PATSY FINDS HIS THREE LOST YEARS.
"Now God be thanked for years enwrought
With love which softens yet.
Now God he thanked for every thought
Which is so tender it has caught
Earth's guerdon of regret."
Well, Jim did not succeed in finding his girl, although he "looked"
industriously. Either the "millingnaries" did not smile upon him and his
slender bank account, or they were not willing to wash the dishes and
halve the financial responsibilities besides; but as the winter days
slipped by, we could not help seeing that Patsy's pale face grew paler
and his soft dark eyes larger and more pathetic. In spite of better care
than he had ever had before, he was often kept at home by suffering all
too intense for a child to bear. It was almost as if a sixth sense came
to him in those days, so full was he of strange thoughts and intuitions.
His eyes followed me wistfully as I passed from one child to another,
and when my glance fell upon him, his loving gaze seemed always waiting
for mine.
When we were alone, as he pored over picture-books, or sat silently by
the window, watching the drops chase each other down the pane, his talk
was often of heaven and the angels.
[Illustration: "HE SAT SILENTLY BY THE WINDOW."]
Daga Ohlsen had left us. Her baby eyes had opened under Norway skies,
but her tongue had learned the trick of our language when her father and
mother could not speak nor understand a word, and so she became a
childish interpreter of manners and customs in general. But we knew that
mothers' hearts are the same the world over, and, lacking the power to
put our sympathy in words, we sent Daga's last bit of sewing to her
mother. Sure enough, no word was needed; the message explained itself;
and when we went to take a last look at the dear child, the scrap of
cardboard lay in the still hand, the needle threaded with yellow wool,
the childish knot, soiled and cumbersome, hanging below the pattern just
as she had left it. It was her only funeral offering, her only funeral
service, and was it not something of a sermon? It told the history of
her industry, her sudden call from earthly things, and her mother's
tender thought. It chanced to be a symbol, too, as things do chance
sometimes, for it was a butterfly dropping its cocoon behind it, and
spreading its wings for flight.
Patsy had been our messenger during Daga's illness, and his mind was
evidently on that mystery which has puzzled souls since the beginning of
time; for no anxious, weary, waiting heart has ever ceased to beat
without its passionate desire to look into the beyond.
"Nixy Jones's mother died yesterday, Miss Kate. They had an orful nice
funeral."
"Yes, I'm sorry for the poor little children; they will miss their
mamma."
"Not 'nuff to hurt 'em! Them Joneses never cared nuthin' for nobody;
they was playing on tin oyster cans the hull blessed ev'nin', till Jim
went 'nd stop't 'em, 'nd told 'em it warn't perlite. Say how dretful it
must be to go down into the cold, dark ground, and be shut up in a tight
box, 'nd want to git out--git out--'nd keep hollerin' 'nd a-hollerin',
and nobody come to fetch yer, cause yer's dead!"
"Oh, Patsy, child, stop such fearful thoughts! I hope people are glad
and willing to stay when they are dead. The part of them that wonders
and thinks and feels and loves and is happy or sad--you know what I
mean, don't you?"
"Yes," he said slowly, leaning his head on his hand.
"God takes care of that part; it is His own, and He makes it all right.
And as for our bodies, Patsy, you don't care about keeping your poor
little aching back, do you? You talk about the cold, dark earth. Why, I
think of it as the tender, warm earth, that holds the little brown acorn
until it begins to grow into a spreading oak-tree, and nurses the little
seeds till they grow into lovely blossoming flowers. Now we must trot
home, Patsy. Wrap this shawl over your shoulders, and come under my
umbrella."
"Oh, I don't need any shawl, please. I'm so orful hot!"
"That's just the reason," I replied, as I looked with anxious eyes at
his flushed cheeks.
I left him at the little door on Anna Street, and persuaded Mrs. Kennett
to give him some hot soup at dinner-time.
The next morning I was startled from a profound sleep by a tremendous
peal of the door-bell. Though only half awakened, my forebodings seemed
realized; and the bell rang "Patsy" in my ears.
I hastily slipped on my dress, and, going to the door, saw just whom I
expected,--Jim.
"What's the matter with Patsy?"
"He's turrible bad, miss; he got took with one o' them fits the worst
kind in the night, and liked ter died. Yer could a heerd him screech a
block off."
"Oh, my poor boy! Have you had a doctor? What did he say?"
"Well, he said he guessed it was the last one, miss, 'nd I'm afraid it
is, sure."
"Who is with him now? Are you going right back?"
"Yes, miss, soon as I go 'nd git leave from the boss. Mis' Kennett's
went to her washin'. She couldn't 'ford ter lose a job. I found Mr.
Kennett, 'nd he's mindin' Patsy. He cries for you; he says he don't want
nothin' but jest Miss Kate, and he's that crazy he wants to git up 'nd
come to the Kindergarten."
"Dear little lad!" I said, trying to keep back the tears. "Here, Jim,
take the school keys to Miss Helen, and ask her to take my place to-day.
I'll start in ten minutes for Patsy."
"Thank yer, miss. I tell yer, he's a crooked little chap, but he's as
smart as they make 'em; 'nd annyhow, he's all the folks I've got in the
world, 'nd I hope we kin pull him through."
* * * * *
"Pull him through!" Had years passed over Patsy's head since I saw him
last? He seemed to have grown old with the night's pain, but the eyes
shone out with new lustre and brilliancy, making ready, I thought, to
receive the heavenly visions.
We were alone. I could not bear Mr. Kennett's presence, and had
dispatched him for the doctor. I knelt by the bedside, and took his cold
hand in mine. I could not pray God to spare him, it was so clear that He
had better take him to Himself.
"I knowed you'd come, Miss Kate," he said faintly; "I knowed you'd hurry
up; you's allers hurryin' up for us boys."
Oh, how beautiful, how awesome, it is to be the messenger of peace to an
unhappy soul! So great a joy is it to bear that it is not given to many
twice in a lifetime.
The rain beat upon the frail roof, the wind blew about the little house,
and a darkness of fast-gathering black clouds fell into the room in
place of the morning sunbeams. It was a gloomy day for a journey, but if
one were traveling from shadow into sunshine, I thought, it would not
matter much.
"Mis' Kennett says I must hev a priest, but I don't want no priest but
you," whispered the faint voice as I bent over the pillows. "What does
priests do when folks is sick, Miss Kate?"
"They pray, Patsy."
"What fur?"
I paused, for in my grief I could think of no simple way of telling that
ignorant little child what they did pray for.
"They will pray for you, dear," I said at length, "because they will
want to talk to God about the little boy who is coming to Him; to tell
Him how glad they are that he is to be happy at last, but that they
shall miss him very, very much."
"The priest lives clear out Market Street, 'nd he wouldn't git 'ere
'fore God knew the hull thing 'thout his tellin' of it. You pray, Miss
Kate."
_"O thou dear, loving Father in Heaven, Patsy's Father and mine, who
givest all the little children into their mothers' arms, if one of them
is lost and wandering about the world forlorn and alone, surely Thou
wilt take him to a better home! We send little Patsy to Thee, and pray
that his heart may be fitted with joy and thankfulness when he comes to
live in Thy house."_
"Tell 'im 'bout them three years what I lost, so 't He'll make 'lowance,
jest as you did."
_"O God, who saw fit to lay a heavy burden on Patsy's little shoulders
and take away his three years, make them up to him in his heavenly
life."_
"Yer never said Amen! 'T ain't no good 'thout yer say Amen!"
_"Amen!"_
Silence for many minutes. The brain was alive with thoughts, but the
poor tired body was weakened already with the labor of telling them.
When he spoke again, it was more slowly and with greater difficulty.
"I guess--Heaven--is kind o' like--our Kindergartent--don't you? 'nd
so--I ain't goin' to feel--strange! There'll be beautiful places, with
flowers bloomin' in 'em, 'nd birds 'nd brooks mebbe, like those in the
stories you tell us, and lots of singin' like we have; and the peoples
are good to each other, like our children, 'ceptin' Jimmy Battles,--'nd
they'll do each other's work, 'nd wait on the angels, 'nd run errants
for God, I s'pose--and everybody'll wear clean--white--aprons--like in
the picture-books; but I sha'n't like it much 'thout you git there
pretty quick, Miss Kate;--but I ain't goin' to cry!"
"Oh, Patsy, my boy, it is for those who are left behind to cry. It must
be better to go."
"Well, I'm willin'. I've got enough o' this, I tell yer, with backaches,
'nd fits, 'nd boys callin' sassy names--'nd no gravy ever on my
pertater;--but I hate to go 'way from the Kindergartent--only p'raps
Heaven is just like, only bigger, 'nd more children--'nd no Jimmy
Battleses! Sing about the pleasant mornin' light, will yer, please--Miss
Kate?"
And in a voice choked with tears, as Jim came in and lifted Patsy in his
arms, I sang the hymn that he had sung, with folded hands and reverent
mien, every morning of his life in the Kindergarten:--
"Father, we thank Thee for the night,
And for the pleasant morning light;
For rest and gladness, love and care,
And all that makes the day so fair!
Help us to do the things we should:
To be to others kind and good;
In all we do, in work or play,
To grow more loving every day!"
The last lingering, trembling note fell upon the death-like stillness of
the room, as with one sharp, brief struggle, one look of ineffable love
and peace, the tired lids drooped heavily over the eyes never to be
lifted again. Light had gleamed upon the darkened pathway, but the
silent room, the dying fire, the failing light, and the falling rain
were all in fellowship with Death. My blessed boy! God had given him
back his three lost years!
"Oh, it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach,
but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn. When Death
strikes down the innocent and young, from every fragile form from which
he lets the panting spirit free a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of
mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world and bless it. Of every tear
that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born,
some gentler nature comes."
[Illustration: TAIL-PIECE.]