Light and Shadow
Upon entering the house Mr. Westmore divested himself of his great-coat,
and stood warming himself by the kitchen fire, while Mrs. Stickles bustled
around, smoothing down the bedclothes and putting the room to rights in
which her sick husband lay. The kitchen floor was as white as human hands
could make it, and the stove shone like polished ebony. Upon this a kettle
steamed, while underneath a sleek Maltese cat was curled, softly purring
in calm content.
Dan, assisted by the little Stickles, stabled Midnight, after which he was
conducted over to the back of the barn to enjoy the pleasure of coasting
down an icy grade. The only sound, therefore, was Mrs. Stickles' voice in
the next room as she related to "her man" the wonderful events which had
just taken place. A slight smile of pleasure crossed the parson's face as
he listened to her words and thought of the big honest heart beneath that
marvellous tongue. The sun of the winter day was streaming through the
little window and falling athwart the foot of the bed as Mr. Westmore
entered the room and grasped the sick man's white, outstretched hand.
"God bless ye, sir," exclaimed Mr. Stickles, "fer what ye hev done fer me
an' mine to-day. It ain't the first time by a long chalk. The Lord will
reward ye, even if I can't."
"Tut, tut, man, don't mention it," Mr. Westmore replied as he took a seat
by the bed. "And how are you feeling to-day, Mr. Stickles?"
"Only middlin', Parson, only middlin'. Simply joggin', simply joggin'."
Mrs. Stickles seated herself in a splint-bottomed chair, and picked up her
knitting which had been hurriedly dropped upon the arrival of Pete Davis.
How her fingers did work! It was wonderful to watch them. How hard and
worn they were, and yet so nimble. The needles flew with lightning
rapidity, clicking against one another with a rhythmical cadence; the
music of humble, consecrated work. But when Mr. Westmore began to tell
about Tim Fraser, and his sudden death, the knitting dropped into her lap,
and she stared at the speaker with open-eyed astonishment.
"An' do ye mean to tell me," she exclaimed, when the parson had finished,
"that Tim Fraser is dead?"
"Yes, it's only too true, Mrs. Stickles. Poor man--poor man!"
"Ye may well call 'im poor, Parson, fer I'm thinkin' that's jist what he
is at this blessed minute. He's in a bad way now, I reckon."
"Hush, hush, Marthy," her husband remonstrated. "We must not judge too
harshly."
"I'm not, John, I'm not, an' the parson knows I'm not. But if Tim isn't
sizzlin', then the Bible's clean wrong," and the needles clicked harder
than ever.
"It teaches us the uncertainty of life," replied Mr. Westmore. "It shows
how a man with great strength, and health can be stricken down in an
instant. How important it is to be always ready when the call does come."
"Ye're right, Parson, ye're surely right," and Mrs. Stickles stopped to
count her stitches. "Wasn't John an' me talkin' about that only last
night. I was readin' the Bible to 'im, an' had come to that story about
poor old Samson, an' his hard luck."
"'It's very strange,' sez John, sez he to me, 'that when Samson lost his
hair he lost his great strength, too. I can't unnerstan' it nohow.'"
"'Why, that's simple enough,' sez I to 'im. 'The Lord when He let Samson's
strength rest in his hair jist wanted to teach 'im how unsartin a thing
strength is. 'Why, anyone can cut off yer hair,' sez I, 'an' ye know,
John,' sez I, 'ye don't allus have to cut it off, either, fer it falls out
like yourn, John--fer yer almost bald.' Ain't them the exact words I said,
John, an' only last night at that?"
"Yes, Marthy. That's just what ye said, an' we see how true it is. Tim
Fraser was a powerful man as fer as strength an' health goes, but what did
it all amount to? He lost it as quick as Samson of old. Ah, yes, a man's a
mighty weak thing, an' his strength very unsartin, an' hangs by a slender
thread. Look at me, parson. Once I was able to stan' almost anything, an'
here I be a useless log--a burden to meself an' family."
"Don't say that, John, dear," remonstrated Mrs. Stickles wiping her eyes
with her apron. "Ye know ye ain't a bother. Yer as patient as a fly in
molasses. The fly is thar an' can't help it, an' so are you, John. It's
the Lord's will, an' ye've often said so. He'll look after me an' the
little ones. He's never forsaken us yit, an' I guess He won't if we stick
to 'im."
"Your children are certainly a credit to you, Mrs. Stickles," remarked Mr.
Westmore. "You should be proud of them."
"I am, sir, indeed I am," and the worthy woman's face beamed with
pleasure. "But it takes a lot of 'scretion, Parson, to handle a big
family. I've often said to John that children are like postage-stamps.
They've got to be licked sometimes to do the work they were intended to
do. But if ye lick 'em too much, ye spile 'em. Oh, yes, it takes great
'scretion to bring up a family."
"You certainly have used great discretion," replied Parson John, much
amused at Mrs. Stickles' words. "I suppose those who are working out are
just as dear as the four little ones at home?"
"They're all dear to me, sir, all dear. I kin count 'em all on me ten
fingers, no more an' no less. Now some fingers are larger than t'others,
and some smaller, an' some more useful than t'others an' do more work, but
I couldn't part with one. So as I often tell John our children are jist
like me ten fingers. I couldn't do without one of 'em--ah, no, bless their
dear hearts."
The sound of little feet and childish voices caused them to look towards
the kitchen. There they beheld the four little Stickles, with Dan in the
midst, standing in a row by the stove.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the parson, rising and going towards them. "So here
you are, as fresh and active as ever."
Diving deep into his pocket he brought forth a generous piece of home-made
candy.
"Sweets for the sweet," he cried. "Now, who's to have this?"
At once a rush ensued and four little forms surrounded him.
"Wait, wait; not yet!" and the good man held the candy aloft. "Nothing
given away here. You must earn every bit. All in a row now. There, that's
better," and he lined them up, like a veteran schoolmaster, proud of his
little class. "Come, I want your names. You begin," and he tapped the
nearest to him on the shoulder.
"John Medley Stickles, sir," came the quick reply.
"A good name, my little man," and the parson patted him on the head. "May
you be worthy of your namesake, that noble man of God--the first Bishop of
this Diocese. Now next," and he pointed to the second little Stickles.
"Benjamin Alexander Stickles, sir,"
"Ha, ha. Named after your two grandfathers. Fine men they were, too. Now
my little maiden, we'll hear from you."
"Martha Trumpit Stickles, sir," came the shy response.
"That's a good name, my dear, after your mother--and with her eyes, too.
Just one more left. Come, my dear, what have you to say?"
"Ruth Wethmore Stickles, thir, if you pleath," lisped the little lass,
with her eyes upon the floor.
At these words the parson paused, as if uncertain what to say. "Ruth, the
gleaner," he at length slowly remarked. "Ruth Westmore. Ah, Mrs. Stickles,
I little thought that day my dear wife stood sponsor for your baby here,
and gave her her own name, how soon she would be taken from us. Four
years--four long years since she went home. But come, but come," he
hurriedly continued, noticing Mrs. Stickles about to place her apron to
her eyes. "I have a question to ask each little one here, and then
something is coming. Look, John, answer me, quick. How many Commandments
are there?"
"Ten, sir," came the ready reply.
"What is the fifth one?"
"Honour thy father and mother, that thy days may be long in the land which
the Lord thy God giveth thee."
"That's good, that's good. Don't forget that, my little man. The first
commandment with promise. I taught your brother Tony that when he was a
little lad, and I'm sure he hasn't forgotten it. Now, Bennie, what two
things do we learn from these commandments?"
"My duty towards God, an' my duty towards my neighbour."
"Right, right you are. Now, Martha, what were you made at your baptism?"
"A member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the Kingdom of
Heaven."
"Well done. I thought that would stick you, but I see you have learned
your lesson well! It's Ruth's turn now. Can you tell me, my dear, what
happened on Good Friday?"
"Jesus died, thir, on the Croth."
"And what took place on Easter Day?"
"He roth from the grave, thir."
"Good, good. Always remember that. Good Friday and Easter Day come very
near together. 'Earth's saddest day and brightest day are just one day
apart.'"
Mrs. Stickles' face beamed with pleasure as the parson praised the little
class, and gave a piece of candy to each. Then he drew from his pocket a
small package wrapped in white tissue paper tied with a piece of pink
ribbon, and held it up before the wondering eyes of the little Stickles.
"From Nellie," he remarked. "Candy she made herself for the one who can
best say the verses on the Christian Year she gave you to learn some time
ago. Now, who can say them all through without one mistake?"
Instantly four little hands shot up into the air, and four pairs of
sparkling eyes were fixed eagerly upon the coveted treasure.
"Well, Bennie, we'll try you," said the parson. "Stand up straight, and
don't be afraid to speak out."
"Advent tells us Christ is here,
Christmas tells us Christ is near--"
"Hold, hold!" cried Mr. Westmore. "Try again."
But the second attempt proving worse than the first, it was passed on to
Martha. Bravely the little maiden plunged into the intricacies of the two
first verses, but became a total wreck upon the third. Try as she might
the words would not come, and tears were in her eyes when at length she
gave up the attempt and waited for John Medley to conquer where she had
failed. But alas! though starting in bravely he mixed Epiphany and Advent
so hopelessly that the parson was forced to stop his wild wanderings.
"Dear me! dear me!" Mr. Westmore exclaimed. "What are we to do? Surely
Ruth can do better than this."
With hands clasped demurely before her and her eyes fixed upon the floor,
slowly the little maiden began to lisp forth the words while the rest
listened in almost breathless silence.
"Advent telth uth Christ ith near;
Christmath telth uth Christ ith here;
In Epithany we trath
All the glory of Hith grath."
Thus steadily on she lisped through verse after verse, and when the last
was completed a sigh of relief was heard from Mrs. Stickles, while the
parson clapped his hands with delight. How her eyes did sparkle as he
handed her the little package, with a few words of encouragement, and how
longingly the three others looked upon the treasure.
"Now," said Mr. Westmore, "we must be away. Nellie will wonder what has
become of us."
"Not yet, sir, not yet!" cried Mrs. Stickles. "You must have a cup of tea
first.' The water is bilin', an' it'll be ready in a jiffy. Did ye give
Midnight any hay?" she demanded, turning to Bennie.
"Oh, ma!" came the reply. "I fergot all about it."
"There now, it's jist like ye. Hurry off this minute and give that poor
critter some of that good hay from the nigh loft."
As the little Stickles and Dan scurried out of the room, Ruth still
clutching her precious package, Mrs. Stickles turned to Mr. Westmore.
"There now, Parson, ye jist must wait, an' have that cup of tea, an' some
of my fresh bread. We shan't tech Nellie's pies an' cake, cause ye kin hev
her cookin' any time, bless her dear heart. How I wish she was here
herself so I could look into her sweet face an' tell her meself how
grateful I am."
Hardly had the parson seated himself at the table ere several piercing
shrieks fell upon his ears. Rushing to the door he beheld John Medley
hurrying towards the house with arms at right angles, and his face as pale
as death.
"Child! Child! What is it?" shouted Mrs. Stickles.
"R-r-uth's k-k-illed! She f-f-ell from the la-la-der. Oh! Oh!"
Waiting to hear no more they hurried to the barn, and there they found the
little form lying on the floor, still grasping in her hand the precious
package.
"My poor lamb! My darlin' baby! are ye kilt, are ye kilt?" wailed Mrs.
Stickles, kneeling down by her side. "Speak to me, my lamb, my little
baby! Oh, speak to yer mammy!"
But no sign of recognition came from the prostrate child. Seeing this the
mother sprang to her feet and wrung her hands in agony of despair.
"What will we do? Oh, what kin we do? My baby is kilt--my poor darlin'!
Oh--oh--oh!"
Tenderly Parson John lifted the child in his arms, carried her into the
house, and laid her on the settle near the stove. It was found that she
was breathing, and soon a little water brought some color into her face.
Presently she opened her eyes, and started up, but fell back again, with a
cry of pain, fiercely clutching the package.
"What is it, dear?" asked the parson. "Where is the pain?"
"My leg! My leg!" moaned the child.
"Ah, I feared so," exclaimed Mr. Westmore, after a brief examination. "We
must have the doctor at once. Is there anyone near who will go for him,
Mrs. Stickles?"
"Not a man, sir, that's fit to go. They're all in the woods. Oh, what kin
we do!"
"Don't worry, Mrs. Stickles," was the reassuring reply. "Midnight will go,
and I will hold the reins. Come, Dan, the horse, quick."
As Midnight drew up to the door a few minutes later, Parson John came out
of the house and affectionately patted the sleek neck of the noble animal.
"Remember, Midnight," he said, "you must do your best to-day. It's for the
sake of the little lass, and she was getting hay for you. Don't forget
that."