His Eye is on the Sparrow

by Alec Newell

 

Mayport Presbyterian Church, photo by Newell



Not long after moving to Mayport, I began to notice that if I'd look out the kitchen windows just about sunrise or sunset, there would often be a covey of quail under my grape arbor.  I had mentioned this to an old fisherman in the neighborhood named Stoddard Andreu who, in turn, told me about his recipe for quail purlieu, which had been something of a Mayport legacy from a time when villagers often ate quail, dove, pigeons, and even winter robins, when hard times warranted it. "You get me a mess o' quail Capt'n," Stoddard offered, "an' I'll show you how to make purlieu."

The grape arbor photo by Newell

About that same time, a teenaged Eddie Thompson stopped by the yard and allowed that he not only knew about the quail, but had a wire mesh quail trap that I could borrow if I wanted to use it.  The bargain was struck.  We'd set the trap under the grape arbor, bait it with chicken scratch feed, and if we trapped a mess of quail, we'd contact Stoddard for further instruction.  That was on a Saturday evening, and I had planned to attend services at Presbyterian Church, across the street from my house, the next morning.

I slept late the next morning, but when I got up, noticed that there was a trap full of frantic quail under my grape arbor.  I was ecstatic!  I'd soon be tasting quail purlieu, but in the mean time, I had just enough time to get dressed and make it to church.  The birds would just have to wait until the service was over.

By the time I'd crossed the street, I noticed Miss Blanche Williams, one of the grand dames of the church, regarding the grape arbor with a disapproving scowl, "Mr. Newell, I see you've got some quail trapped over there in your yard.  Are those your quail?"

"Well, good morning Miss Blanche, yes I do.  Aren't they beautiful?"

"Yes they are, Mr. Newell, but are those your quail?"

"Well yes, since those quail are in my trap, I expect that they are my quail."

"I don't think so, those look like Mr. Coopers quail to me."

"Mr. Cooper's quail?"

"Yes, he whistles for them every evening.  He calls them up into his back yard where he feeds them.  I think those are Mr. Cooper's quail in your trap, and he will be very upset if they go missing.  And just what are you planning to do with Mr. Cooper's quail?"

"Well I, ah, my brother-in-law, well, he has these bird dogs he takes hunting, retrievers, and I thought that he might like to borrow these quail for training his dogs, and that we, ah he, could maybe just let them go whenever he, ah we, were done with them."

Miss Blanch never uttered another syllable.  She just turned on her heel and huffed up the steps, and into the church to occupy her usual pew at the far eastern side of the building.

I gave it a few seconds, then eased on into the church to take a seat behind hers on the far west side of the building.  I slunk down in the pew then looked up to the hymn board on the wall behind the alter. The very first hymn on the list for the day's service was number 624.  I opened the hymnal to the corresponding page and there it was, hymn number 624, "His Eye is on the Sparrow," (...and I know He's watching me).

It was probably at that very second, that a great miracle began to take shape right there in the Mayport Presbyterian Church;  for sure as Pharaoh freed Moses and the Israelites from their bondage, within mere minutes of the benediction, those birds were free and on their way, because in Mayport, just as in Ole Egypt, that could only have been accomplished by the hand of Divine Providence.  Ask anyone.