# Der Lutheraner_St. Louis Missouri_1849 03 06_S111
# AI translation — CHI Digital Archive (demonstration)

111

therefore its taste has remained in him, and its smell has not been changed.” Above the cellar stood a granary, in which great heaps of rye, spelt and wheat were piled up, but not for sale, as were the spices in the other houses.

But when the merchant heard the first snow-geese, or his steward told him: “They are here,” he began to go twice a week into his granary, and to measure out much or little by the malter to the master baker beside the cathedral. He baked bread of it, the loaf at three or six pounds, as far as it would go. The next day, when it had turned cold, poor people came and fetched it; but gave no money for it, only showed the merchant’s handwriting, and received in return what was written on the little slip.

And in Sachsenhausen (on the left bank of the Main, opposite the city of Frankfurt) there were two schools, and in them many children of rich and poor people mingled together. The rich the schoolmaster let go home at eleven in the forenoon, and at three in the afternoon, and did not keep them; but the poor remained sitting on their benches and waited until the baker’s man came, with a great basket of bread on his head, and gave each one two or three rolls, outside as yellow as a lemon, and inside as white and light as cotton.

The rolls, moreover, were also from the merchant, who continued with it until the pair of swallows in his house-entry announced to him that all the snow-geese to the last one had flown home again.

Now the steward had long wished to know why his master opened and shut the granary when the trumpeters from the north, the geese, came or went, and asked him the reason one evening in the garden before the city, when he was merry in the LORD and of good cheer, like the people whom Solomon sent away to their tents after the great feast of the dedication.

The merchant looked at his servant almost wrathfully, as King Ahasuerus at Esther when she came in unbidden through all the doors before his throne. But his displeasure soon turned to kindness and he said:

“Johann, I know that you will say nothing of all this again until I am gathered to my fathers; therefore hear. — My father was a poor cobbler in the Oberland, and on his own ground and soil there grew for him no more grain than three or four ears in the year in his rotten gutter, when a sparrow had let a kernel lie there. Besides, he had six children, and when he cut us our afternoon bread, it fared with the sixpenny loaf as with the hoar-frost on the Sommerleithen (a mountain-slope toward the south). Therefore he abolished the afternoon bread entirely between Martinmas and Candlemas, because he thought to himself: At 11 o’clock we dine, and at 5 o’clock we sup, so the little ones can go unfed. — And when one of the smallest in this season of fasting drew out the table-drawer and found it empty, the father was wont to say: The snow-geese have come and have taken the bread away with them. — Since that time I always feel so strange at heart when I hear the trumpeters from the north.”

So spoke the master of the steward. But the narrator wishes that all rich merchants might heed the cry of the birds like him, in winter the geese, and in summer the young sparrows, which cry: Give! give!  (Volksblatt.)

The Miser.

There was once an arch-miser who had scraped together much money, a whole great pot full. But in his house he did not think it safe. He did not trust his own people, and the neighbor could have smelled through the wall where it was hidden. Therefore he carried it by night into the forest, right into the thicket and darkness. There stood a great oak with strong branches. Beneath it he dug a hole, set the pot in, and rolled a stone upon it. Now in the same town there was a poor wretch who had run through his own. Of repentance he thought not, and in a God he did not believe. He went some days later into the forest. He took no pot full of money with him, but a rope, for he wished to hang himself. He came under the same oak. Its branches were just as he sought them, but yet a little too high. Therefore he rolled the stone which closed the hole nearer to the tree. In rolling it away he noticed the hole and examined what was in it. Finding and taking was one with him. He packed up all the money and put his rope in the pot instead. He rolled the stone again upon the hole. Soon after, the burier came and wished to see whether the treasure was still there. How great was his terror to find a rope for his treasure. He knew no other counsel than to fasten the rope about the oak-bough and hang himself by it. — From this one may see that one should not hang one’s heart on a pot full of money, for when it is stolen, one hangs oneself on a rope.  (Volksblatt.)

Be Not Deceived, God Is Not Mocked.

A remarkable occurrence took place on the 12th of July, 1845, in Schwarzstein, near Rastenburg. A cottager had a short time before the said day been accused of a theft and in consequence cited before the court at Rastenburg, and offered himself for the oath of purgation; but because he was notorious as an immoral man and as a thief, he was not admitted to the oath. Thereupon he swore on his own hand, that is, in speech, or in common life, as one is wont to call it, and said thereby: “The first thunderstorm that comes up, may it strike me dead if I should have stolen!” — On the 12th of July a heavy thunderstorm came up over Schwarzstein and the said cottager was with several other persons, namely with four children and a dog, in his dwelling-house. Suddenly a thunderclap followed. The lightning had struck the house of the aforesaid cottager and slain the evildoer in the midst of the other inmates, who, though somewhat stunned, yet remained unhurt. The bolt had gone into his nose and into his mouth. As the house was in flames, the dead man had to be carried out, but no one of the inhabitants of Schwarzstein would touch him who, as they recognized, was judged of God, despite the exhortation of the pastor, who, after his representations had remained fruitless, had to lay hold of him himself. The house burned down, yet the fire spread no further. — Surely a remarkable occurrence, yet literally true.  (Volksblatt.)

The Shortest Table-Prayer.

Luther, Melanchthon and Bugenhagen were once assembled at Camerarius’s. The question was raised who could compose the shortest table-prayer.

Luther began:

Dominus Jesus sit potus et esus.

The LORD JESUS be our food and drink.

Bugenhagen prayed in Low German:

Dit un dat,

Trocken un nat,

Gesegn’ uns Gott.

Melanchthon said:

Benedictus benedicat.

The Blessed (Benedicted) bless.

Melanchthon remained the victor.

(Zietz, Biographie Bugenhagen’s.)

“Wer nur den lieben Gott läßt walten.”

Who does not know the beautiful hymn: “Wer nur den lieben Gott läßt walten”? But who knows its origin? Many of our readers surely not. The author, Georg Neumark, born the 16th of March, 1621, was not always ducal Saxon archive-secretary and librarian at Weimar, but there was a time when he was without provision and lived in such great poverty at Hamburg that he once saw himself compelled to pawn his companion in many sufferings, his dear viola da gamba, which he played with rare skill. But as he ceased not to sing and play to the Lord in his heart, a sign of answered prayer was not lacking. — Neumark was namely recommended to the Swedish resident at Hamburg, von Rosenkranz. As a trial, the latter had him draw up a document to the Imperial Councillors in Sweden, which had for its result the appointment as secretary of legation. His first money had to redeem his viola, and his thankful heart poured itself out in the beautiful hymn: “Wer nur den lieben Gott läßt walten,” which