Welsh Journals

Told by the Cobbler of Llansionyn. By J. R. Lloyd Hughes. THE SCIENTIST IN THE PULPIT. THE old woman was the last to leave the chapel, and as she wended her way, un- noticed, through the groups of young people chatting in light vein outside the door, her wrinkled face bore the look of utter despair. She trudged slowly up the hill and turned along the lane that led to the little cottage standing alone under the shadow of the Twm- path. Never before had the wind blown so cold across the breast of the hill. Never before had she failed to derive comfort and warmth in the moddion at the chapel she had attended for over three score years. That morning the words of the preacher had brought her world tumbling down. The simple faith which had kept her heart buoyant through the long years of tribulation and poverty had been shattered by this young college professor, who, with the cold brutality of un- assailable logic, had shown that the Good Book was a collection of myths and legends. The Rev. Ishmael Jenkins, M.A., B.Sc., had meant well when he preached his famous sermon on the New Theology to the worshippers at this little chapel in the hills. But how tragic the effect on such simple hearts as that of this old woman! She reached her cottage at last, but there was no joy of home-coming. The interior presented a spotless appearance, the result of Saturday's cheerful toil in honour of the Holy Day. The banked-up fire in the tiny grate burned brightly, and the pan of thin stew stood simmering on the hob. On the little round table by the hearth the PLENYDD. Servant of Truth-thy sword in honour sheathed! The crimson hilt hath cleaved with dauntless might, And captive hosts the joy of freedom breathed By thy strong arm resistless for the right. The warrior's armour thou did'st not defile, In fiercest combat e'er with knightly stride- Against the treason that would man beguile- A kingly court acclaimed thy kingly pride. Oft many a tear thy kindly pleading stayed Shall long bedew the flow'rets on thv tomb; And many a tristful home by thee allayed To thy long home in thought beholden come. In laurel shade beneath un-setting sun Sweet is thy peace,-the crown of vict'ry won. T. T. Lucius MORGAN. old family Bible, her own mother's wedding gift, lay open at the Psalms. The dear old volume was the rock on which she had built. And now Oblivious of everything except the dull pain in her heart, she sat with unseeing eyes trying in her simple, ignorant way, to face this tragic crisis in her lonely life. But this was not a blow like the others she had met so bravely. When sorrows crossed her path had she not always found ineffable peace in the pages of her mother's Bible? She recalled the peaceful closing scenes in the lives of her parents. The Book had been their anchor in life's storms, their beacon in the Valley of the Shadows. It was a living, real thing to them, from the first verse in Genesis to the end of the Revelations; and their simple unquesttioning faith had borne them smiling and unafraid through the mysterious veil. Her hus- band and her only son had not their belief in the Book and their trust in its reality soothed their pain and robbed death of its sting ? The old woman's mind became confused as she tried to refute the preacher's arguments. He had not denied the blessed story of Bethlehem and the tragedy of Calvary, but he had said that God had not created the world in six days. So the Bible was still God's Word, but God had lied! This new God was not her God. not the God of her parents. Her logic was sadly at fault, but she was very old and feeble, and it was hard to reconstruct things with the end of the journey so close at hand. She found herself framing excuses for God. She wanted her old God back. With arms tightly clasping the dear old Book she called to Him, and she did not call in vain. A neighbour, dropping in at the cottage a few hours later, found her still holding the book, but her spirit had passed, and the smile on her wrinkled old face spoke of a peace that passeth the under- standing of the new theologian. TO ONE BURIED ON THE TOP OF MYNYDD GARTH. Is it because the summer wind And summer mists still lingers here, With noise of rushing streams behind And breath of brake and gorse so near. You chose this spot wherein to lie Until the day of doom doth dawn On this brown hill ? So near the sky And God, you will not feel forlorn. Or is it that you wished to shew Us who follow, caged and cabined still, That you untrammelled long ago Sweet freedom knew on this lone hill? M. J. James,