The Letter from Mary

IMPROVEMENT ERA. Vol. VIII. DECEMBER, 1904. No. 2.

THE LETTER FROM MARY. BY NEPHI ANDERSON, AUTHOR OF THE "CASTLE BUILDER," ETC., AND ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF THE "MILLENNIAL STAR."

A letter home, from an elder in the field:— Brother John is coming to Zion. Be on the watch for him, and greet him as a brother and a friend. He received the money for his passage only last month, and already he is off; off to Zion, to Mary, to her good husband, and the little grandson, all of whom live on a ranch up in Idaho. Although Brother John is nearer sixty than six, he went off as happy asa boy going on a holiday trip. Well, his life has been a hard one and full of trial, so I hope the remainder of his days will be spent in the peace and comfurt which he deserves. I must say that I feel a little lonesome, now that Brother

John has gone. He has been such a blessing to the elders who have labored in this part of the country, for the last fifteen years. Not that he has been able to help much in the way of worldly wealth, for he was himself poor in that, but he has been blessed with an abundance of the good spirit of the gospel, and his kindliness has been imparted without measure to all. The good times we have had, in his little home by the sea, have been so many that

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we shall miss him as man seldom misses his fellow man. So, may he in very deed safely reach the Zion of his hopes and dreams. I recall ray first visit to him. He lived on a small island just off the coast, some distance from any organized branch of the

Church. The elders in passing his way would always call and spend a day or two with him, and it was time well spent. I was making my first visit among the branches when I came to Brother John's. It was in midwinter, and the sea was frozen from the

mainland to the island, so that I could cross on the ice; but when I neared the island I found that water had flooded the ice, and consequently, my feet became wet. When I arrived at the little house where Brother John lived, I was wet and cold. Brother John opened the door at my knock, and I introduced myself. He saw my plight in a moment, said simply "come in," and then went to work on me. In a few minutes I had my shoes and stockings off, and was into his big, dry fishing boots, sitting by the warm fire. Soon a big, newly caught fish was in the pot boiling, and then he slipped out to the nearby shop for a loaf of white bread and a mug of cream to put into my barley coffee. While he was out I made a hurried observation of the room, and I found everything as neat and as clean as any good wife could have kept it. "And so you are our new missionary?" he enquired, as he came in and placed more wood on the fire. "Well, I have seen many of you come and go in my time; yes, come and go but I stay." I — detected a sadness in the way he said it. "I suppose the Lord wants me here to help his servants, but it is little I can do. You see, I cannot earn as much as I once could, and therefore I can not help as much as I would like. I hope the Lord will accept of

what I do." "Brother," I asked, "do you treat all the elders in this way?" He looked at me in astonishment, "Why, of course all alike — — I have never made any difference. You are all equally the servants of the Lord." "How can you afford it?" I asked. I had not been long in the field, and that accounts for my question. I did not fully comprehend that he could not afford to do otherwise. He looked at me in a strange way. "Afford it?" he replied, "you would not take from me my greatest source of pleasure?"

THE LETTER FROM MARY.

After that, winter or summer, I never went by Brother John's without calling on him. He lived all alone. His wife has been dead for many years, and his children are scattered. One son lives in a town not very far away, but he might as well be with his brother in Australia for all he does or cares for his father; for, since "Mor-

monism" has come to Brother John, this son, who aims to be something in the world, will have nothing to do with his parent. Five years ago his only daughter, Mary, went to Zion. She married a good "Mormon" boy, and they have been the old man's anchor of hope; and, I am glad to say, it has not been in vain. One day last summer when I called to see him, he was not at home. I enquired of his nearest neighbor regarding his whereabouts, and was informed that he had gone to the other side of the island to help a farmer with his hay. He had left the key to his door, with instructions that if I should come in his absence it was to be given to me. I took the key and went back to the house. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and I sat down on the seat by the

side of the door. The little plat of soil by the house was filled with sweetly scented flowers. A cool breeze came from the sea, and out on the water there were some white sails on the horizon. The sun sank into the ocean, and the shadows grew deeper. Just as the lamp began to shine from the lighthouse on the point, Brother John came with slow and steady steps down the path; but when he saw me he quickened his pace. He went into the house, and he was soon busy at cupboard and table. "I've been helping with the hay," he explained, "that's why I am so late tonight. You see, I can't go on the water much — and then, you know, must learn to be a farmer. That's lately I

what Mary says — I'm so glad you came. What did you do with your song book, young man?" "I believe I left it here, didn't I?" "Yes; the one with the music in. I have made good use of it.

While you eat your supper, I will show you that I can still play my old fiddle. I have had my supper." He took down his violin from the wall. "Beautiful Zion/' "High on the Mountain Top," "Our Mountain Home so Dear" followed, one after the other, until I had to hurry through my eating and join the music with my song.

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"That will do now," he said shortly. "I have something else to show you — you are sure you have had enough to eat? Then I — will clear the table."

The old man was in unusually happy spirits. He wanted me to know that he had some very important news to tell me; but be kept it in reserve as though he wished to tell it a little at a time and thus prolong the pleasure as long as possible. After he had cleared the table, he drew the blind down before the window, and lighted the little oil lamp. He went about quietly, talking all the time on various topics, and then he drew his chair up to the table by the light. "I have a letter from Mary," he said. "And is she well?" I asked. He received such letters quite often, and I did not understand why this one was so important. "Oh, yes, she is well —Mary is a good girl. She doesn't forget her father, not she ! And George, her husband must be a good ,

man, too, to do as he is doing." "Yes; and what is he doing, Brother?" "I've always tried to trust the Lord," he continued, ignoring my question. No doubt he thought it was coming to the point too quickly. "Somewhere, sometime/the blessing will come, if we keep on doing and trusting. From the day that I joined the Church, I have paid one-tenth of my increase to the Lord. It has not been much, but it has been a tenth. Let me show you how I have kept my accounts with the Lord." He brought a book from a corner shelf, and opened it on the table. "Every day's earnings I enter here in this first column," he explained. "I then extend one-tenth of every item to this second column. At the end of every month, I add the tithing column and send the amount to the office." I turned the leaves of the book backwards, and found the

same neat, accurate accounts year after year; and here I knew I had found one of the secret sources of strength which this brothe r had drawn from, during all these years. "I have received my reward in the blessings which have come to me daily," he said. "The world about me thinks I am a poor, miserable creature, living as I do here in loneliness and poverty; but they don't know, they don't know that I am happier and richer

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than they all." He shook his gray head, and smiled knowingly at me. "But I received a letter from Mary the other day — it was Thursday of last week, and what do you think she says?" "What does she say?" Instead of replying, he arose, and took down his violin again. "Don't you want to hear another song?" he enquired. "I have played every tune in the book. Lucky you left it, though you must hav3 missed it yourself. These 3ongs of Zion are beautiful. — Now, this one, for instance" and "Joseph Smith's First Prayer" came in soft, sweet strains from the instrument. I listened and watched the expression on his face, but I did not sing. In a few minutes he replaced the violin on the wall, sat down, and took a letter from his pocket. "I carry Mary's letter with me, so that I can read it during resting time. When the other men in the hay field smoked their pipes today, I read my letter; and I am sure I received more comfort than they." He spread the letter out on the table, smoothing the creases with loving touch. Then he turned the lamp further up, drew his chair nearer to the table, adjusted his glasses, and silently scanned his letter. I was interested to know how long he would still play with his good news, but after a pause, he said: "Mary says the money for my emigration will soon be on the way to me." "I am very glad to hear it," I replied. "And so I am going home to Zion at last. I have waited a long time— but it's come. The Lord is blessing me more than I

deserve. Listen to what Mary says: '"We shall be so glad to see you again — and George is just as delighted as I am with the prospect; because you must know, dear father, that George is the kind of man that gets his happiness from seeing others happy. * * * We have yet a number of payments to make on our land, but the crops this year look fine, and we shall risk just enough money to bring you to us.' "Don't you think I ought to write them not to send the money?" he asked. "Nothing of the kind," I replied. "But they have land to pay for —

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"That will be all right. Let them send you the money. What else does the letter say?" " 'Oh, yes, dear father, we have planned it all; and even the

baby looks wise when we talk about you. The other day he said "Ganpa" just as plain as I can.' The old man raised his glasses, and wiped away a tear. "They have forty acres of land, they say. That is a big farm, isn't it?" "Not such a large one for Idaho." "No? and they have four horses and six cows and some calves and a big, fine wagon. I never would have thought it that my — Mary should be so blessed. 'When you come, you can drive to town with the butter and eggs/ says Mary, 'and feed the chickene and such light work.' Listen to that, will you? light work. She — doesn't know how strong I am. Her old father will be no burden to them —not yet, thank the Lord. And here she says that George is out watering the lucern. What does that mean?" I explained our system of irrigation to him. We talked well into the night, and when I left, next morning, I made him promise that he would let me know directly he received his passage money. I had not long to wait. I hurried out to the little island, and found Brother John busily packing his trunk. "The money has come," he said, "and I am going day after tomorrow. I didn't know that I had so many things until I tried to put them all in a trunk. I shall have to leave some of them. Help me to select." made a number of suggestions, but he was much worried at 1

the thought of leaving some of his household goods. "Then I will not take my Bible," he said, as he placed the old, leathern book on the chair. Bibles are cheap in Zion, I suppose."

"Yes; but not such as yours. This is an old friend, and associated with your first love of the Gospel. Take it along." "Yes, you are right. How shall I get the clock in?" "Leave it," I suggested. "And the violin?" "Take it along. It will be a little care, but it will repay you. Here, take my song book to remember me by. When you get to Mary's ranch in Idaho, play some of the tunes to Mary and the baby.'* "And here is mother's picture. I must have that along, but