“No, missus; no shot nor shell ever cum near dat church; but you see we colored people ust to go dare to pray, an’ we prayed mighty powerful for de Yanks an’ for freedom. Den de white people da cumed, an’ den we had secret prayer. Somebody would say, ‘We’ll have secret prayer,’ den we knode jus’ what to pray fur. But de white folks dey ’spicioned wat we wus praying fur, and dey tore dow’ de church.” “And that stopped your praying?” “Oh, no, missus; dat couldn’t stop our praying. We jus’ ’greed to pray when de town clock struck twelve night or day.” “Why, our men tried to stop that clock; hundreds of guns were turned upon it during the siege, but somehow they did not happen to hit it.” The old man’s face was radiant. The joy of his heart was shining through the black skin, as he swayed and clapped his hands. “Oh, honey, dar’s no happen about dat. De good Lor’ he jus’ put his han’ over it, and kep’ it goin’ an’ goin’ for us poor color folks to pray by.” What perfect trust! It is easier to accept the theory of the old colored preacher than to explain why it was that the army, with a cordon of guns pointing toward that clock, did not reach the clock, or stop the regular swing of its pendulum, or the merry chimes of its bell. Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster and myself met at the house of a mutual friend on the banks of the Hudson River one beautiful cloudless day, and I told her this story of the clock at Vicksburg, and she immediately wrote the following poem:-- THE CLOCK AT VICKSBURG. MARGARET E. SANGSTER. Month by month the shot and shell ’Round the ’leaguered city fell. Through its fiery tropic air Throbbed the anguish of despair. Stubbornly the fated gray Struggled through each pallid day. Stubbornly the loyal blue Fought the weary conflict through. High above the central square Towered the old clock, white and fair. Steadily its iron tongue Over strife and silence rung. Till the sullen foemen swore “They shall keep that clock no more.” All day long with bated breath Life looked steadily at death. Little ones forgot to play, Christians ne’er forgot to pray. Fair through all the siege it stood, That old clock in sober mood, As though now and then ’twould frown On the sadness of the town. Whistling balls around it flew, Black against the sky’s deep blue. All untouched, it told the time With a regnant cheery chime, Till the hour when victory Broke the spell--the place set free. * * * * * In the city’s open square Swarthy faces sobbed in prayer, “Bless the Lord! the work is done; Bless the Lord! our freedom’s won. By that clock in yonder street, True as steel our sad hearts beat. In our homes or by the way, When it struck, we paused to pray. _At its noon-hour day by day Every bondsman stopped to pray._” Was it strange that old clock stood Safe amid the storm of blood?