Many years ago, in a shabby room in one of the poorest streets of
London, a little golden-haired boy sat singing, in his sweet, childish
voice, by the bedside of his sick mother. Though faint from hunger and
oppressed with loneliness, he manfully forced back the tears that kept
welling up into his blue eyes, and, for his mother's sake, tried to
look bright and cheerful. But it was hard to be brave and strong while
his dear mother was suffering for lack of the delicacies which he
longed to provide for her, but could not. He had not tasted food all
day himself. How he could drive away the gaunt, hungry wolf, Famine,
that had come to take up its abode with them, was the thought that
haunted him as he tried to sing a little song he himself had composed.
He left his place by the invalid, who, lulled by his singing, had
fallen into a light sleep. As he looked listlessly out of the window,
he noticed a man putting up a large poster, which bore, in staring
yellow letters, the announcement that Madame M----, one of the greatest
singers that ever lived, was to sing in public that night.
"Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre, his love of music for
the moment making him forgetful of aught else. Suddenly his face
brightened, and the light of a great resolve shone in his eyes. "I will
try it," he said to himself; and, running lightly to a little stand
that stood at the opposite end of the room, with trembling hands he
took from a tiny box a roll of paper. With a wistful, loving glance at
the sleeper, he stole from the room and hurried out into the street.
"Who did you say is waiting for me?" asked Madame M---- of her servant;
"I am already worn out with company."
"It is only a very pretty little boy with yellow curls, who said that
if he can just see you, he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will
not keep you a moment."
"Oh, well, let him come," said the great singer, with a kindly smile,
"I can never refuse children."
Timidly the child entered the luxurious apartment, and, bowing before
the beautiful, stately woman, he began rapidly, lest his courage should
fail him: "I came to see you because my mother is very sick, and we are
too poor to get food and medicine. I thought, perhaps, that if you
would sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, maybe some
publisher would buy it for a small sum, and so I could get food and
medicine for my mother."
Taking the little roll of paper which the boy held in his hand, the
warm-hearted singer lightly hummed the air. Then, turning toward him,
she asked, in amazement: "Did you compose it? you, a child! And the
words, too?" Without waiting for a reply, she added quickly, "Would you
like to come to my concert this evening?" The boy's face became radiant
with delight at the thought of hearing the famous songstress, but a
vision of his sick mother, lying alone in the poor, cheerless room,
flitted across his mind, and he answered, with a choking in his
throat:--
"Oh, yes; I should so love to go, but I couldn't leave my mother."
"I will send somebody to take care of your mother for the evening, and
here is a crown with which you may go and get food and medicine. Here
is also one of my tickets. Come to-night; that will admit you to a seat
near me."
Overcome with joy, the child could scarcely express his gratitude to
the gracious being who seemed to him like an angel from heaven. As he
went out again into the crowded street, he seemed to tread on air. He
bought some fruit and other little delicacies to tempt his mother's
appetite, and while spreading out the feast of good things before her
astonished gaze, with tears in his eyes, he told her of the kindness of
the beautiful lady.
An hour later, tingling with expectation, Pierre set out for the
concert. How like fairyland it all seemed! The color, the dazzling
lights, the flashing gems and glistening silks of the richly dressed
ladies bewildered him. Ah! could it be possible that the great artist
who had been so kind to him would sing his little song before this
brilliant audience? At length she came on the stage, bowing right and
left in answer to the enthusiastic welcome which greeted her appearance.
A pause of expectancy followed. The boy held his breath and gazed
spellbound at the radiant vision on whom all eyes were riveted. The
orchestra struck the first notes of a plaintive melody, and the
glorious voice of the great singer filled the vast hall, as the words
of the sad little song of the child composer floated on the air. It was
so simple, so touching, so full of exquisite pathos, that many were in
tears before it was finished.
And little Pierre? There he sat, scarcely daring to move or breathe,
fearing that the flowers, the lights, the music, should vanish, and he
should wake up to find it all a dream. He was aroused from his trance
by the tremendous burst of applause that rang through the house as the
last note trembled away into silence. He started up. It was no dream.
The greatest singer in Europe had sung his little song before a
fashionable London audience. Almost dazed with happiness, he never knew
how he reached his poor home; and when he related the incidents of the
evening, his mother's delight nearly equaled his own. Nor was this the
end.
Next day they were startled by a visit from Madame M----. After gently
greeting the sick woman, while her hand played with Pierre's golden
curls, she said: "Your little boy, Madame, has brought you a fortune. I
was offered this morning, by the best publisher in London, 300 pounds
for his little song; and after he has realized a certain amount from
the sale, little Pierre here is to share the profits. Madame, thank God
that your son has a gift from heaven." The grateful tears of the
invalid and her visitor mingled, while the child knelt by his mother's
bedside and prayed God to bless the kind lady who, in their time of
sorrow and great need, had been to them as a savior.
The boy never forgot his noble benefactress, and years afterward, when
the great singer lay dying, the beloved friend who smoothed her pillow
and cheered and brightened her last moments--the rich, popular, and
talented composer--was no other than our little Pierre.
"IF I REST, I RUST"
"The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night."
The significant inscription found on an old key,--"If I rest, I
rust,"--would be an excellent motto for those who are afflicted with
the slightest taint of idleness. Even the industrious might adopt it
with advantage to serve as a reminder that, if one allows his faculties
to rest, like the iron in the unused key, they will soon show signs of
rust, and, ultimately, cannot do the work required of them.