At last the waiting is over, and her faith justified. Dear
old mother! Gray-haired I return, sadly scotched in many a conflict
with the world, yet ever thy boy, thy home mine. Ah me! Heaven is
nearer to us than we often dream on earth.
[Illustration: At Home in the Old Town The last time we were all
together]
How shall I tell you of the old town by the North Sea that was the
home of the Danish kings in the days when kings led their armies
afield and held their crowns by the strength of their grip? Shall
I paint to you the queer, crooked streets with their cobblestone
pavements and tile-roofed houses where the swallow builds in the
hall and the stork on the ridge-pole, witness both that peace dwells
within? For it is well known that the stork will not abide with
a divided house; and as for the swallow, a plague of boils awaits
the graceless hand that disturbs its nest. When the Saviour hung
upon the cross, did it not perch upon the beam and pour forth its
song of love and pity to His dying ear, "Soothe Him! soothe Him"?
The stork from the meadow cried, "Strength Him! strength Him!" but
the wicked pewit, beholding the soldiers with their spears, cried,
"Pierce Him! pierce Him!" Hence stork and swallow are the friends
of man, while the pewit dwells in exile, fleeing ever from his
presence with its lonesome cry.
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