In a humble room, in one of the poorer streets of London, little Pierre,
a fatherless French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother.
There was no bread in the house; and he had not tasted food all day. Yet
he sat humming to keep up his spirits.
Still, at times, he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could
scarcely keep the tears from his eyes; for he knew that nothing would be
so welcome to his poor invalid mother as a good sweet orange; and yet he
had not a penny in the world.
The little song he was singing was his own,--one he had composed, both
air and words; for the child was a genius. He went to the window, and,
looking out, saw a man putting up a great poster with yellow letters,
announcing that Madame Malibran would sing that night in public.
"Oh, if I could only go!" thought little Pierre; and then, pausing a
moment, he clasped his hands; his eyes sparkled with a new hope. Running
to the looking-glass, he smoothed his yellow curls, and, taking from a
little box an old, stained paper, he gave one eager glance at his
mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house.
* * * * *
"Who, do you say, is waiting for me?" said the lady to her servant. "I
am already worn out with company."
"Only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, who says 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 beautiful singer, with a smile; "I
can never refuse children."
Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm; and in his hand a little
roll of paper. With a manliness unusual in a child, he walked straight
up to the lady, and, bowing, said: "I have come to see you, because my
mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine. I
thought that, perhaps, if you would only sing my little song at one of
your grand concerts, some publisher might buy it, for a small sum; and
so I could get food and medicine for my mother."
The beautiful woman rose from her seat; very tall and stately she
was;--she took the little roll from his hand, and lightly hummed the
air.
"Did you compose it?" she asked,--"you, a child! And the words?--Would
you like to come to my concert?" she asked, after a few moments of
thought.
"Oh, yes!" and the boy's eyes grew bright with happiness; "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; and that will admit you to a
seat near me."
Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some oranges, and many a
little luxury besides, and carried them home to the poor invalid,
telling her, not without tears, of his good fortune.
* * * * *
When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the concert hall, he felt
that never in his life had he been in so grand a place. The music, the
glare of lights, the beauty, the flashing of diamonds and the rustling
of silks, completely bewildered him. At last _she_ came; and the
child sat with his eyes riveted on her face. Could it be that the grand
lady, glittering with jewels, and whom everybody seemed to worship,
would really sing his little song?
Breathless he waited:--the band, the whole band, struck up a little
plaintive melody: he knew it, and clapped his hands for joy! And oh, how
she sang it! It was so simple, so mournful, so soul-subduing. Many a
bright eye was dimmed with tears, many a heart was moved, by the
touching words of that little song.
Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. What cared he for
money now? The greatest singer in Europe had sung his little song, and
thousands had wept at his grief.
The next day he was frightened by a visit from Madame Malibran. She laid
her hand on his yellow curls, and, turning to the sick woman, said:
"Your little boy, madam, has brought you a fortune. I was offered, this
morning, by the first publisher in London, a large sum for his little
song. Madam, thank God that your son has a gift from heaven."
The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept together. As for
Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches over the tried and the
tempted, he knelt down by his mother's bedside and uttered a simple
prayer, asking God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice
their affliction.
The memory of that prayer made the singer even more tender-hearted; and
she now went about doing good. And on her early death, he who stood by
her bed, and smoothed her pillow, and lightened her last moments by his
affection, was the little Pierre of former days,--now rich,
accomplished, and one of the most talented composers of the day.
All honor to those great hearts who, from their high stations, send down
bounty to the widow and the fatherless!
* * * * *
PIERRE (pe [^a]r'), Peter.
MALIBRAN, a French singer and actress. She died in 1836, when only 28
years old.
What does "he walked as if moving on air" mean?
BREATHLESS = _breath_+_less_, without breath, out of breath;
holding the breath on account of great interest.
BREATHLESSLY, in a breathless manner. Use _breath, breathless,
breathlessly,_ in sentences of your own.
Pronounce separately the two similar consonant sounds coming together in
the following words and phrases:
humming; meanness; is sure; his spirit; send down; this shows; eyes
sparkled; wept together; frequent trials.
Memory Gems:
A single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows.
_St. Francis of Assisi._
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
_Tennyson_.
* * * * *
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