 | A thousand more verses |  |
Of course it was a rough young prayer—in neither prose nor rhyme—
Or grammar, such as one might use, in youth's or manhood's time;
But still it may have worked more good than words discreet and fair;
For God knows many curious ways with which to answer prayer.
The bandit guard—an old gray rogue—was list'ning at the door,
And caught some talk, the like of which, he ne'er had heard before.
But echoes of a boyhood past came tolling through his brain,
And his crude heart had softnesses that worked the youngster gain.
“Come with me, kid”, he whispered soft: the two foes sneaked away,
Perhaps ten minutes from the time the boy commenced to pray.
They crept through many hidden paths not fruitless of alarms,
But when next morning smiled, the boy was in his mother's arms.
Or grammar, such as one might use, in youth's or manhood's time;
But still it may have worked more good than words discreet and fair;
For God knows many curious ways with which to answer prayer.
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And caught some talk, the like of which, he ne'er had heard before.
But echoes of a boyhood past came tolling through his brain,
And his crude heart had softnesses that worked the youngster gain.
“Come with me, kid”, he whispered soft: the two foes sneaked away,
Perhaps ten minutes from the time the boy commenced to pray.
They crept through many hidden paths not fruitless of alarms,
But when next morning smiled, the boy was in his mother's arms.
| A thousand more verses | |