Now had the infirm brother tilled the fields of his brethren, and taught the laborers thereof the arts of handiwork, and when the sons of Obed returned to the house of their sire, one after another, the first averred that he was strong, the second that he was cunning, the third that he was comely, the fourth that he had knowledge. But Father Isaac, the shepherd of his flock, hearing them, said: “Yea, for he hath one virtue which maketh many: the staff of thy brother hath devoured thy rods.” “Wherefore, then, lov’d Isaac,” spake the eldest, “are we robbed of our gifts, and wit, and might, and beauty gone from us, leave us in sorrow of heart?” “Told I not thy sire Obed,” said the patriarch, “that the Lord of lords gave naught for naught. Have ye earned your wages--have ye paid back your gifts? He that had might, why was he not taught of knowledge and invention, and, being skilled, why learned he not the patience of toil? He that had beauty, why sought he not counsel of strength and skill, that judgment might be his? He of knowledge, why sought he not help of patience and craft? Each had his virtue to purchase a share in the virtues of the rest, and to win gifts to his gift, that God might be praised. But only goodness bringeth fit wisdom, and wisdom dwelleth not in discord.” Then the sons of Obed, answering, asked: “Why hath one virtue, as thou sayest, devoured ours?” “For that thou hast thrown thine own to the dogs, my sons, and patience hath picked them up. He that suffereth much with patience winneth much with wisdom.” “Even so, Father Isaac, but have we not, too, suffered?” “Yea, my children, that so God may teach thee wisdom, and thy gifts abound tenfold. He that hath much, let him save it by bounty: he that hath little, let him increase it with patience: he that hath won, let him divide the victory. Share ye each other’s virtues, that each may possess the gifts of all.” THE THREE PLEDGES. Three students sat together In a villa on the Rhine, And pledged the beauteous river In draughts of sparkling wine. One was bold and haughty, Count Otto was his name: His dark eyes flashed and smouldered: From Nuremberg he came. And one was too fond-hearted For aught but love and song; With hair too brightly golden To wear its lustre long. His hands were white and shapely As any maid’s might be; Count Adelbert of Munich, A joyous youth was he. And one was grave and quiet, With such a winning smile That, meeting all its brightness, Sad hearts grew light the while. And as they sat together, Three trav’llers by the Rhine, And pledged the noble river In draughts of golden wine, With lays of olden minstrels They whiled the hours away, Till twilight gently sealed them With the sign of parting day.