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“The farmer must be roused somehow,” said he. “It is a disgrace to us all, and what, in all the hundreds of years I have been Kyrkegrim, never befell me before. It will be well if next Sunday you preach a stirring sermon on some very important subject.”

So the preacher preached on Sin–fair of flower, and bitter of fruit!–and as he preached his own cheeks grew pale for other men’s perils, and the Kyrkegrim trembled as he sat listening in the porch, though he had no soul to lose.

“Was that stirring enough?” he asked, twitching the sleeve of the farmer’s wife as she flounced out after service.

“Splendid!” said she, “and must have hit some folk pretty hard too.”

“It kept your husband awake this time, I should think,” said the Kyrkegrim.

“Heighty teighty!” cried the farmer’s wife. “I’d have you to know my good man is as decent a body as any in the parish, if he does take a nap on Sundays! He is no sinner if he is no saint, thank Heaven, and the parson knows better than to preach at him.”

“Next Sunday,” said the Kyrkegrim to the priest, “preach about something which concerns everyone; respectable people as well as others.”

So the preacher preached of Death–whom tears cannot move, nor riches bribe, nor power defy. The uncertain interruption and the only certain end of all life’s labors! And as he preached, the women sitting in their seats wept for the dead whose graves they had been tending, and down the aged cheeks of the Kyrkegrim there stole tears of pity for poor men, whose love and labors are cut short so soon.

But the farmer slept as before.

“Do you expect to die?” asked the Kyrkegrim.

“Surely,” replied the farmer, “we must all die some day, and one does not need a preacher to tell him that. But it was a funeral sermon, my wife thinks. There has been bereavement in the miller’s family.”

“Men are a strange race,” thought the Kyrkegrim; but he went to the priest and said–“The farmer is not afraid of death. You must find some subject of which men really stand in awe.”

So when Sunday came round again, the preacher preached of Judgment–that dread Avenger who dogs the footsteps of trespass, even now! That awful harvest of whirlwind and corruption which they must reap who sow to the wind and to the flesh! Lightly regarded, but biding its time, till a man’s forgotten follies find him out at last.

But the farmer slept on. He did not wake when the preacher spoke of judgment to come, the reckoning that cannot be shunned, the trump of the Archangel, and the Day of Doom.

“On Michaelmas Day I shall preach myself,” said the Kyrkegrim, “and if I cannot rouse him, I shall give up my charge here.”

This troubled the poor priest, for so good a Kyrkegrim was not likely to be found again.

Nevertheless he consented, for he was very meek, and when Michaelmas Day came the Kyrkegrim pulled a preacher’s gown over his home-spun coat, and laid his round hat on the desk by the iron-clamped Bible, and began his sermon.

“I shall give no text,” said he, “but when I have said what seems good to me, it is for those who hear to see if the Scriptures bear me out.”

This was an uncommon beginning, and most of the good folk pricked their ears, the farmer among them, for novelty is agreeable in church as elsewhere.

“I speak,” said the Kyrkegrim, “of that which is the last result of sin, the worst of deaths, and the beginning of judgment–hardness of heart.”

The farmer looked a little uncomfortable, and the Kyrkegrim went bravely on.

“Let us seek examples in Scripture. We will speak of Pharaoh.”

But when the Kyrkegrim spoke of Pharaoh the farmer was at ease again. And by-and-bye a film stole gently before his eyes, and he nodded in his seat.

This made the Kyrkegrim very angry, for he did not wish to give up his place, and yet a Niss may not break his word.

“Let us look at the punishment of Pharaoh,” he cried. But the farmer’s eyes were still closed, and the Kyrkegrim became agitated, and turned hastily over the leaves of the iron-clamped Bible before him.

“We will speak of the plagues,” said he. “The plague of blood, the plague of frogs, the plague of lice, the plague of flies—-“

At this moment the farmer snored.

For a brief instant anger and dismay kept the Kyrkegrim silent. Then shutting the iron clamps he pushed the Book on one side, and scrambling on to a stool, stretched his little body well over the desk, and said, “But these flies were as nothing to the fly that is coming in the turnip-crop!”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the farmer sat suddenly upright and half rising from his place, cried anxiously, “Eh, what sir? What does he say, wife? A new fly among the turnips?”

“Ah, soul of clay!” yelled the indignant Kyrkegrim, as he hurled his round hat at the gaping farmer. “Is it indeed for such as thee that Eternal Life is kept in store?”

And drawing the preacher’s gown over his head, he left it in the pulpit, and scrambling down the steps hastened out of church.

* * * * *

As he had been successful in rousing the sleepy farmer the Kyrkegrim did not abandon his duties; but it is said that thenceforward he kept to them alone, and left heavier responsibilities in higher hands.