THE KING'S JEWEL by PHOEBE CARY

'T WAS a night to make the bravest
Shrink from the tempest's breath,
For the winter snows were bitter,
And the winds were cruel as death.

All day on the roofs of Warsaw
IIad the white storm sifted down
Till it almost hid the humble huts
Of the poor outside the town.

And it beat upon one low cottage
With a sort of reckless spite,
As if to add to their wretchedness
Who sat by its hearth that night;

Where Dorby, the Polish peasant,
Took his pale wife by the hand,
And told her that when the morrow came
They would have no home in the land.

No human hand would aid him
With the rent that was due at morn;
And his cold, hard-hearted landlord
Had spurned his prayers with scorn.

Then the poor man took his Bible,
And read, while his eyes grew dim,
To see if any comfort
Were written there for him;

When he suddenly heard a knocking
On the casement, soft and light:
It wasn't the storm; but what else could be
Abroad in such a night?

Then he went and opened the window,
But for wonder scarce could speak,
As a bird flew in with a jewelled ring
Held flashing in his beak.

"'T is the bird I trained," said Dorby,
"And that is the precious ring
That once I saw on the royal hand
Of our good and gracious king.

"And if birds, as our lesson tells us,
Once came with food to men,
Who knows," said the foolish peasant,
"But they might be sent again!"

So he hopefullly went with the morning,
And knocked at the palace gate,
And gave to the king the jewel
They had searched for long and late.

And when he had heard the story
Which the peasant had to tell,
He gave him a fruitful garden,
And a home wherein to dwell.

And Dorby wrote o'er the doorway
These words that all might see:
"Thou hast called on the Lord in trouble,
And he hath delivered thee!"

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