THE twist wailed around the roof of the little room where William Starr lay in his four-post bed, gazing into the dim. A bunny branch squeaked against the rooftop and the window-sheets shook irately. "William scarcely heard them, in spite of the fact that without supposing he pulled the thick stitch nearer around his shoulders. The groaning and shrieking of the most piercing hurricanes were typically what his ears were waiting to hear, calming him in his warm bed to a more profound and more delightful rest. Presently rest was far away. He heard just a single sound — and that not in his ears, but rather addressing his heart.
"William Starr," it appeared to state, "Ascend out of thy informal lodging my message to the general population of Clearbrook."
So peculiarly striking the charge came that he practically addressed out loud, shaping the words with his lips in the obscurity.
"To Clearbrook, Master? Definitely Thou canst not imply that I should ride on this wild night those forty miles. I have gotten no summons from that point to come."
"Thy summons originates from Me. Ride thou to Clearbrook before the day break."
"Gracious, Ruler, what message should I convey for Thee there?" William nearly moaned.
"Ride thou to Clearbrook," the Voice answered.
It was not weird to William to hear the Voice of God addressing him obviously out of the murkiness, and it was his basic propensity to comply. On such a wild night as this, nonetheless, his body nearly revolted. He lay for a few minutes battling with himself. At that point with a bound, he tossed back the delicate warm covers and stood barefooted in the desensitizing draft. Forty miles to Clearbrook — eight hours' hard riding through incompletely solidified mud. In any event a large portion of the separation must be secured before first light, and he didn't recognize what message he was to give. Aimlessly, he delayed his garments, staggered to the outbuilding, lastly rode off into the night, encouraging his unwilling stallion toward Clearbrook.
At ten o'clock next morning the general population of the little town of Clearbrook were assembled in their meeting house. The organization had been somewhere down in quiet love for a few minutes when a stallion was heard running up to the entryway. A couple knocked some people's socks off as a tall, tired looking, mud-splattered man walked up the path and sat down in the exhibition. All were loaded with interest. After the hush had proceeded with unbroken for at some point, William Starr climbed solidly and remained before them. Still, the message he was to convey to these individuals had not been given to him, still he sat tight for the further expressions of God. The Voice was noiseless. Gradually and with much shame he recounted the order which had come to him in the night. "I have complied, I have ridden to convey the message to you — and — the message goes no further." He sat down, his face flushed, his eyes harried.
The general population sat as awestruck just as a marvel had been performed before their eyes. They knew well the dreadful streets over which William Starr had voyage; they thought about the intense hours of murkiness and of the wind that still seethed. They thought about the circumstances without number when they, as well, had heard the Voice of God in their souls, and had not regarded it.
At long last, an old man climbed and stated, gravely, what all were considering, "To be sure, our companion has conveyed his message. It is, 'Mind the Light.'"
"William Starr," it appeared to state, "Ascend out of thy informal lodging my message to the general population of Clearbrook."
So peculiarly striking the charge came that he practically addressed out loud, shaping the words with his lips in the obscurity.
"To Clearbrook, Master? Definitely Thou canst not imply that I should ride on this wild night those forty miles. I have gotten no summons from that point to come."
"Thy summons originates from Me. Ride thou to Clearbrook before the day break."
"Gracious, Ruler, what message should I convey for Thee there?" William nearly moaned.
"Ride thou to Clearbrook," the Voice answered.
It was not weird to William to hear the Voice of God addressing him obviously out of the murkiness, and it was his basic propensity to comply. On such a wild night as this, nonetheless, his body nearly revolted. He lay for a few minutes battling with himself. At that point with a bound, he tossed back the delicate warm covers and stood barefooted in the desensitizing draft. Forty miles to Clearbrook — eight hours' hard riding through incompletely solidified mud. In any event a large portion of the separation must be secured before first light, and he didn't recognize what message he was to give. Aimlessly, he delayed his garments, staggered to the outbuilding, lastly rode off into the night, encouraging his unwilling stallion toward Clearbrook.
At ten o'clock next morning the general population of the little town of Clearbrook were assembled in their meeting house. The organization had been somewhere down in quiet love for a few minutes when a stallion was heard running up to the entryway. A couple knocked some people's socks off as a tall, tired looking, mud-splattered man walked up the path and sat down in the exhibition. All were loaded with interest. After the hush had proceeded with unbroken for at some point, William Starr climbed solidly and remained before them. Still, the message he was to convey to these individuals had not been given to him, still he sat tight for the further expressions of God. The Voice was noiseless. Gradually and with much shame he recounted the order which had come to him in the night. "I have complied, I have ridden to convey the message to you — and — the message goes no further." He sat down, his face flushed, his eyes harried.
The general population sat as awestruck just as a marvel had been performed before their eyes. They knew well the dreadful streets over which William Starr had voyage; they thought about the intense hours of murkiness and of the wind that still seethed. They thought about the circumstances without number when they, as well, had heard the Voice of God in their souls, and had not regarded it.
At long last, an old man climbed and stated, gravely, what all were considering, "To be sure, our companion has conveyed his message. It is, 'Mind the Light.'"
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