SHORT TALK BULLETIN - Vol.IV   December, 1926    No.12

POWER AND THE GLORY

by: Unknown

PROLOGUE

"I am much discouraged," said the Worshipful Master of the Little 
Lodge over the Store, sorrowfully.  "I can't see that our Lodge 
amounts to anything.  We don't get anywhere.  The members don't 
attend as well as they might.  We haven't any power or influence any 
more.  The big city Lodges do a great work, but what can a little 
country-town Lodge like this do?  What does it really amount to?"
				
THE WIDOW'S TESTIMONY

Mrs. Cecily Evans, adjusting her black hat and patting the white 
cuffs on her black gown, with some melancholy pleasure that the signs 
of mourning were spotless as well as inexpensive, walked from her 
little home on Spring Road towards Higbee's.  She went every day to 
Higbee's, not that she really expected a letter, but because John had 
so loved to go for the mail and chat with the townsfolk while the 
letters were being distributed in the boxes.  Anything that had to do 
with John was precious to Cecily . . poor John!  Too young to die, 
too strong to give up, too fine to lose . . . and yet he had gone.

There was little John, and littler Cecily, to remember him by, . . . 
but, alas, little John and littler Cecily had mouths to feed and feet 
to shoe and wants to satisfy.  And the little home was only just in 
the process of being bought.  Of course, every one was very kind, but 
business is business in Littleville as well as in New York.  As Mr.  
Burton, the banker, explained to her, with infinite kindness and 
patience, and a suspicious mist in his old eyes, strangers had bought 
the mortgage and they had to be paid.  Cecily knew Mr. Burton for a 
kind and just man, but "Business is Business."  And Cecily didn't 
want charity.  She wanted opportunity.  She wanted something to do . 
. .  something besides the little vegetable garden and the chickens . 
. . something besides an occasional boarder, or the section hands 
whose dinner she was so glad to prepare and sell for so little money 
because it represented a mite towards that devastating interest which 
must, somehow be met . . . and those little shoes which wore out, oh, 
so fast; the small wants which are small only to those who have 
plenty, so big to sore-beset mothers.  "I mustn't Give Up .  . . I 
must be brave.  John always said I was brave," she choked back the 
tears as she entered the little town.  "He wouldn't want his friends 
to see that I was not brave.  But oh, if I can't get some more to do, 
and the little home has to go . . . what shall I do?  What shall . . 
. Good afternoon, Mrs. Brown.  Yes it is a lovely day, isn't it?  Oh, 
I'm doing pretty well, thank you . . . yes, they are both well . . . 
She passed on down the street,  Hiram Bent's little garage . . . John 
had the flivver mended there,   George Merton's house . . . John had 
sold it for Merton.  The Nonpareli Pool Parlor . . . John used to 
play there once in a while.  Jessup's . . .John had bought the parlor 
carpet at Jessup's. . . . 

"What will I do?  What can I do?  If I hadn't the children . . . she 
whispered.
Garry's store . . . the lodge room over it, the Square and Compasses, 
dingy with time and the need of paint.  "Masonic Temple, A.F. & A.M." 
was hardly legible on the front.  John was so fond of the lodge.  

John had found inspiration and courage in the lodge.  That time he 
was sick, and the lodge had settled his note at the bank . . .  what 
fun they had saving to pay it back.  The time John, Jr., was born and 
that funny Worshipful Master, with his labored speech of presentation 
of the little silver spoon .  . . but what a kind, good speech . . .
"John would be ashamed of me," cried Cecily to herself. 

"Nothing can happen to me!  The lodge won't let it happen.  The lodge 
loved John, even as John loved the lodge."  She would never ask them 
for help, praise God, if her strength held out, but oh, wasn't it 
wonderful to know of that great, strong, silent Ancient Institution 
that loved men, and taught them to care for the widowed and the 
fatherless?

THE FATHER'S TESTIMONY

"But can't you do anything about it?" Lawyer Higgins protests 
vigorously to Frank Mortimer.  He spoke in a low tone, because the 
street was crowded . . . crowded for Littleville, that is.

"What can I do?" answered the father.  "He's in jail.  
They won't take bail.  He writes me not to come, not to try do 
anything.  He tells me he is entirely innocent, and that the truth 
will come out, surely.  And, Haines, I believe him.  He's a good boy.  
He never stole even candy when he was a little fellow.  He's been a 
real comfort . . . writes every week.  I know he's not guilty, but a 
father is so helpless, so many miles away . . ."
"Have you done nothing?"

"I did everything I could," the father protested.  "I wired him he 
could have all the money he needed; he didn't need any.  He wrote 
that one of the Vice-Presidents in the bank, who believes in him, had 
gotten him a good lawyer.  I tried to think of something else, and 
then remembered I hadn't done the most important thing.  So I wrote 
to the Master of the Lodge I know in Big-Burg.  He went to see the 
lad right away and he writes me every day.  You know, Haines, 
sometimes I have thought that Freemasonry is too good for human 
beings, but it's times like these, when all you have and love is in 
danger and you don't know which way to turn, that you thank God most 
for it.  I can't even pass the old Temple . . . what a disgraceful 
condition that paint is in . . . without taking off my hat.  You'll 
never know what a comfort that old place has been in this darkest 
hour . . ."

THE BLIND BROTHER'S TESTIMONY

"Coming Father!  Be there in just a minute.  You can hear me if you 
listen well . . . I'm on the last row now.  Just one more pitcher and 
they'll all be watered.  Then the best Daddy in the world will have a 
rose tomorrow!"  The brave young voice was cheerful.

"Don't hurry child.  I can wait," answered the blind man.
He could wait. Daniel Borden had learned to wait.  They all learn to 
wait, those who live in darkness.  When the eyes close while life is 
warm and red in the body, the man inside learns patience in the 
hardest of schools.  Daniel had learned quickly.  It was only two 
years since he went blind.  He had no preparation, as do those who 
suffer from disease, or cataracts, or just old age.  Filling the car 
with gas, a lightning flash, a fire . . . and not the best doctor in 
the biggest of the cities could bring back the seared eye balls.

He rebelled, sometimes.  The blind do at times, especially the newly 
made blind.  Those who are old in the Big Black Dark learn to keep 
their rebellion to themselves.  For nature must have compensations, 
and the high pride of living through the worst of human afflictions 
with a smile, and a head carried erect, makes them conquer the 
rebellion, outwardly at least.  Besides, there was Rose, his wife, 
and Emily, his daughter . . . pretty Emily!  How dainty she was, and 
how sunny!  No man could be wholly blue who had an Emily.  But it was 
hard not to see her face . . . never to look forward to seeing it 
again . . .

"Here I am Daddy!" his daughter touched him on the arm. 
"All ready?  You don't mind if we walk down town do you?  I have some 
shopping I want to do."

"Of course not, child.  What does it matter where I walk . . . as 
long as I am walking with you?"  he added in a gallant effort to take 
the bitter sting from the words.  "I want a cigar too."

"There's Mrs. Saunders, driving two pigs down the road," Emily 
chattered.  "There are a couple of sparrows fighting on a wire, hear 
'em?  Oh, Daddy, I heard an airplane this morning.  I couldn't locate 
it at all.  Must have been too high up.  If you had been with me, 
you'd have told me just which way to look.  Good morning, Mr. Sellers 
.  . . yes, always in the afternoon.  I need the exercise, so Daddy 
makes me walk.  Daddy, I do believe Tom King has a new car.  Listen, 
you can tell by the sound of the motor . . .

She was always like that.  Trying so hard to make ears important 
instead of eyes!  Any man ought to be glad . . .  but, oh, what can 
man do without eyes?  Supposed anything happened to him, before he 
got enough together?  He could still practice law, but slowly . . . 
how long would he have?  And neither wife nor daughter were strong, 
and they were newcomers to the town; they had friends, in the common 
sense of the word, but how many real friends?  To whom could they 
turn for real help if . . . if . . .

"Daddy, if you don't get up on your hind feet and tell that old lodge 
of yours to paint the front of that hall over the store, I'm coming  
down some day and paint it myself!" cried Emily.  "The idea!  Why, 
you'd hardly know it was the same Fraternity you belonged to back 
home!  I . . . "

"Masonry isn't expressible in paint, little daughter," smiled Daniel.  
"I can't explain to you, but . . . that's a wonderful lodge to me."  
"Is it?  How Come?" she asked.

"I am in it," Daniel answered simply.  "I belong to it. 
It belongs to me.  No lodge takes Freemasonry from a man who has once 
seen the Light, merely because he loses his sight.  And when I go 
there, I still see the Light, though I cannot see the lights.  You 
don't understand, do you?  But it's a great comfort . . .a great 
comfort.  And I can't see whether it needs paint or not!  I'm glad . 
. . Oh, I'm very glad for the little lodge, paint or no paint.  It 
means a lot to a fellow who doesn't know just what would happen . .  
. I'll wait right in the middle of the door there, if you want, while 
you do your shopping . . . "

THE SECRETARY'S TESTIMONY

Thomas Morrow had been Secretary of the Little Lodge over the store 
for thirty-nine years.  He looked just as a Secretary of the age and 
experience always does look.  He had a kindly face, shrewd blue eyes, 
wore gold-rim spectacles, was rather thin and a little stooped and 
was very patient . . . he who bears with many Worshipful Master of 
many minds must be so.

Brother Morrow had two of the several Masonic virtues developed to 
the n'th power.  He knew how to keep silent, and he understood the 
helping hand, whether it reached for a quarter for a beggar, a check 
for a charity, or support for the faltering.  Which was why he knew 
something that no one else in Littleville knew, except the Minister; 
he knew that Jed Parsons, whose farm was six miles away, came to 
Littlev-ille regularly once a week, got the key of the old Temple 
from the Secretary, and spent an hour in the deserted Lodge Room.
Jed couldn't have told, if you asked him, why he did it.  Jed was one 
of the world's inarticulate; one of the men who cannot say what they 
feel.  "Its like this," explained the Secretary to the Minister.

"You know Jed's wife didn't get along with him . . . city girl, she 
was.  I don't know whose fault it was.  Maybe it was Jed's fault.  
But I do know it broke his heart when she ran away with another man.  
That's why he comes to the Lodge Room.  It comforts him, somehow . . 
. he just goes in there and sits, and sits . . . maybe he prays, I 
dunno."

THE OLD BROTHER'S TESTIMONY

Squire Bently passed down Main Street.  He was an old man, now, 
almost eighty.  He had walked down Main Street every fair day for ten 
years, on his way to the burying ground.  Mrs. Bently and two sons 
were there; the Squire was alone in the world.  Most of Littleville 
didn't quite understand why its leading citizen was so happy.  There 
were so many reasons why he shouldn't be . . . the much-loved wife, 
the two adored boys, gone . . . the lonely house, the great big house 
which had been so lively for so many years, now so silent and empty . 
. . 

But Squire Bently was happy.  It was a quiet happiness, and a kindly 
one.  There were some who understood part of it . . . the Minister 
knew that it was a strong faith and a hope which kept the old face 
smiling.  But none connected the strength which could win through a 
devastating grief with the walk down Main Street.  It was a little 
longer walk to get to the burying ground that way.  But, of course, 
Main Street was lively and interesting.  Doubtless that was the 
reason.

Like many who are old, Squire Bently talked often to himself.  Never 
where he could be overheard, of course.  Had there been any to 
overhear, they would have heard nothing worth reporting.

"There it is.  It does need paint," he said slowly to himself.  "The 
Old Lodge doesn't grow very much.  But it's all Masonic, and . . . 
what would I have done without Masonry?  Of course, the Church 
teaches it, and the Great Light tells of it, but Masonry makes it a 
part of you.  In the Grand Lodge Above, the boys are standing at the 
door, waiting.  Milly is waiting there, too.  Wonder if the Great 
Architect of the Universe lets women into the Grand Lodge Above, or 
if He has an Eastern Star Chapter for them?"  Squire Bently smiled at 
the thought.  "Sprig of Acacia . . .  merits of the Lion of the Tribe 
of Judah . . . I don't know how men who lose everything . . . get 
through without their lodge to think about, the touch of the 
Brethren's hands to help them on, the certainty of the hereafter that 
Freemasonry teaches . . . I must put something in my will to give 
them a start for a new coat of paint.  It won't be long now . . . 
dear old lodge . . . "

EPILOGUE

Maybe it is a part of the Great Plan, that Brethren cannot see, as 
sees the All Seeing Eye, the use, the influence, the Power and the 
Glory, of the littlest, poorest, and most insignificant of Lodges!


