The Daily Phoenix

The parson sat in his house one day,
When wintry storm did rage,
High rapt he drank in lofty thought
From Hooker's classic page;
But as he sat, and holy breath
Into his breast did steal,
His sweet wife oped the door and said,
"My dear, we have no meal."

With a deep groan and saddened brow,
He laid aside his book,
And in despair upon the hearth
With troubled air did look;
"My people think that I must break
To them the bread of Heaven,
But they will not give me bread enough
Three whole days out of seven.

"But hunger is a serious thing,
And it is hard to hear
Sweet children's mournful cry for bread
Loud ringing in your ear."

So straight he mounted his old horse,
With meek and humble will.
And on his meal-bag, patched and coarse,
He journeyed to the mill.

The miller bowed to him, and said,
"Sir, by your church steeple,
I vow I give you praise for this,
But none to your church people,"

Again he mounted his old horse,
He had no time to lag.
And rode like hero to his house,
Right on his old meal bag.

But as he rode he overtook
A proud and rich layman,
Who, with a close, astonished gaze,
The parson's bag did scan.

"My reverend sir, the truth to tell,
It makes me feel quite wroth,
To see you compromise this way
The honor of your cloth.

"Why told you not, my honored friend,
Your meal was running low;
What will the neighbors think of us
If to the mill you go?"

"My wealthy friend," the parson said,
"You must not reason so;
For be assured a settled thing,
My meal is always low.

"If my dear people wish to know
How to promote my bliss,
I'll simply say, a bag of meal
Will never come amiss;
Just keep the store-room well supplied,
And I will keep right still;
But if the meal runs out again,
I must go to the mill."