A WALK IN THE WOOD
CORRIE was breathing softly in a sound sleep long before Robin followed
her into dreamland. He had so much to think about: first, it was mother
sitting there so patiently beside the dimly-burning candle, stitching
on another patch to the jacket he had just taken off. Dear mother! What
a sad patient look sat on her peaceful face! That look had never gone
away since the night strange feet were heard on the threshold, and
husky voices told the tale, the mournful tale, of the hungry sea: "All
hands gone down—a total wreck!"
"'God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,'"
was heard above the agony of that night of weeping. "'Therefore will
not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be
carried into the midst of the sea. Though the waters thereof roar and
be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof.
There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God,
the holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High. God is in the midst
of her; she shall not be moved! God shall help her, and that right
early.'" (Ps. xlvi.).
Robin always called it father's psalm after that, and often used to
repeat part of it to himself and Corrie; for mother had told him there
was "no more sea" now for father! He had sailed away to the river of
life—"the river that makes glad the city of God, proceeding out of the
throne of God and of the Lamb," where neither storm nor tempest can
ever come.
Robin was thinking about the golden city to-night; and its brightness
seemed to come down to him as he lay planning his happy schemes. "The
angels sang about 'goodwill towards men,'" thought he; "so I know Jesus
means us to be very glad." And his thoughts drifted on till he dreamed
a happy dream.
His one sound sleep came to an end earlier than usual, for he had gone
to bed with the determination to be up and stirring betimes. Robin,
like other busy happy people, found there was nothing like the prospect
of having plenty to do, to arouse the desire for a long day and put
sloth and idleness to shame.
The boy rose softly so as not to disturb mother and Corrie in the next
room, and peeped out in the cold dim dawn of that December day.
"I must be sharp," he said, hastily dressing himself, "or I shall not
catch old Jonathan. Oh, dear! I forgot to bring in the sticks last
night to dry, and they're ever so wet in the yard. Mother must find a
good fire this cold morning."
Robin did not forget to kneel down and speak to God, to ask His help
and guidance before beginning his duties for the day. If he had not
done this, he would not have got on at all, for the provoking sticks
hissed and refused to light until his patience had been sorely tried
for a very long time. However, all was at length finished, and the
newly-filled kettle set on the stove. Then Robin fetched his truck
from the outhouse, and, having placed the large empty flasket upon it,
started off.
He had two miles to go beyond the town before he could reach the
large old-fashioned house called Oaklands, that stood within its high
shrubberies and well-kept grounds. The sun's face was rosy red, as
if he was quite ashamed of getting up so late; but as the clouds and
mists dispersed, bright golden rays came shooting down between the bare
branches that stood up straight and tall above the hedges, making the
more lowly leaves and grasses glitter with a bright diamond tracery.
Robin enjoyed the crackling noise his feet made as he stepped into
one iced pool after another, or trod on the firmly-edged ruts of that
roughly-kept country road. When the robins sang, he whistled, and the
blackbirds and thrushes did not mind hopping quite close to him as he
trudged along so cheerily to the rattle of his one-wheeled barrow.
Through the belt of firs that skirted the grounds of Oaklands, Robin
could see blue smoke rising from the gardener's cottage.
"I'll leave my truck here, inside the gate," thought he, "and run
across the short way to the kitchen garden; he's safe to be there." And
Robin, with freed hands, at a single bound cleared the little stream
that fed the large pond, and in a few minutes entered the high-walled
garden by a low door.
Yes, there was old Jonathan at his work, as he expected. Now, old
Jonathan was a well-known character for many miles round. There was
not a child in the hamlet hard by that would not look up in his face
with a smile as he patted its head, or took the little one on his knee.
Those mysterious pockets of his seemed to have a never-ending supply of
halfpennies and farthings, sweeties and nuts, or maybe a ripe apple now
and then. Age had lined his face with many a wrinkle, and his back was
a trifle bent; but he could still handle a spade with a vigorous will,
and knew what it was to do a hard day's work as well as a younger man.
You had only to look into his honest eyes to know he could be a good
friend, a friend for cloud as well as for sunshine, as many a one could
testify who had felt the comforting grip of his horny hand in a time of
trouble. The old gardener had seen several changes at Oaklands since
the death of his old master and friend sixteen years ago; but he still
held on to the place, the successors being only too glad to secure the
services of such a trustworthy servant.
Robin's mother had lived in the house in former days as nurse to
the children, who now had grown up and gone out into life. She was
therefore an old friend of Jonathan, and her son could reckon upon the
kind old man now as always, for he was in the habit of helping him
in various ways, and was his beloved friend and counsellor in every
emergency.
"Good-morning, Mr. Jonathan," said Robin, running quickly across the
garden to where the gardener was pulling up something from one of the
beds.
Jonathan did not hear him at first, for he was a little deaf, so the
salutation was repeated, when the stooping figure raised itself, and
the kind hearty face met Robin's eager look with a friendly smile.
"Well, you are early enough, youngster, anyway," said he. "What sort of
a worm are you up to catch this fine morning? A bit of horse-radish is
about all I've got to give you to-day, and I hope you'll have a good
piece of beef to need the flavour. How is your mother?"
"Not very well, thank you; she feels the cold on her chest most days;
but she wanted me to thank you for speaking about the washing up at the
house. I've got the basket here now to fetch the clothes."
"All right, my boy, and welcome, though 'tis nothing to thank about. I
would always do your mother a good turn if I could. Before you go up
with the flasket, just lend me a hand, will you? I want to dig up one
of those trees in the copse yonder."
Robin gave a hearty assent, and as they stepped together across the
crisp ground and out to the open field beyond the garden wall, he
ventured to ask—
"Mr. Jonathan, what are you going to do with the tree?"
"Why, 'tis for the young ones at the house; there are children there,
you know, and they are preparing for some grand doings to-night: a
Christmas tree to hang the pretty things upon, and neighbours coming
from all round with their little ones to see it."
"Oh," said Robin, "that is what mother told us about; they used to
have it long ago when she was in service there; it must be grand, Mr.
Jonathan. I wish our little Corrie could see it; but she can never
never come so far, even to peep in at the window. The doctor says she
will never walk."
"Poor little lass!" answered Jonathan sadly. "But do not fret about it,
my boy; the Lord will make it up to her somehow; if not in this life,
when He takes her above. I must try to get her a pretty Christmas posy.
She always smiles when she sees flowers. Never fear, she shall have a
happy Christmas, if old Jonathan can do his part towards it."
"I knew you would help me if you could," cried Robin gleefully, as his
companion pointed to a well-grown young fir tree, and proceeded to dig
about its roots.
"There! Steady, my boy! We shall have it up as clean and clear as
sixpence. Stay! Before we carry it up to the house, I must chop off one
or two of the lower branches; that will make it a better shape."
"Mr. Jonathan," asked Robin wistfully, "may I have this one?" And
taking up one of the freshly-cut fir boughs, he held it out to view.
"If I may have this," he continued, "and you will give me a pot and
some earth to stick it into, I will take it home to Corrie and make a
Christmas tree for her."
"Have it, my boy, and welcome; and what should you say to a pen'orth of
sweets to hang on it, if I can find a copper? Now run and fetch your
barrow and the flasket; we'll go up to the house together. Fine-grown
trees," he added, pausing to point proudly to the wood, whose
boundaries he and Robin were skirting. "Different sorts there, and many
a lesson to be learned from them."
"Lessons from the trees, Mr. Jonathan?"
"Yes, my boy; they are always teaching something new to me, and
explaining God's Holy Word in a wonderful way. We must live and grow
like those trees if we want to be worth anything. Our good minister
told us last Sunday that the man who is not in Christ is like the grass
that grows up to be cut down at last with the scythe. It is only those
who are planted in Christ that can grow up into trees of righteousness,
and bear fruit to the praise and glory of His name."
"I never thought of that before," said Robin.
"Maybe not, child; you are young, and have much to learn. A lifetime is
not long enough to find out the wonders of His grace. But mind you, my
boy, we must have the root of the matter in us before we can be right
for God's garden. Some people are like plants put into the ground with
their heads downwards; their lives are all wrong and topsy-turvy, and
nothing can be done with them until they are turned right round, which
is what is meant by being converted. When you ran up to me just now,
I was thinking over the Apostle Paul's wonderful prayer; I had been
reading it in my Bible before I set out for my day's work; I was saying
ft over and over again for fear I should forget it:
"'That He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory,
to be strengthened with might by His Spirit in the inner man; that Christ
may dwell in your hearts by faith; that ye, being rooted and grounded
in love, may be able to comprehend with all saints what is the breadth
and length and depth and height; and to know the love of Christ which
passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fulness of
God.' (Eph. iii. 16-19).
"Ah, Robin, my boy, God grant you that blessing, and then you will
grow up a rare plant and noble tree,—'the tree planted by the rivers
of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season, and whose leaf
shall not wither.'
"Yet, however far down our roots may strike, we shall never reach the
bottom of Christ's love. But we can grow in it. 'It is the Spirit that
quickeneth;' and He can give us all in and through our Lord Jesus
Christ. Now run away, my lad, and fetch your barrow. I will wait for
you at the turn of the shrubbery nigh the house."