*This tract, first published in England, and therefore not new, is reproduced here for the practical lessons it contains.

"A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe round about " (Ex. 28:34).

I’ve had them words stuck up in the little back parlor in my cottage a whole year, said a trades woman to a friend. They are right over the door leading into the shop. I see them twenty times a day, as I go in and out. Some folks wonders at them, and says some other text would be a sight better. Now, I don't think so at all. I've got a fine array of smarter ones all in gold and colors, and they make my dark little room look bright, and my heart glad, for they're blessed words, all of them, but none ain't like this old card my boy Owen printed for me. The letters, I know, are not all of a size, and the lines aren't straight, and the card is curled and smoky; but I often looks up at the words as I goes about my work, and bless the Lord for the message they brought me a year ago.

I called myself a Christian, and loved the services; and nobody thought more of our minister's sermons than I. So I was a bit disappointed that evening when a strange preacher came, and gave out them words for his text. "Coin' back," says I, "to Jewish laws and ceremonies ? They're all done with now. We're living now under gospel light." The fact was, I thought myself one of the most enlightened, never thinking how the light was going to break in on my heart through them very words.

The preacher began to tell about profession and practice, and how they should go together-sweet sounds and ripe fruit:first a bell and then a pomegranate, not a row of bells alone. He went on telling' how the bells were golden, and the fruit rich and good. I felt pretty safe about my bells. I hadn't ever been ashamed of my religion, and most everybody knew what I was. I rang plenty of bells, but I didn't feel quite so sure about their being all golden ones.

The preacher said, " The Pharisees had bells, lots of them, bells when they prayed, bells when they fasted, and bells when they gave alms; but there wasn't any fruit of obedience, mercy and love; and the bells, too, were harsh and grating, not mellow and golden. Peter had bells on his garments. Hear them ring :' Though I should die with Thee, yet will I not deny Thee.' But how about his pomegranates ? On the robe of Nicodemus there hung some pomegranates at first ; but he was afraid of the sounding bells of profession, and in the darkness crept silently to the Lord's side. But they rang out sweetly and clearly years after, side by side with rich fruit, when he boldly spoke up for his Master before accusing Pharisees, and dared to anoint that sacred body for burial on the eve of the Passover. But see them, both together, on the garments of our Lord – bells of holy teaching, and precious fruit of kindly deed and gracious miracles."

But what the preacher said at the end was what came down on me. He was telling' what them bells mean-how they rang on our garments when we had family prayers in our households, and when we went to meetings regular, and gave to collections for the Lord's work, and all them good things. " Well," says I to myself, "I've got all them bells, sure enough/' though still I felt just a bit uncomfortable about the pomegranate part of it.
Then he says, "And how do all these bells ring in your neighbors' ears, those of you who have them? Are they making a sweet soft chime so that everybody loves to listen to them ? or have they a harsh, rough, ugly sound that goes through you, and makes you stop your ears ? "

Well, I hung my head a bit when he said this, for I knew my bells weren't very sweet; but I'd always thought that wasn't my business; if folks didn't like my ways, I said that was their fault, and only 'cause they weren't converted like me, and their wicked hearts couldn't abide them as served God.

But now I found myself wondering whether the fault weren't a bit mine, after all, and I seemed to hear that great iron bell down at Slocum Station a-ringing and a-ringing fit to craze one; for if there's anything as riles me 'tis a clattering bell.

But the preacher hadn't done yet. He was going on to tell about the pomegranates – the good fruit that Christians bear to God's glory. Love, joy, peace, long-suffering, and a lot more he spoke of. " Now," thought I, " he's a coming to good deeds, and I've done a many," and I was going on to a lot of good things I'd done; when, all on a sudden, I pulled up. These weren't fruit at all. They were bells. I meant them to make a great sound. They weren't golden bells either, I was afraid; but ugly, tinkling tin ones! I felt real bad. I couldn't listen to no more; and when the preacher said in closing, " See that your bells are all golden, and that there is a pomegranate to every one," I was hot all over; and after the prayer, I just walked out and straight home in a sort of a daze, and never spoke to no one.

When I got in I sat down and began to think. I was the Lord's, and must try to serve Him-that was clear. I'd been making' dreadful mistakes, but I wasn't going' to give up. All I had got to do was just to find out where I'd been going' wrong, and get the Lord to set 'em straight.

First, I went down on my knees, and asked God to show me the way, and then I took up my Testament, and tried to find the text about the fruit, the " love, joy, and peace." I couldn't turn it up in a hurry, but I came across these words in Colossians-was reading the Revised Version, which I had only bought a week before-" Put on, therefore, as God's elect, holy and beloved, a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, long-suffering; forbearing one another, and forgiving each other, if any man have a complaint against any." Here was a row of ripe pomegranates! I knew in my heart that I had not borne much of such fruit. I felt I must do so now. I determined they should hang side by side with real golden bells.

Well, that week was a crooked one. Queer thing, isn't it, how just when one's made up one's mind to do something' right, everything goes contrary? I tell ye 'twas hard work that week to bear pomegranates.

Charlotte, that's my eldest, came home on Monday, all on a sudden like, with a sprained knee. She couldn't do nothing,' and there was I a-nursin' and a-servin' in the shop by turns all the week through. Charlotte's a good girl, I never had no trouble with her. She'd always been regular at Sunday-school till she went out to service, and she was very patient with all she'd got to suffer. I told her, as I sat beside her, how she must trust the Lord to know best, and as how 'twas His doin' in letting her be lame and helpless for a little. Nice bells were them words; I hope, golden ones. Now, thought I, the fruit must just come in between every one of them. And there was plenty of room for it.
How I was worritted that week:what with the little ones, and the shop, and Charlotte upstairs to wait on! And Charlotte's mistress called one morning. She was very hard and unkind, said as how it was very tiresome to spare Charlotte just then, and made out there weren't nothin' the matter with her. I goes up and gives her my mind, and let fly at her a bit for setting my girl to work as she did with her bad knee. Then she tells me I'm a pretty sort of a Christian to go in a passion like that, and forget my place. Well, I couldn't say much, and when she was gone I felt real sorry. There weren't any pomegranates that day, and the bells were all out of tune.

The next day was a bit better. Mrs. Kerry's youngest little one was cryin' pitiful in the morning, just outside my shop door. He wasn't a child I ever took to-such a mischievous little brat- and his mother owed a long reckoning (she owes it still); but I just picked out a red sugar stick while I was setting the bottles straight in the window and putting them out of the sun, and I pops out and gives it to the little chap. My! how he brightened up, and shoved his fist to e? ch eye to dry up the tears. I don't think he said " Thankee," but that didn't matter, for he run home to his mother as bright as a daisy, and – well, I thought perhaps my bells of profession would sound a bit more softly in her ears when she had found I had " a heart of compassion."

Charlotte was better, too, that day, and in the evening I got out to the service. It did me good, and all seemed just for me. I missed Widow Crabb, who alway sits just in front. As I went home, something said, "Look in and see her" (she lives near by). I didn't want to at all. I was in a hurry to get back to Charlotte, but, somehow, I went.

Now Widow Crabb has the rheumatics bad, and they don't sweeten her temper; in fact, she is not at all a pleasant person to visit. She was ungracious enough that night, and asked snappishly what I'd come about. I said as I'd only called in just neighbor-like to see how she did, and then I told her some o' the sermon, and about my Charlotte, and tried to comfort her a bit in her pain. She didn't say much, but she looked at me very keen all the time, and as I was getting up to go, she says, "I always knew you was a regular one at meetings, so punctual too, and all that, but I thought you hadn't much feeling for a body, that's why I wondered to see you come in tonight."

Bless you, I did feel small when she said that. My bells hadn't sounded sweet to her for certain, and the fruit had been-nowhere. But I think a pomegranate of kindness was put on that evening.

Next day some neighbors came in, and we talked about last Sunday's meeting, and what we did; and I very nearly boasted how much fruit I had been bearing. I knew they'd been whisperin' about me, and noticed I was a bit different. But I only said that I knew my bells hadn't been golden, and I hoped they would sound more sweetly now, and then I held my tongue. One pomegranate of humility was worth twenty jingling bells after all.

I had a fine chance to practice humility, and meekness, too, a few days later. Charlotte's mistress called again to see how the girl was, and I knew I ought to own as I'd been in the wrong to speak as I did before. My! How bad I felt, just as if I couldn't humble myself and say I was sorry! But I did it, and the lady looked so took aback she didn't seem rightly to know what to say. I really believe she felt worse than I did, and she spoke quite kind-like as she went away, and said that she would spare Charlotte a week longer, so she must have seen a pomegranate between the bells.

As I was saying, I had a deal to worry me then, and Owen was often that tiresome he'd make me downright cross. Well, I'd been put about terrible one day; what with the shop, and all the gas pipes being torn up just in the path, and one of the little ones down with whooping-cough; and didn't that boy turn up in the evening sent home in disgrace! I'd just got him a good place, and thought he was goin' on first-rate.

Well, as I says, he comes in as sheepish as can be, and I couldn't get nothing out of him, only he'd been turned off all of a sudden. I knew he thought as I should have flared up, and so I should a week or two afore, and boxed his ears too; and so he sits there, dogged-like, ready to give me back as good as I gave. I was real riled to be sure, but I only spoke a bit sharp, and held my tongue, and bid the lad sit down and have his supper.

Owen didn't understand it, nohow, as I could see; and 1 hat made me feel right down ashamed to think my boy should be so took back to see his mother didn't go in a passion! Well, he eats his supper and never says a word, and then goes off to bed without saying good-night.

I sat still a few minutes thinkin,' afore I raked out the fire, and then them words I read that Sunday night came back just as clear as if they had been spoken in my ears, " Put on therefore, as God's elect, holy and beloved, a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, long-suffering," and that last word seemed to go on growing bigger and clearer and brighter, and kept ringing, too, in my ears when the others had passed away. Long-suffering! How long had I suffered or borne with my boy ? If the blessed Lord had not had ten times more patience with me> what would have become of me ? And then the hot tears came, tears of shame and sorrow, and the Lord spoke, comforting and forgiving-the God who is full of compassion, gracious and long-suffering.

When I went upstairs, I crept into my boy's room, expecting to find him asleep, for he was dead-tired when he came in. The moon was shining faintly; but I couldn't see the lad's face, and I stood still to listen for his regular breathing. But Owen wasn't asleep, and he saw me, and he says, very quiet-like, "Mother."

I went to my boy, and knelt down in the moonlight by his bed, and kissed him softly, just as I used to do when he was a littly rosy baby in his cot, and I said, " Owen, my boy, what's the matter ? Tell mother the trouble, and we'll see if they won't take you on again." I suppose I spoke gentle-like, for the story all came out. Not all at once. Nothing came at first but tears. My big Owen just sobbed as he'd done when he was a little chap in my arms years ago, and had broken his toys. And he then told me about it, and there wasn't no great fault after all. My boy had only been thoughtless and careless, and offended his master, who's got a peppery temper, and he'd sent him off sharp. But this cut me most when my Owen said, "I thought you'd be so wild, mother, and wouldn't listen to nothin', and so I wasn't going to try and tell you. I just meant to put up with all the scolding for a day or two-I didn't think as you'd believe I'd been real bad-and then I meant to run away."

Oh, how those words stung me! My boy, whom I had loved and worked for, whom I would have died for, he run away! I had prayed for him ever since he was in the cradle, and I had taught him all that was good, and taken him to meetings, and had watched over him, and was wondering why he didn't grow up no better, and here was the secret of all my mistake. Bells, bells, but no pomegranates ! He'd heard plenty of profession, but he had seen very little fruit. A little " long-suffering," and my boy was won. I got him took on again, and he's been a different boy from that day.

I'll just tell you another thing, and I've done my story. In the middle of my shop window there stands a little wire basket. It's mostly full of fine brown new-laid eggs-real fresh ones – for I've always kept my own hens. Well, one morning I went down- the yard to feed the pretty dears. I had some true Polish ones then, and they were as tame as could be. They'd come peckin' round my feet, and out of my hands too, and from the basket on my arm, if I'd let them. Well, as I was a-sayin', I went down to feed them, and there I saw about the worst I'd ever set eyes on. I could just have sat down and cried. My beautiful pets lay dead, strewn about the yard, all but one, and she had her pretty wing broken, and was so hurt it was pitiful to see her. And this wasn't the work of thieves, for there wasn't one taken away; nor of cats or dogs, for the fowls weren't torn or eaten. Ah, I knew pretty well who had done it, even if the cruel stones lyin' about hadn't told their own tale.

My next-door neighbor, Mrs. Winton, had a spite against me, I knew, because I'd had coal tickets in the winter, and she got none. She was such a lazy, untidy body, that they wouldn't give her any. She had never been quite the same since, and she would have her fling at me at every chance, about my "cant" and " hypocrisy," and the rest of it. My bells hadn't been golden ones in her ears, that's certain.

There was very little doubt those rough boys, Joe and Luke Winton, had stoned my poor pets to death, and that their mother had some hand in it. My blood boiled in me as I stood there and looked at the poor innocent creatures dead and dying!

When Owen came in he was in a perfect fury, and I had rare work to stop him from dashing in and paying out them two cowards. But we both held our tongues, and after a day or two my temper cooled a bit, and I was real glad I hadn't spoke up when I felt so mad. I had seen Mrs. Winton once or twice in the village, but she always shied off, as though she was afraid of me.

Well, a week after, Owen come in from work, and he says, " Them neighbors of ours have got paid out now, mother."

"What's the matter?" says I.

" Why," says Owen, " Winton fell from a scaffolding this morning and hurt himself awful. He's brought home, but they don't think he'll live."

It gave me quite a turn. " Here am I," says I to myself, " a-harborin' angry thoughts towards Mrs. Win-ton, and she, poor soul, with her husband a-dying! "

I don't know what I said to Owen, for I was struck all of a heap to think I'd been so unforgivin'- I who expected God to forgive my trespasses. A little voice said, " Go in and see how Winton is."

I didn't do it that day, but I had a battle the next, and then I went. I felt mighty awkward over it, and I believe Mrs. Winton felt worse. " I have just come in to ask how your husband is," I stammered, when she opened the door.

" He ain't no better," said she, gruffly enough.

" Is he very much hurt? " I went on.

" Yes, course he is," said she, " or he wouldn't be a-lying here. Did you think he was shammin' ? "

I was a bit flustered, and was tryin' to say something kind-like, when she said crosser than ever, " We don't want no one a-pryin' about here, and I can't stand a-gossipin'," and then she shuts the door; and I came home wonderin' what was the use of my goin' after all, when it had been so mighty unpleasant, and didn't seem to do no good.

But I found out a day or two after. Mrs. Winton went by when I was in my little front garden, and she looked dreadfully sad. I asked her how Winton was, and she didn't answer gruff and snappish, only said, very low, that he was worse, and I could see the tears in her eyes. She was worn out, she said, with nursin' him day and night; she never got no rest, but she didn't think it would be for long. I could not say much, such a lump came up in my throat, but I just handed her over the fence the bunch of mignonette I was pickin', and I said, "I'll come in to-night and sit with him, if I may, Mrs. Winton, and then you can get some rest."

I shan't never forget how that woman looked at me-She didn't say never a word; but she took them flowers, and I saw two great tears come tumblin' down on her shawl as she turned away. I suppose she had seen a pomegranate between the golden bells. Anyway, I knew I might go and help her.

I went-not one night, but half a dozen; and Win-ton got well, and some time after his wife confessed to me all the story of the poor stoned hens.

We've been close friends ever since. We always sit together at the meetings, and Joe and Luke and my Owen beside us; and it all came out of some patience and forbearance. " Forbearing one another, and forgiving each other, if any man have a complaint against any; even as the Lord forgave you, so also do ye."

And the peace of Christ rules now; not perfect yet in my heart, He knows, for there is still a deal of sin there. But I ain't ever miserable or despairin'; and, while the golden bells ring out, He is helpin' me to add to each some fruit. "A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell, and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe round about." L. Taylor.