gaining riches and honours 'some day,' that glorious time of the young,
and he had thought how proud they both would be of him, and they should
neither of them work any more, but live in a lovely home of _his_
providing, and never know care any more. And now!--he clenched his small
hands together, and choked back the big lump rising in his throat as
bravely he exclaimed,--
'And I will be a clever man, for I will learn at night when I come home,
and who knows what I may be one day. Mat Morgan says our manager was
only a poor collier lad once, and look at him now. Besides, they are all
so good to us here; they loved father dearly.'
So the boy prevailed over her fears, and in a few days he took his place
by the side of his old friend Mat Morgan, who grew to love him as his
own child. But the mother's heart was grieved when at night her boy
returned with the fair golden hair rough and tangled, the once delicate
hands torn and hardening with toil; yet the child gave no thought to
that. True, this was not the life he would have chosen, for he was a
studious boy, but still, was he not 'the bread-winner'? and it was a
proudly happy day for him when he laid his first earnings in her lap,
and felt her tears upon his cheek as she kissed and blessed her boy.
But the hour he loved the best was when, casting aside all care, he sat
on a low stool at her feet, and, with his head resting on her knee,
listened as she read aloud their evening chapter from the Book of Life;
he was then the child again, not the toiling little miner-lad!--and oh,
it was so peaceful!
'"Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they
spin,"' read the mother one evening.
'But, mother, what are lilies like? I have never seen one, you know,'
asked the boy, when she had ceased reading and had closed the book.
In simple language, she endeavoured to describe to her town-born child
the exquisite beauties of the flowers of the field, and he, with an
innate love of the beautiful, caught readily at all she said, and seemed
as though he saw them all as she depicted.
'How I should love to be where there are always flowers!' he exclaimed;
'it must be like paradise! But those I have seen always close up at
night. I wish there was one here that opened of an evening, as if to
greet me when I come home!'
I know not how it happened, but the next night, when little Davie
entered his home, a delicious perfume filled the air, and standing in
the cottage window was an Evening Primrose, with its petals fully
expanded.
'Mother, mother,' cried the boy, 'my wish has come true! here is a
flower opening its blossoms to bid me welcome home;' and in excess of
delight he knelt and kissed his treasure again and again. And words
cannot express the love he bestowed upon the plant; it was to him an
unfeigned joy to watch the growing of each leaf, the gradual unfolding
of each fresh bud; and every night, on his return from work, his first
thought, after the thought for his mother, was of his sweet Evening
Primrose.
Those who gather flowers at will, prize them for a while, then cast them
carelessly aside, can form no idea of the all-absorbing love the little
miner lad evinced for his one fair flower; it was his sole treasure, and
he ever watched and tended it lovingly and well.
But time passed on, and it was Davie's last day in the coal-mine. He was
going to exchange that toilsome life, so uncongenial to his taste, but
which stern necessity had made him adopt, for a new and brighter
occupation, one, too, for which he had always ardently longed. The
manager of whom he had spoken to his mother had frequently noticed the
gentle, fair-haired boy; prosperity had not hardened _his_ heart (as it
so often does), and recollections of the long-ago flashed ever across
him, when he saw Davie bravely striving to do his best to help his
mother bear her burden of sorrowful poverty. He too had been a collier
lad in those far-off days, and 'the only son of _his_ mother, and she
was a widow.' The grass was green above that dear mother's grave, whose
latter years had been cheered and comforted by his tender, fostering
love; but his thoughts were of her, as, laying his hand upon the lad's
curly head, he kindly asked,--
'Would you like to leave the pit-work, David, and go into the engineers'
department?'
'What! and become a great man like Stephenson and Brunel? Oh yes, sir!'
the boy joyfully exclaimed, for, like all youthful ambitions he vaulted
at once to the highest pinnacle of greatness--there is no midway for the
ardent young.
The manager smiled at his enthusiasm, as he replied,--
'You can but try, my lad, to be as great and good as they were;' and he
added, 'You can enter upon your new work next week; there is a vacancy
for you.'
'But, sir,'--and the boy paused,--'shall I earn wages like I do now?
because'--
And his voice failed him, he could not utter the thought of his
heart,--should he still be able to help his mother?
The gentleman understood his hesitation, for he said kindly,--
'Yes, my little man, you will earn good wages, and, if you are only good
and steady like your poor father before you, I've no doubt but that you
may become a great man one day;' and he smiled encouragingly into the
boy's upturned face, a face which was beaming with hope and happiness.
As to Davie, he raised his generous friend's hand to his lips, for he
could not speak for very gratitude; then, with his blue eyes sparkling
with joy, ran quickly home to tell the blissful news.
'Mother, mother!' he cried, bursting in upon her as she sat at work; 'I
_shall_ become a great man now, and you shall ride in a carriage, and
never work any more;' and then, with his arms around her neck and his
curly head resting lovingly upon her shoulder, he poured forth his
bright hopes for the future.
* * * * *
So the last day came for working in the dark mine, and to-morrow--oh,
to-morrow!
'But I'll miss ye, Davie,' Mat Morgan observed, as he and his little
friend trudged on side by side to work; 'ye be bright and cheery-like
down there,' pointing with his pipe towards the pit. 'And maybe ye'll
forget the missis and me when ye gets to be a great man, as ye says
ye'll be one day, and I makes no doubt but ye will be too. Ye be summat
like yer poor fayther, my lad; he were allers above we.'
'Nay, Master Morgan!' cried the boy reproachfully; 'were you not my
first friend, when dear father died? You don't mean that, I know!
looking up at his old friend's rugged face with eyes full of tears.
Then, brushing them away with his jacket sleeve,--it was not manly to
cry, he thought,--he continued, 'No, when I am rich, you and Mrs. Morgan
shall both live in a big house with mother and me; we will ride in a
grand carriage, and be so happy all together, and never look at black
coals except to burn them.'
The old miner smiled as he listened to the boy's bright day-dreams, yet
still he could not help feeling somewhat sad, for he dearly loved the
lad, and knew how much he should miss his merry chatter and song, which
so beguiled the time while they worked together down in the mine.
But the time passed on much as on other days; when, just as they were
preparing to leave off work, and another gang was coming to relieve
them, a low, rumbling sound was heard. One or two of the men ran to the
entrance of the working, Mat Morgan among the number, and his face was
blanched when he returned to his comrades.
'What is it, Master Morgan?' asked Davie, looking up at him with an
undefined dread.
'My lad,' was his reply, and his voice was very calm, 'there has been a
landslip in the sidings, and we are shut in.'
'But can we not get out?' he questioned.
'No, never again, unless help comes,' he hoarsely whispered, for his
brave heart stood still at the terrible danger they were in.
Indeed, no pen can express the terror that filled the hearts of these
brave and hardy men at the thought of being thus entombed in a living
grave; they quailed not when meeting death face to face, but shrank in
dread at the slowly advancing foe.
All but the boy!
The light from the flickering lamps the miners carried fell upon his
delicate features; but his eyes brightly gleamed, as, laying his hands
on the bowed head of his old friend, he softly said,--
'Master Morgan, let us not fear; our God is with us still!'
'Maybe He has forgotten us, Davie,' the man pitifully moaned, for even
his strong courage had broken down in face of this calamity.
'No, no,' soothed the boy. '"Yea, though I walk through the valley of
the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me:" is it
not so?'
There was something so calm, so trustful in the child's faith in God's
mercy, that the poor stricken men listened as he tried to cheer them
with thoughts of that Power who is mighty to save.
The weary hours dragged their slow length along, and, though help came
not yet, his perfect trust in God never wavered. Some of the men gave
themselves up to despair, and lay down where they had sat cowering,
prepared to die. The lamps went out by degrees as the oil was expended,
adding to the horror of the situation by leaving them in utter darkness.
And yet, though death appeared so near, it had no terrors for little
Davie, for God was nearer still.
'Shall I sing to you, Master Morgan?' the boy asked, as he laid his
weary head down upon his friend's broad shoulder.
'Ay, ay, my lad,' was the sole reply the poor man could make.
Then through the awful silence and darkness of this fearful grave rang
the sweet, clear tones of the child's voice, singing--
'Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.'
'Hark!' he cried, suddenly pausing in the hymn; 'they are striving to
clear the working--I hear the sound of their picks! We are saved! we are
saved!' he joyously shouted.
With the sense of hearing preternaturally sharpened, these poor men, who
had given themselves up for lost, also listened; those who had lain down
to die rising up and listening with every nerve acutely strained to
catch the faintest sound. Yes, they could hear their deliverers bravely
working to set them free.
Then arose as with one voice their glad song of deliverance,--
'Thou canst save, and Thou alone!'
* * * * *
Tenderly they bore him home to his mother, that brave, noble child,
whose simple trust had sustained their failing hearts in that hour of
trial and suffering.
But reaction had set in, and he was weak and fainting when they laid him
in her arms, yet he feebly murmured, striving for her sake to appear
still strong,--
'Oh, mother darling, I am so glad to be at home again! I thought I
should never more see you, nor my Evening Primrose. But, mother, why is
it still so dark?'
She glanced in terror at his soft blue eyes, which to her looked as
clear as ever. But why was it that, though the morning light was
streaming in through the open window, to him it still was dark?
She breathed not one word of her fear to him, though the icy dread
chilled her to the heart, but, laying him gently down in his own cosy
bed, Soothed him with loving caresses, bidding him--
'Try to sleep, and forget it all!'
Then, when sleep came to the over-wrought brain, she left him in the
care of a kindly neighbour, and went tremblingly forth to seek her
child's trusty old friend.
She found Mat Morgan seated in his arm-chair (for, like the rest of the
miners who had been in this imminent peril, he had escaped unhurt),
recounting to a group of neighbours the wonderful faith of little Davie,
whose trust in God never failed, even when the shadows of the dark
angel's wings had hovered so closely over them.
'Oh, Master Morgan!' the poor mother cried, as with clasped hands and
quivering lips she overheard him thus dilating on her boy's noble
fortitude and humble Christian faith; 'my darling Davie! he will never,
never look on us again this side the grave. He'--
'He be no dead, ma'am!' exclaimed the old man, starting from his chair,
while sympathizing friends gathered round her with words of tender pity.
'No, no, not dead, thank God!' she sobbed; 'but blind, I fear. Oh, my
little boy, my Davie!'
'Maybe not,' he replied, endeavouring to comfort her. 'I'll jest go wi'
ye. I've known sich things afore, when men have been shut up in the dark
some hours,--and _we_ were nigh upon three days in the pit, mind ye--the
shock of seein' the daylight kind o' dazes the sight for a while. So ye
must not greet, but hope and trust in our heavenly Father, as your
little lad ever does, I'm thinkin'! Come along.'
How eagerly did she hasten home, all anxiety to prove if the old miner's
opinion was right, and 'hoping against hope' that the child's sight had
become cleared while he slept, and that when he awoke he would look upon
her with unclouded eyes. Her heart beat so violently she could scarcely
speak, as, standing by his bedside, she saw his blue eyes were unclosed
and apparently gazing upon her where she stood with Mat Morgan by her
side.
'Davie,' she whispered softly, bending over him and kissing the parted
lips, 'here is Master Morgan come to see you.'
'Where is he?' the boy joyfully cried. 'He is not hurt, then? Oh, I am
so glad! But, mother dear, I cannot see him, nor you; there seems like a
shadow over my eyes. Oh, mother,' he piteously moaned, as the sad truth
appeared to strike him, 'tell me, I am not blind, am I?'
Then, as she could not for very anguish reply to his eager question, his
noble courage gave way, and, throwing himself upon his pillow, he
uttered a piercing cry of untold despair.
The poor mother knelt beside him with arms closely folding him to her
heart, unable to soothe, save with loving caresses, her child's
unutterable anguish.
'Nay, Davie, my man,' cried the old miner, wiping his eyes with the back
of his rough hand, 'ye did no greet when death a'most stared us in the
face; why do ye sorrow now, my brave lad?'
'Oh, but then I should have been with God! Now'--and his sobs
redoubled--'I shall never see mother's dear face again, nor yours,
Master Morgan; and for me my Evening Primrose will never open its buds
again. And oh, if I am blind, I can never more be mother's little
bread-winner.'
* * * * *
The parable is told!
Little Davie eventually recovered his sight, thanks to the generous
kindness of the manager, who spared no means to procure the best
surgical aid for the poor little lad; and in the years that quickly
followed, he became the stay and comfort of his widowed mother,
retaining ever his filial affection for her, and cherishing fond
recollections of those early days when his only treasures were her love
and his Evening Primrose.
PARABLE FIFTH.
THE LITTLE SEED--KINDNESS.
'Why, what have you got in your beak?' asked a dingy London Sparrow of
another, just as dingy as himself.
'Well, I hardly know,' replied his friend, laying down the article in
question, and surveying it critically with his head on one side; 'but it
seems to me as though it is a seed--of some sort!'
'So it is,' assented the other, as he hopped nearer and attentively
examined the treasure-trove. 'Yes,'--as if the idea had suddenly
suggested itself,--'yes, it _is_ a seed. Where did you find it?'
'I did not steal it,' exclaimed the owner of the property, who evidently
resented a something in his companion's manner of questioning; 'I
honestly picked it up in a garden, where it was lying on the _top_ of
the earth, not _in_ it,' he added, with emphasis. 'I expect the wind
blew it there, for the gales have been very high these last few days.'
'Yes, yes,' replied the questioner with alacrity; perhaps he feared he
had wounded his friend's feelings, and dreaded lest there might ensue a
squabble, for sparrows, it must be confessed, are easily affronted over
trifles, though, as a rule, they are good-tempered little fellows
enough, putting up with scanty fare and homely lodgings very contentedly
and cheerfully. 'I wonder what kind of seed it is, do you know?' he
still further questioned, being of an inquisitive turn of mind.
'No, I do not,' replied the finder.
'Ah,' he said, with a sigh that ruffled all his feathers, 'if we did but
live in the beautiful green hedgerows, instead of dwelling among town
chimneys, we should soon know what it was; our country cousins would be
able to tell us in a moment if it was good to eat or not. By the bye,
shall you eat it?' he pursued, eyeing his friend in the same keen way as
he eyed occasional crumbs of bread, his sharp little eye glancing quick
and bright whilst waiting for the reply.
'No,' answered the other; 'I shall give it away.'
'Give it away!' he repeated, in utter astonishment at the idea; 'who
to?'
'Why, in my travels about this city, I have noticed a small window up
among the chimneys in the East End of London--it's a mere garret, I
expect.'
'Well?' ejaculated the listener, somewhat impatiently.
'I have also observed,' pursued his companion deliberately, 'that on the
ledge of this window there are two or three flower-pots with some tiny
pieces of green trying to shoot out of the dry mould.'
'What have those flower-pots and the dry mould to do with this seed?'
was the question he sharply put.
'I think,' continued the other Sparrow, not heeding the interruption,
'this must be a flower-seed, since I found it in a garden well known to
me for its loveliness,--for, as a rule, I go about with my eyes open,'
he added. 'Now at this attic window of which I spoke,' he went on
saying, 'I have seen a poor pale-faced girl for ever bending over
needlework, although sometimes, but very rarely, I have observed her
carefully watering and tending those flower-pots with their feeble
attempts at greenery.'
'Have you nearly finished your touching description?' asked the friend,
with a sneer.
'Now,' went on the Sparrow, as though he had not heard this remark, 'the
soil does not look very inviting, yet I have been thinking that, as
there has been rain during the night, the mould may be a little softened
perhaps; so if I alight on the window-sill, and drop this seed into one
of those pots, a pretty flower _might_ come up in time, and then how
glad the poor girl would be!--why, it would actually give her
happiness.'
And the reflection merely of this hoped-for pleasure so brightened up
the little bird that he looked positively lovely! Not even a bird of
paradise could have appeared more glorious, dingy brown though our tiny
hero's plumage was; but good deeds and kind words always bring a
brightness with them.
'Oh, that is what you intend doing!' remarked the other, who had been
pruning his flecked feathers whilst listening to this delightful
plan;--perhaps he might have imagined the treasure would come to him,
since his friend was not going to keep it himself. 'You are very
generous,' he added, with a slight touch of sarcasm.
But the kind little Sparrow did not mind; his heart was too full of
noble intentions to notice trivial things. He merely said,--
'So now I'm off! Good-bye for the present. I shall be back in time for
roost.'
'Oh, you are going, are you?' was the comment, as his friend picked up
the seed again in his beak and flew away.
But, as he darted off, a sunbeam peeped round a corner just to see what
the dear little fellow looked like, and this very sunbeam threw such a
halo around him, you would have thought his feathers had been burnished
gold. Then his voice, too, sounded so cheerily, as, with a merry
'Twit-twit-twee,' he disappeared from view, intent on his errand of
kindness.
'I'm sure I should not have troubled myself to carry that burden so far,
but should have eaten it for my dinner,' muttered the one sitting on the
water-spout. 'Dear me, what's that?' as he caught sight of a shadow
round an angle of the roof. 'Oh, gracious!' and he gave such a jump in
his terror, as he recognised Pussie taking a walk on the tiles, looking
out for her dinner, no doubt.
You may be quite sure Mr. Sparrow did not wait until Pussie came up to
him, but flew away to a safe distance.
Meanwhile the other bird was speeding on his errand of kindness. He did
not feel the weight of his burden, but went bravely on, only
occasionally resting on a water-spout or a parapet, just for a second or
two, but never losing sight of his precious seed; though sometimes he
was sadly annoyed by other Sparrows coming up, and, with great fuss and
chatter, inquiring as to what he was so carefully carrying. But he was
very cautious, and always kept an eye upon his treasure (answering their
questions curtly), for London Sparrows have the character of being not
_too_ honest, with what truth it cannot be said; let us hope the charge
is unfounded. Still our hero thought it advisable to be watchful;
therefore, after satisfying all curiosity on the subject, as much at
least as he deemed needful, he flew off again on his mission--without
telling them the ultimate destination of his seed, fearing, perhaps,
they might be unable to resist the temptation of picking it out of the
mould into which he intended to drop it.
By and by he left the more respectable part of the city, and winged his
way as near as he could remember towards the attic window, where he had
so often seen the poor work-girl busy at her weary task. But a heavy
cloud of smoke darkened the air, and a perfect forest of masts
bewildered him, for he had come to that part of London where the ships
are to be seen--thousands of vessels from all countries of the world.
Still, though he was puzzled for a while, yet he felt sure the house was
near this place, as he recollected having seen these docks before. What
should he do? He paused for a bit upon a slanting roof just to look
around. Oh, the smuts, how they settled upon his feathers! he was
obliged to preen himself, he felt so dirty; if his coat was a dingy
brown, there was no occasion for its being dirty also! All at once, as
he paused during the process of preening, he saw the very window right
in front of him,--he recognised it by its cleanliness, such a contrast
to the squalor around. Yes, there it was, the polished panes of glass
glinting in the gleams of light that came now and then through the
murky atmosphere; and there were the three flower-pots. Why, actually
they had been washed, they looked so freshly red!--or perhaps painted.
Away he joyfully flew, his task was nearly done; but alas for hopes of
birds or people! Just as he was about to alight upon the window-sill, a
tiresome bird--a Sparrow--came flying towards him, exclaiming,--
'Hallo! who are you, I should like to know?' and so startled was he when
accosted thus abruptly, that in his fright he dropped his dear and
precious treasure.
Down, down it fell upon a deal case a man was wheeling on a truck. The
man did not notice the tiny grain that fell; perhaps, had he done so,
would merely have thought it was a particle of dust; but the poor bird's
heart was sorely grieved as he saw it disappear, after all the trouble
he had taken to bring it thus far, and he sat upon the window-ledge of
the girl's room with ruffled plumage and dim eyes, utterly crushed by
this untoward loss. It was too bad!
But after a while he took heart, and looked the disappointment boldly in
the face, which is always the better plan than brooding over it.
'It can't be helped,' he said wisely, rousing from his sorrowful
reflections, and giving his feathers a shake together. 'I did my best,
and could do no more. It is a loss certainly, but no doubt there are
other flower-seeds to be found, so I'll go to-morrow morning to that
same garden, and see if there are any more to be had. Dear me!' he
continued, glancing up with his now bright eyes at the sky; 'why, it is
getting late. I must make haste home, or else my friends will be
anxious, and fear that I have come to grief.'
So saying, he flew away, not without a note of farewell to the girl, who
had been looking at him all the time he sat there so disconsolately,
wondering in her own mind why he was perched there so ruffled and sad,
little dreaming of his kindly intentions towards her--how should
she?--so away he went, and reached his place of abode just as his
brothers and friends were going to roost.
You may be quite sure he was received with a perfect volley of
questions.
'Where have you been?' asked some who were ignorant of his scheme.
'How did you manage?' questioned others who knew.
'What sort of a place is it?' inquired several.