Chapter 3

But the poor have no time to spare for mourning or regrets; they must be up and doing, even though their hearts fail them for very sorrow; yet none save those who have suffered can know the utter desolation of heart, crushing the very soul to the earth with despair, when the father, 'the bread-winner,' is taken from their midst, and those who are left know not where to look for help or guidance; and so this poor widow sat by the fire-light, with her boy's hand clasped in hers, gazing into the glowing embers as if trying to read the future therein. The past had been very happy, for her girlhood was spent in a far different sphere, but she had freely given up all for him who was now no more, and had never repented of the sacrifice made; but, alas! he was gone, leaving her alone, and her heart was like to break. And, musing thus, she recalled the tones of the dear voice that had ever comforted her when in sadness, now silent for ever!--the brave heart so firm of purpose that had ceased to beat!--and as she thought of him who had been so kind, so true, her courage gave way, and, burying her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud, saying,--

'Oh, Davie, Davie! who will care for us now father is gone?'

The child put his arms lovingly around her bowed head, as though it was his place to be the comforter.

'Mother darling, the Lord will care for us. He is the friend of the widow and fatherless.'

There was something in the boy's voice that struck the mother's ear, for she removed her hands from before her face, and, drawing him nearer to her, gazed earnestly into those clear blue eyes.

Sudden sorrow often changes the entire nature of people, and the events of the last few days had, as it were, transformed little Davie from a mere child into a thoughtful boy. Like his namesake of old, 'he was of a beautiful countenance,' and as he caressingly smoothed his mother's pale cheeks with his soft, gentle hands, she felt she was not desolate, since he was left to her. Long they sat in silence. At last the boy said,--

'Mother dear, Mat Morgan says that, as I am now ten years old, it is time for me to begin work like the other lads about here.'

'How, Davie?' she dreamily questioned, for her thoughts were wandering far away, so that she scarcely heard what he said.

'In the pit with him,' was the reply; 'he is so kind and good, I know he will take great care of me.'

'No, no!' she cried, clasping him yet closer to her; 'not in the cruel mine that has robbed us of father!--no--not there!'

'Nay, mother darling,' the boy gently urged; 'it was God who took father home--and he was ready to go! Besides,' he continued, with all the hopefulness of youth, 'I could earn some money every week, and only think how useful that would be!'

'But your poor father did not wish you to be a miner; he hoped you would become a great and clever man,' the mother replied.

He hesitated for a moment. Bright visions had filled his young head of 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.