I have mentioned the fact of Meffreth using stories in his sermons. They occur very frequently; they are not all either appropriate or edifying. The following, however, is pretty: it is to be found in the first sermon on the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus. Meffreth is speaking of wealth and its cares as contrasted with the _insouciance_ of poverty. He then relates the story of a certain Robin, or Rubinus, a poor man who lived under the steps leading into the palace of a wealthy nobleman. Poor Robin had a hard time of it: he toiled all day, and at nightfall he would go about the streets with an old fiddle, playing for a few coppers: sometimes, however, he would get as much as five pence, and then he would fiddle and sing at night on his straw, so cheerily that the rich man in his palace heard him and sighed, because his own heart was never glad. One day the lady of the house said to her lord, “How is it that you with all your wealth are never happy, whilst poor Robin under our stairs is as cheerful as a cricket?” “I will destroy his mirth,” replied the rich man; and he secretly conveyed a bag of money into Robin’s den. No fiddle, no song, were heard for many days, for the poor fellow was gloating over his strangely-acquired wealth, and fearing hourly lest it should be taken from him. “How is it,” asked the lady of the house, “how is it that Robin neither fiddles, whistles, nor sings now?” “Mark!” replied her lord; “I will restore his song to him.” So he reclaimed his money. Now when Robin was free of this source of care, he caught up his fiddle and sang to it right lustily half the night through. Another charming story told by Meffreth is this:— There was once an aged hermit in the Egyptian desert, who thought it would be well with him if he had an olive-tree near his cave. So he planted a little tree, and thinking it might want water, he prayed to God for rain, so rain came and watered his olive-tree. Then he thought that some warm sun to swell its buds would be advisable, so he prayed, and the sun shone out. Now the nursling looked feeble, and the old man deemed it would be well for the tree if frost were to come and brace it. He prayed for the frost, and hoar frost settled that night on bar and beam. Next, he believed a hot southerly wind would suit his tree, and after prayer the south wind blew upon his olive-tree and—it died. Some little while after, the hermit visited a brother hermit, and lo! by his cell-door stood a flourishing olive-tree. “How came that goodly plant there, brother?” asked the unsuccessful hermit. “I planted it, and God blessed it, and it grew.” “Ah! brother, I too planted an olive, and when I thought it wanted water I asked God to give it rain, and the rain came; and when I thought it wanted sun, I asked, and the sun shone; and when I deemed that it needed strengthening, I prayed, and frost came—God gave me all I demanded for my tree as I saw fit, yet is it dead.”