Contributed
From a loyal reader with a newspaper background
Day after day the sun shone out
Till the earth was choking with dust and drought,
And millions of blossoms on hill and plain
Were almost dead for the want of rain.
All through the meadows the heads of wheat
Bent low with the long-continued heat,
And the farmer murmured: “No crop of grain
Shall I harvest this year if it doesn’t rain.”
The clouds hung heavy in hearts that knew
How much depended on the rain and dew,
And tears were plenty as the days went by
But clouds and tears were not in the sky.
Our Willie noted the frown that lay
On his father’s forehead from day to day
And longed to banish with loving art
The fears that troubled the farmer’s heart.
“Mommie, do you think that God will hear
If I pray for rain?” “Why of course, my dear,”
Was the mother’s earnest and prompt reply.
“Well then,” said Willie, “I mean to try.”
At bedtime, Willie, overcome with play,
Forgot the prayer that he meant to say.
But the angels, watching his slumber, guessed
The thought that lay within his breast.
Next morning, all over the thirsty plain,
Was heard the steady drip of the rain.
And Willie, overjoyed at the welcome sight,
Said: “Who prayed for rain last night?”
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