Produced by Michael Gray (Lost_Gamer@comcast.net) [Illustration - The Other Wise Man Had Found the King] _THE STORY OF THE OTHER WISE MAN_ By _Henry Van Dyke_ _NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS_ Copyright 1895, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS --- _All rights reserved_ _Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul, May keep the path, but will not reach the goal; While he who walks in love may wander far, Yet God will bring him where the blessed are._ Contents PREFACE THE SIGN IN THE SKY BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON FOR THE SAKE OF A LITTLE CHILD IN THE HIDDEN WAY OF SORROW A PEARL OF GREAT PRICE PREFACE It is now some years since this little story was set afloat on the sea of books. It is not a man-of-war, nor even a high-sided merchantman; only a small, peaceful sailing-vessel. Yet it has had rather an adventurous voyage. Twice it has fallen into the hands of pirates. The tides have carried it to far countries. It has been passed through the translator's port of entry into German, French, Armenian, Turkish, and perhaps some other foreign regions. Once I caught sight of it flying the outlandish flag of a brand-new phonetic language along the coasts of France; and once it was claimed by a dealer in antiquities as a long-lost legend of the Orient. Best of all, it has slipped quietly into many a far-away harbor that I have never seen, and found a kindly welcome, and brought back messages of good cheer from unknown friends. Now it has turned home to be new-rigged and fitted for further voyaging. Before it is sent out again I have been asked to tell where the story came from and what it means. I do not know where it came from--out of the air, perhaps. One thing is certain, it is not written in any other book, nor is it to be found among the ancient lore of the East. And yet I have never felt as if it were my own. It was a gift. It was sent to me; and it seemed as if I knew the Giver, though His name was not spoken. The year had been full of sickness and sorrow. Every day brought trouble. Every night was tormented with pain. They are very long--those nights when one lies awake, and hears the laboring heart pumping wearily at its task, and watches for the morning, not knowing whether it will ever dawn. They are not nights of fear; for the thought of death grows strangely familiar when you have lived with it for a year. Besides, after a time you come to feel like a soldier who has been long standing still under fire; any change would be a relief. But they are lonely nights; they are very heavy nights. And their heaviest burden is this: You must face the thought that your work in the world may be almost ended, but you know that it is not nearly finished.