rn yet dripping
from the thunder showers, he grew angry for them, and forgot to think
of the long ridges that stretched over his fields, where the corn ears
were swelling and rejoicing.

And he came in gloomy to his home, when his wife was hoping that now,
at last, all would be well; and when she looked at him the tumult of
her soul grew beyond control, and she knelt down before him as he sat
moody in his chair, and threw her arms round him, and cried out: "It
is of the Lord's mercies that we are not utterly consumed. Oh,
husband! pray for the corn and for me, that it may go well with us at
the last! Carry me upstairs!" And his anger was checked by fear, and
he carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed, and said it must be
the storm which had shaken her nerves. But whether he prayed for
either the corn or her that night she never knew.

And presently came a new distress: for when the days of rain had
accomplished their gracious work, and every one was satisfied, behold,
they did not cease. And as hitherto the cry had gone up for water on
the furrows, so now men's hearts failed them for fear lest it should
continue to overflowing, and lest mildew should set in upon the full,
rich ears, and the glorious crops should be lost.

And the Master of the Harvest walked out by his cornfields, his face
darker than ever. And he railed against the rain because it would not
cease; against the sun because it would not shine; against the wheat
because it might perish before the harvest.

"But why does he always and only complain?" moaned the corn plants, as
the new terror was breathed over the field. "Have we not done our best
from the first? And has not mercy been with us, sooner or later, all
along? When moisture was scant, and we throve but little, why did he
not rejoice over that little, and wait, as we did, for more? Now that
abundance has come, and we swell triumphant in strength and in hope,
why does he not share our joy in the present, and wait in trust, as we
do, for the future ripening change? Why does he always complain? Has
he himself some hard master, who would fain reap where he has not
sown, and gather where he has not strewed, and who has no pity for his
servants who strive?"

But of all this the Master of the Harvest heard nothing. And when the
days of rain had rolled into weeks and the weeks into months, and the
autumn set in, and the corn still stood up green in the ridges, as if
it never meant to ripen at a