“'A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe round about.' (Exodu 28:34). I've had them words stuck in the little back parlor in my cottage a whole year, said a tradeswoman to a friend. They are right over the door leading into the shop. I'll see them twenty times a day, as I go in and out. Some folks wonder at them, and says some other text would be a sight better. Now I don't think so at all. I've got a fine array of smarter ones all in gold and colors, and they make my dark little room look bright, and my heart glad, for they’re blessed words, all of them, but none ain't like this old card my boy Owen printed for me. The letters, I know, are not all of a size, and the lines aren't straight, and the card is curled and smoky; but I often look up at the words as I goes about my work, and bless the Lord for the message they brought me a year ago. I called myself a Christian, and I loved the services; and nobody thought more about our minister's sermons than I. So I was a bit disappointed that evening when a strange preacher came, and gave out them words for the text. "Going back," says he, "to Jewish laws and ceremonies?" They're all done with now. We’re livin' now under gospel light. The fact was, I thought myself one of the most enlightened, never thinking how the light was going to break in on my heart through them very words. The preacher began to tell about profession and practice, and how they should go together – sweet sounds and ripe fruit: first a bell and then a pomegranate, not a row of bells alone. He went on tellin' how the bells were golden, and the fruit rich and good. I felt pretty safe about my bells. I had never been ashamed of my religion, and most everybody knows what I was. I rang plenty of bells, but I didn't feel quite so sure about their being all gold ones. The preacher said, "The Pharisees had bells, lots of them, bells when they prayed, bells when they fasted, and bells when they gave alms; but there wasn't any fruit of obedience, mercy and love; and the bells, too, were harsh and grating, not mellow and golden. Peter had bells on his garment. Hear them ring: 'Though I should die with Thee, yet will I not deny Thee.' But how about his pomegranates? On the robe of Nicodemus there hung some pomegranates at first; but he was afraid of the sounding bells profession, and in the darkness crept silently to Lord's side. But they rang out sweetly and clearly years after, side-by-side with rich fruit, when he boldly spoke up for his Master before accusing Pharisees, and dared to anoint that sacred body for burial on the eve of the Passover. But see them both together, on the garments of our Lord – bells of holy teaching and precious fruit of kindly deeds and gracious miracles.” But what the preacher said at the end was what came down on me. He was tellin’ what them bells mean – how they rang on our garments when we had family prayer in our households, and when we went to meetings regular, and gave to collections for the Lord's work, and all of them good things. "Well," says I to myself, "I've got all the bells, sure enough,” though still felt just a bit uncomfortable about the pomegranates part of it. Then he says, "how do all these bells ring in your neighbor's ears, those of you who have them? Are they making a sweet soft chime so that everybody loves to listen to them? or have they a harsh, ruff, ugly sound that goes through you, and makes you stop your ears?” Well, I hung my head a bit when he said this, for I knew my bells were not very sweet; but I’d always thought that wasn't my business; if the folks didn't like my ways, I said that was their fault, and only cause they were not converted like me, and their wicked hearts could abide them as serve God. But now I found myself wondering whether the fault weren’t a bit mine, after all, and I seem to hear that great iron bell down at Slocum Station a-ringing and a-ringing fit to craze one; for if there's anything as riles me tis' a claterin' bell. But the preacher hadn't done yet. He was goin' on to tell about the pomegranates – the good fruits that Christians bear to God's glory. Love, joy, peace, long-suffering, and a lot more he spoke of. "Now," thought I, “he's a comin' to good deeds and I've done a many," and I was going on to a lot of good deeds I done: when, all one of a sudden, I pulled up. These weren’t fruit at all. They were bells. I meant them to make a great sound. They weren’t golden bells either, I was afraid; but ugly, tinkling tin ones! I felt real bad. I couldn't listen to no more; when the preacher said in closing, "see that your bells are all golden, and that there is a pomegranate to everyone," I was hot all over; after the prayer, I just walked out and straight home in a sort of a daze and never spoke to no one. When I got in I sat down and began to think. I was the Lord's, and must try to serve Him – that was clear. I've been making dreadful mistakes, but I wasn't going to give up. All I had to do was just find out where I'd been goin' wrong, and get the Lord to set em' straight. First, I went down on my knees, and ask God to show me the way, and then I took up my Testament, and tried to find the text about fruit, the "love, joy, and peace." I couldn't turn it up in a hurry, but I came across these words in Colossians – was reading the Revised Version, which I had only bought a week before – “Put on, therefore, as God's elect, holy and beloved, a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, long-suffering; forbearing one another, and forgiving each other, if any man have a complaint against any.” Here was a row of ripe pomegranates! I knew in my heart that I had not born much of such fruit. I felt I must do so now. I determined they should hang side-by-side with real golden bells. Well, that week was a crooked one. Queer thing, isn't it, how just when one's made up one's mind to do somethin' right, everything goes contrary? I tell you 'twas hard work that week trying to bear pomegranates.
