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GIFT OF 
 
Ci)e d&teen 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 A WOMAN OF GENIUS 
 CHRIST IN ITALY 
 THE ARROW MAKER 
 
Gftatt Souofij 
 
 C*. -M 
 
 HGal o& " 
 
 ^D ^1 V -/ 
 
Copyright, 1913, by 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & Co. 
 
 All rights reserved, including that of 
 
 translation into foreign languages, 
 
 including the Scandinavian 
 
 COPYRIGHT, IQI2, BY THE PHILLIPS PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 . 
 
Crebo 
 
 of tfuatoorito are rente* 
 liiafcle tofctle toe are in 
 tf)e toorlfc bp no otfjer 
 means tfjan tl)t spirit 
 of truti) anb farotl)erlt= 
 ness toot&tng 
 latoful 
 among men. 
 
d5teen Bougl) 
 
u 
 
Bougi) 
 
 T was the season of the green 
 bough. On into the night, 
 emanations from the warm, 
 odorous earth kept the chill from the 
 air, and the sky, steeped in the full 
 spring suns, retained, almost until dawn, 
 light enough to show the pale under 
 sides of the olive branches where they 
 stirred with the midnight currents. It 
 was not until the hours fell into the 
 very pit of the night that the morn 
 ing coolness began to strike shivers 
 along the bodies of those whose business 
 kept them sleeping on the open slopes 
 outside the city walls. 
 
 It would have been about that time 
 
that he awoke. For more than an hour 
 past he had swung from point to point of 
 consciousness on successive waves of 
 pain; now he was carried almost to the 
 verge of recovery, and now he felt the 
 dragging clutch of the Pit from which 
 hardly he had escaped. By degrees as 
 he was borne toward life his passages in 
 and out of insensibility began to approach 
 more nearly the normal phases of waking 
 and sleeping; the pangs of his body sep 
 arated from the obsessions of spiritual 
 distress, and recurrent memory began to 
 
 ply- 
 it began with the agony in the garden 
 and the falling away of all human support 
 from that inexplicable wrestling of great 
 souls with foreknowledge, which must 
 
always seem to the generality, unneces 
 sary if not a little absurd. More pitiably 
 than all that had rolled between, he felt 
 the empty reach of his affections toward 
 the uncomprehending sleep of his com 
 panions. . . . Could ye not watch 
 one little hour! He remembered the 
 futility of trial, the scoffing and the be 
 trayals, through the crisis of which his 
 quick spirit had lived so long before, that 
 at last it broke upon him harmlessly. 
 Pain by pain, his body picked out for 
 him other memories of the way, the cross, 
 the tearing nails. . . . more than 
 all else the impotence of purely human 
 impulses under the larger vision which 
 kept him even in the midst of anguish, 
 profoundly aware of how little they knew 
 
the thing they did. It came back upon 
 him as the stiffness of his wounds, the 
 burden of understanding that loses even 
 the poor human relief of bitterness and 
 blame. As he fell away again into the 
 trough of bodily pain it was to measure 
 the full horror of that drop, which, when 
 the racked consciousness that had sus 
 tained him in the knowledge of Father- 
 liness, had failed like a splitten sail and 
 left him beating blindly in the void. 
 "My God, my God, why hast thou for 
 saken me?" He came strangely up to 
 life in the anguish of that cry. . . . 
 Suddenly he put up his hand and touched 
 the cold stones of his sepulchre. He was 
 dead then, and was alive. Lying very 
 still for pure weakness, his spirit returned 
 
half unwittingly by the old track and 
 and travelled toward God . . . fum- 
 blingly, as a drowsy child at the breast, he 
 sucked comfort, the ineffable, divine sup 
 port. It flowed. Slowly the slacked 
 spirit filled. . . . Power came upon 
 him. God was not dead . . . nor 
 forsaking. ... He hung upon that 
 and waited for a word. Outside in the 
 dawn dusk a bird, awakened by the sway 
 ing of his bough in the first waft of the 
 morning, bubbled over with the joyous 
 urge of the spring. The sound of it 
 filtered through the rock crevices in a 
 thin, clear trickle of song. He laid off 
 the grave cloth and began to feel for the 
 round stone which he knew should close 
 the mouth of the grave. Wounded as he 
 
was, it was still no more than many suffer 
 in battle, with the cheerful promise of 
 recovery; calling on those reserves of 
 power for which he had always been re 
 markable, he applied his shoulder to the 
 stone ... it yielded to the pressure 
 and slid along the groove. 
 
 He made out the soft bulk of the olive 
 trees, all awake and astir to catch the 
 first streak of the morning, and the tink 
 link of water falling from a pipe into a 
 stone basin. Following it he came to the 
 fountain from which the garden was 
 watered, and drank and bathed his 
 wounds. He was startled for a moment 
 by the swaying of a garment against him, 
 and then he perceived it to be the gar 
 dener s cloak left hanging in the tree, the 
 
long, brown hooded garment of the time. 
 He drew its folds around him as a protec 
 tion against the warning chill of dawn. 
 He was a workingman also, and knew 
 the ways of working folk; he groped in 
 the split hollow of the ancient olive tree, 
 and far under the roots behind the gar 
 dener s spade he found a lump of figs 
 tied in a cloth and a common flask which 
 had yet a few swallows of wine in it. 
 When he had eaten and drunk he bound 
 up his side with the cloth and sat down 
 on the stone bench of the fountain to 
 think what had befallen him. 
 
 He was dead else why had they 
 buried him? and he was alive again. 
 This then was the meaning of those glim 
 mers and intimations of a life so abundant 
 
that he could not imagine even the shock 
 of death to separate him from it. ... 
 For a long time he had known what he 
 must face if he came up to Jerusalem, 
 yet he had faced it, urged by that in 
 ward impulse too deep and imperative 
 for human withstanding . . . and he 
 had died . . . witness the aching 
 wound in his side . . . and now he 
 walked among the olives. Vestiges and 
 starts of the broken images of pain and 
 returning consciousness advised where 
 he had been. He turned his mind 
 deliberately away from that and laid 
 hold on God ... he was alive 
 again. . . . The currents of the 
 Eternal Being circulated through him 
 with peace and healing. 
 
The dusk of the dawn cleared to ineffa 
 ble blueness, in which the domes and 
 towers of Jerusalem swam, islanded in 
 light. Round about, single high peaks, 
 which still retained the winter whiteness, 
 glowed like outposts of the heavenly host. 
 The gates of the city clattered to let in 
 the hordes of market gardeners with their 
 donkeys, camped since the night before 
 outside the walls, and presently in the cool 
 dimness he saw the women stealing out 
 by a postern and beginning to climb the 
 hill path toward the place of sepulchres. 
 They came peering through the dawn, 
 for they were not certain of any mark by 
 which they should know it, except that 
 it was a new tomb wherein never man 
 was laid. Their voices came up to him 
 
clearly through the morning stillness, 
 and he knew at once what their errand 
 was when he heard them troubling lest 
 they had come so early there would be no 
 one about to take away the stone from 
 the door; but when they came to the 
 place where it should be, and saw that 
 it was already rolled away, they were 
 amazed and a little afraid. Then Mary 
 the mother of James and Salome, and 
 the other Mary, put down the spices 
 they had brought, to go and carry word 
 to the disciples, but Mary Magdalene 
 stayed weeping by the sepulchre. 
 
 When he saw that she was alone he 
 went to her and inquired why she wept. 
 She, supposing him to be the gardener, 
 for she saw little because of her weeping, 
 
 
 
and it was not yet full light "Oh, sir," 
 she said, "if you have borne him hence, 
 tell me where you have laid him that I 
 may take him away." 
 
 "Mary!" he said, and as he spoke he 
 put back the gardener s hood from his 
 head. 
 
 "Rabboni," the old title came back 
 half consciously in answer to the tone, 
 and suddenly she saw that it was he, 
 and fell in trembling, for she could not 
 understand but that he was a spirit. 
 She sunk in the wet grass of the orchard, 
 for the quaking of her limbs would not 
 sustain her. 
 
 "Why seek ye the living among the 
 dead?" he questioned with the old tender 
 irony, but she scarcely heard him. She 
 
 inrar 
 
worked toward him on her knees; tremb 
 lingly her hands went out to touch the 
 beloved feet, half to prove it were his 
 very self or a vision of thin air. 
 
 " Nay, touch me not, Mary." He drew 
 back with the sensitiveness of the newly 
 wounded. "I am not yet ascended to 
 my Father," he assured her as he raised 
 her from the ground. 
 
 Louder now they heard the stir of 
 Jerusalem awake, and knew that the 
 broadening day might soon bring the 
 rabble about them. When he had ques 
 tioned her a little hurriedly concerning 
 the state of the city and his disciples, he 
 bade her tell them to come to him in 
 Galilee in a place known to them of old, 
 and so saying drew the folds of his cloak 
 
 

 about him and went down by the hill 
 trail away from Jerusalem. 
 
 It was twilight of the same day when 
 he came near to the village of Emmaus 
 and heard the cheerful barking of the 
 dogs and the lowing of the cattle at the 
 byres. There was a good spring smell of 
 tillage in the inlets of the hills and the 
 cry of the night- jar shaken out over the 
 stony places in a shrill fine spray of 
 sound. Half an hour from the village 
 he came upon two who had followed him 
 up to Jerusalem in the beginning of 
 Passover, and as they walked they rea 
 soned together concerning the things that 
 had come to pass there. When he had 
 entered into conversation he saw that 
 
they were sad, and inquired of them the 
 reason for it; and they, taking him for a 
 stranger, told him how but a short time 
 since there had gone a man up to Jeru 
 salem with a great company, preaching 
 the Kingdom of Heaven at hand, and 
 what had been done to him by the 
 authorities. 
 
 "But," said they, "we trusted it had 
 been he should redeem Israel." 
 
 "0 slow of heart," cried he, "that you 
 believe not all that the prophets have 
 spoken!" 
 
 All day as he had come, against the 
 pangs of his torn body, his spirit had 
 beat up toward God with the rhythm of 
 his walking, calling on Power by all the 
 names of Jehovah until he went veiled 
 
 ; 
 
 
 
in it as in a cloud, which now, by the mere 
 added effort of communication, burst into 
 splendor. But a few days since he had 
 walked up to Jerusalem, battling, in the 
 midst of the presages of betrayal and 
 disaster, with the incomplete revelation 
 of Messiahship. This morning waking 
 at once to a knowledge of the practical 
 defeat and to a new and extraordinary 
 security of Divine continuance, he had 
 felt his way, like a true Hebrew, back 
 through the maze of intimations by the 
 words of the Prophets; starlighted say 
 ings shot like meteors across the dark 
 of Israel s history. They lit far inward 
 past the shames and consternations of 
 the crucifixion. 
 
 This, then, was the Kingdom; not the 
 
overthrow of one form by another, but 
 the flux of all forms, empires, pomps, 
 societies, in the eternal facts of existence 
 . . . the redemption of life from the 
 bondage of Things. He was dead and 
 was alive again. 
 
 How indeed was a Messiahship to 
 prove its divine origin by merely setting 
 up in the room of thrones and princi 
 palities? Say rather, the last word as 
 to the futility of the Kingdoms of the 
 world was pronounced when they wrecked 
 themselves against his immortal quality. 
 
 As he held up the events of the last few 
 days to the familiar scriptures, new mean 
 ings came out in them like secret writing 
 held before a flame, and as he talked the 
 hearts of his companions burned within 
 
them. As they drew near to their house 
 the speaker made as if he would have gone 
 further, but they urged that he should 
 come in to supper, for the way was hard 
 and the dark had fallen. So as they sat 
 at table, still talking, the mistress of the 
 house set food before them and a little 
 oil-fed lamp. Then the guest put back 
 the hood from his head and stretching 
 forth his hand broke the bread and 
 blessed it, as was his custom, and at once 
 they knew him, but for very fear and 
 astonishment they spoke neither to him 
 nor to one another. As soon as he saw that 
 he was recognized he rose and went forth 
 from them, disappearing in the night. 
 
 So little anticipated by his disciples 
 
had been the overthrow of the Mes 
 sianic Hope, that the stroke of it fell upon 
 them like a wolf upon the flock. It 
 scattered them into nooks and corners, 
 into the hill places and villages round 
 about Jerusalem, there to huddle, press 
 ing together for relief from consterna 
 tion, loath to believe that the miraculous 
 powers, which had so often served them, 
 had failed him on his own account, and 
 wholly unable to accept the whispered 
 word brought by the women from the 
 sepulchre. He was gone; power and per 
 sonality, his body even risen or spirited 
 away. All during that day there had 
 been fearful stealers about the precincts 
 of the burial place for a view of the de 
 serted tomb, stealing back again to whis- 
 
per and wonder or to handle the dropped 
 grave cloth which lay treasured in the 
 house of Mary. 
 
 And now, here were two came back 
 from Emmaus with extraordinary new 
 proof of a resurrection, which when they 
 had heard it neither did they believe. 
 But as some few of them sat together 
 talking of these things, secretly behind 
 shut doors for fear of authorities, he of 
 whom they spoke, advised by that mys 
 terious inward leading that his name 
 passed among them with the pld rever 
 ent tenderness, sought, them out by it, 
 and while they were yet speaking ap 
 peared among them. Wounded and pale 
 from his vigils and his pains, the voice of 
 his customary salutation struck terror 
 
 rvm 
 
through them. There were men there 
 who had unbound him dead, as they be 
 lieved, from the cross and bestowed him 
 in the tomb! 
 
 "Behold my hands and my feet," he 
 said; "handle me and see; for a spirit 
 hath not flesh and bones." But seeing 
 they hung between terror and wonder, 
 he understood that they still supposed 
 that they had seen a spirit. Then he 
 sat at table and asked that he be served 
 with what food they had, the broiled 
 fish and honey in the comb, upon which 
 they had been at supper, talking quietly 
 the while. Seeing him eat they grew se 
 cure, and as they began to realize that 
 he was with them in flesh, they were 
 glad. 
 
 
So by such simple means as they were 
 able to receive he made them to know 
 that he was the very man whom with 
 their own hands they had laid away, in 
 no wise changed or altered; but of the 
 new meaning which his life had taken on 
 by the fact, he spoke very little, for their 
 minds were not opened to it; neither was 
 it at all times and altogether plain to 
 himself. 
 
 In the hills beyond the Sea of Tiberias 
 there was a hut built in a secret and soli 
 tary place by one of those wild anchorites 
 not infrequently met with in the borders 
 of Judea. None knew of it except per 
 haps a runaway slave or two, and shep 
 herds who used it at lambing time. 
 
Here in the beginning of his ministry he 
 had drawn apart for seasons of prayer 
 and meditation, that the Word might 
 be plain to him; here, then, he remained 
 resting of God, subsisting in the body by 
 what the hills afforded him and by the 
 gifts of a few poor followers who had 
 their homes hereabout, as yet scarcely 
 apprised of the tragic termination of his 
 mission to Jerusalem. Here he saw the 
 passing of the rains, and flowers come out, 
 flame like, on low piney shrubs; wander 
 ing shepherds went by him with their 
 new-washed flocks, and whiter clouds 
 led flockwise in the draws between the 
 hills. . . . By all these things knowl 
 edge flowed into him. 
 
 He saw with chastening how it was 
 
that he, so near at all times to the Divine 
 mind, should suffer these things. Lying 
 so close there, as a child to its parent, he 
 had been pushed off the better to measure 
 its reach and fullness. He had clung to 
 that breast which in his ministry had 
 nourished him, until torn from it by be 
 trayals, mockings, tortures of his body, 
 he had dropped despairingly into the 
 gulf of death, and lo, he was fallen into 
 the lap of God! "The Kingdom of 
 Heaven is in the midst of you," he had 
 said to his disciples, and now suddenly 
 he had discovered it in the midst of him 
 self! this profound inward clutch upon 
 Being, from which not the breaking of his 
 body could divide him. 
 
 Here in the weakness of shock and 
 
wounds, much that had perplexed him in 
 his own life, the fullness of Power strain 
 ing at his human I imitations, came out 
 clearly like the contour of a coast at ebb, 
 but it left him more than ever groping 
 for that communicating touch by which 
 the gained knowledge could be made 
 serviceable to men. 
 
 "As my father hath sent me," he had 
 said to his disciples when his new-found 
 resistance to wounding and the malice 
 of men was at flood, "even so I send you." 
 Now as his body frailed before the inun 
 dation of revelation, he yearned for Peter 
 and that John whom he had loved, all 
 the company of humble folk who had 
 heard him gladly, following up to Jeru 
 salem trustfully as the great bands of 
 
sheep that passed him almost daily, 
 roving the Galilean hills at the heels of 
 the shepherd. 
 
 How was he to reach them now, scat 
 tered and leaderless, with the significance 
 of his persistence in the body which he 
 accepted at its humanest interpretation. 
 Lying close in the cover of the hills he 
 sent out his thoughts in a strong cry 
 toward his best loved disciples, and Peter 
 and John and the others picking up again 
 the dropped thread of their humble avo 
 cations about Gennesareth, heard him. 
 They heard him inwardly, but read it 
 so humanly awry that they made excuse 
 to one another that they went a fishing, 
 They entered into the fishing boats and 
 all night, though they caught nothing, 
 
they beat toward the coast where the 
 cry was; and when it was early light 
 they heard his very voice calling to them 
 that they should cast in their net on the 
 side where he had seen the silver schools 
 floating under the morning mist. When 
 Peter knew the voice he girt on his 
 fisher s coat and came ashore through 
 the shallows, for they were close in, and 
 he had the quickest faith of all the twelve. 
 Then the others came in with the nets 
 full to breaking, and found that he had 
 made a fire, for the nights along the lake 
 borders were chill, and prepared bread. 
 So they took fish and broiled it and broke 
 their fast together as they had done so 
 many times before when in the begin 
 ning of his ministry he had often no other 
 
food than the shared bread of the working 
 people. The naturalness of the morning 
 meal restored to them a little of their 
 former reverent familiarity, and served 
 as the medium by which he undertook to 
 lay upon them the obligation of the gospel 
 which he could now no more in this 
 frame and presence preach about the 
 world. 
 
 Of this he seems to have been certain. 
 Daily as he reached inward on great 
 tides of prayer for the word born of his 
 late experience, he was aware of being 
 carried so far out of his wracked body 
 that it was inevitable that he should 
 finally leave it there tumbled like weed 
 along the shore of Things. Beyond that 
 episode lay the full light for which he 
 
panted more than a hart for the water- 
 brook. 
 
 He had known, evidently, how his 
 visit to Jerusalem must terminate, he 
 seems now to have understood that his 
 further usefulness must wait upon the 
 dropping off of the tortured frame which 
 he had brought up through the tomb with 
 him, but he missed knowing how to con 
 vey to the remnant of his disciples, who 
 came together about him in the hills, 
 the spiritual values of his return. 
 
 He failed, perhaps, because he was not 
 himself yet sure that it might not come 
 that way, to rid them of the expectation 
 of Jewish Autonomy; he was concerned, 
 as always, with the preaching of his 
 Word, rather than what came of it. On 
 
this morning the flocks rounding the lake 
 fronting hills furnished the figure of his 
 admonition. 
 
 "Feed my sheep," he said to Peter, 
 and again; and then "Feed my lambs." 
 One thing he had not brought back out 
 of the tomb with him was the fear by 
 which his church was afterward cor 
 rupted, that the Truth of God could not 
 be trusted to do its Perfect Work in man. 
 
 On a mountain in a place appointed 
 for them, he flamed forth for the last 
 time, with that message, the faint, mis 
 read recollection of which as it lay in 
 the minds of his disciples has become the 
 ultimate hope of all our science and all 
 untoward questionings the assurance 
 of the supremacy of Spirit. What they 
 
got from it chiefly was the certainty of 
 the continuance of his personal power. 
 It was the green bough preserved to them 
 among the desolating blasts of human 
 experience. "For, lo, I am with you 
 always," he said, "even to the end of the 
 world." 
 
 That they did not treasure more these 
 last words, preserve them with that metic 
 ulous accuracy for which that body of 
 religionists, from whom they were shorn 
 by the sword of Christ s teaching, were 
 notable, was due in part to their having 
 no apparent belief in this being the last. 
 They had seen him in the flesh, they 
 expected to see him in the flesh again. 
 Nothing else could account for the bold 
 ness with which these timid and easily 
 
shaken peasant souls faced so soon again 
 the possibility of persecution and death 
 in that Jerusalem whither he had told 
 them to await the confirming visitation 
 of the Spirit. They faced it. They went, 
 while the city still rang with the story 
 of his defeat, to confirm his triumph; they 
 preached what they had known and seen. 
 
 It seems likely, then, that on that last 
 occasion when he went with them a little 
 way on the road toward Jerusalem, they 
 had no notion that it was the last they 
 should see of him in the body. They 
 said unto him, "Lord, dost thou at this 
 time restore the Kingdom to Israel?" 
 
 "It is not for you," said he, "to know 
 times and seasons." In his own time 
 he should come again and in no other 
 
guise than Counsellor and Friend. When 
 he had blessed them they saw him pass 
 up the hill trail toward his chosen place 
 and the mountain mists receive him. 
 
 Afterward in the long time when they 
 expected him in vain, they said, in the 
 manner of speaking of that country, that 
 he had ascended to Heaven, so that long 
 afterward it came to be reported that 
 they had seen him ascending there in the 
 company of clouds of angels. But so 
 long as they lived who had seen him, 
 they looked out for him every day . . . 
 any knock at the door . . . any 
 solitary figure on the hill paths about 
 Bethany. . . . For they had laid 
 him in the tomb, and he had come to 
 them in the very flesh. 
 

 
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