Kindly and warm and tender,
He nestled each childish palm
So close in his own that his touch was a prayer
And his speech a blessed psalm.
He has turned from the marvelous pages
Of many an alien tome--
Haply come down from Olivet,
Or out from the gates of Rome--
{43}
[Illustration: Of the orchard-lands of childhood]
{45}
Set sail o'er the seas between him
And each little beckoning hand
That fluttered about in the meadows
And groves of his native land,--
Fluttered and flashed on his vision
As, in the glimmering light
Of the orchard-lands of childhood,
The blossoms of pink and white.
And there have been sobs in his bosom,
As out on the shores he stept,
And many a little welcomer
Has wondered why he wept.--
That was because, O children,
Ye might not always be
The same that the Savior's arms were wound
About, in Galilee.
{46}
[Illustration: Friend of a wayward hour--headpiece]