and passing through a hell of pain at every movement, he crawled toward his shack. At last he reached it, and with a supreme effort raised his body high enough to fumble with the latch. The door swung back, and he half fell, half crawled into the hut, With his last ounce of strength he pushed the door shut and drew himself to his bunk, when again unconsciousness overtook him. . IT was approaching midnight. For hours he had lain there, motionless, and at last a long-drawn shuddering sigh came from his lips. His eyelids flickered, and he once more became aware of the roar of the storm reging round the whare, which rattled and shook as though at any second it would be torn from its foundations. A groan sounded through the darkness. | He was’ dying, he knew, and at the thought he became terribly frightened. To die like this, broken in body and with ro one to be with him in his last moments, apnalled him, and he moaned pitifully.

And then an inspiration forced its way into his clouded brain. The radio! With a rush he recalled the church service announcement he had heard the previous night. A trembling hand fumbled for the switch that would bring comfort and cheer in his dying moments. Out of the darkness came the beautiful strains of the "‘Messiah," the voices of the choir blending perfectly in the inspiring climax. The voices died away, and the organ swept the glorious harmony to a close. At the sudden silence the old man started, and after a struggle raised himself on one elbow. He put out an inquiring hand toward the dials, but the effort was too much for his failing strength, and he sank back despairingly. ... JN the rain-swept blackness outside a horse, bearing a crouching figure on_ its back, was stumbling and slipping along the path to old Sam’s_ dwelling. The storm lashed furiously around rider and beast, as if indignant at their presumption in venturing from shelter on such a night. That morning a trapper had called at the station homestead, ten miles distant and had been directed to Sam's shack as a place where he might spend the night on his way to the coast. Unfortunately, he had postponed his departure from the homestead until evening, and was now completely lost in the storm-swept darkness. It was useless for him to dismount to look for shelter. His only plan was to keep moving, no matter where his horse might take him. Slipping and sliding, the animal slowly climbed the rise, squelched through the mud on the flat for a few yards, and then stopped dead. His rider impatiently urged him on, gently at first and then with spurs, but after reluctantly moving a few paces, the horse suddenly wheeled and went back.

Sensing something amiss, his rider dismounted stiffly, cursing the stubbornness of his mount. He ‘stepped for-ward-and stumbled against the doorstep. Surprised, he fumbled for the latch, entered, and then stood as if transhxed. Out of the darkness came a voice, strong, yet strangely tender and comforting: ": . . May the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, be upon you and remain with you always." The voice stopped. In bewilderment the stranger groped forward, one hand digging deep into an inner pocket of his oilskins. -A light , flared. His eyes fell on the still figure on the bunk, and a low exclamation escaped his lips. The match flickered and went out. Outside, the storm still roared, but on old Sam's face, a few minutes before so twisted with pain, was a look of ineffable peace, He, too, had heard,