Part 7

The mother, a capital wife, as one would say, but as little acquainted with God and His Word as her husband, was thenceforth compelled to bear singly the burden of supporting her family, and was accustomed to go out and earn money by washing. For more than a year the sorely-smitten family had been deprived even of this scanty means of subsistence, the poor woman's uninterrupted exertions by day and by night having brought on a severe illness, and laid her paralytic--lame, hand and foot--in bed, surrounded by her raging husband, and the three half-naked and starving children.

The eldest of the children was Mary, our wood-gatherer.

The little girl, as she is to be met to-day deep in the wood, has collected a pretty large bundle of dry branches, but is weary from her long wandering about the bushes, and lays herself down to rest on the moss-grown roots of a tall, shady beech-tree.

And while she sits, it is as if the birds in the wood all found an inward compassion with the poor child, and would, as far as lay in their power, encourage, comfort, and cheer her.

Our little Mary thought within herself that she had never heard the feathered songsters sing so sweetly as they were now doing in choirs on the green twigs around her.

And it was indeed delightful to listen how the finch warbled here in short, fresh lay, and the titmouse and sisken there sounded their tender notes; and how, from the copse threaded by the brook, arose the long-breathed farewell song of the nightingale; and, from the far distance, the full melancholy trill of the blackbird floated touchingly over.

The cuckoo, also, and the turtle-dove, gave their contribution to the general concert; the ravens, also, in the neighbouring oak, to whom the song is denied, appeared desirous of contributing their share to the entertainment of the little maid, and fed their young before her eyes, and the young ones stretched their necks out of the high nest, and opened wide their bills. The squirrels frisked about, now here, now there, and leaped from tree to tree; and many of the birds came close to Mary's feet, and picked up worms, or a feather, or flock of moss, and flew away with it to their nests.

Mary looked a long time at this joyous life almost with adoration; and, in the still, lofty wood, her heart had a strange feeling, as if she could, at the same time, laugh and weep. She had also her own thoughts, glad and sorrowful, but more of the latter, and yet she did not herself very well know what she really thought. At last she bent her head on her breast, and the evening zephyrs sighed her asleep.

During the slumber she had a wonderful dream.

She dreamed that she was again in a deep lonely wood, and as she looked up, see! there walked through the shades of the trees, clothed in a shining white garment, a majestic form with a friendly countenance.

All the birds immediately gathered round the mysterious man, and hovered about him with wonderful songs, the like of which she had never heard. And from his full hands he strewed food of all kinds for the cheerful singers, and the birds picked it up, and carried it to their nests, and flew back singing still more heartily and beautifully than before.

And Mary heard the name of the gracious man distinctly repeated in every chorus, and it seemed as if she had never heard so sweet and dear a name. And Mary thought--"Oh, thou kind man, were I but one of these kind birds of thine, and wert thou but to step once into our cottage as thou enterest here!"

And as she thus thought, she was just on the point of rising to hasten after him, and seize the hem of his garment, and say, "Not so, you come to us also;" but then she awoke, and, alas! what she had heard and seen was but a dream. She found herself alone in the dark wood, for the sun had long ago gone down. By her side lay the bundle of sticks--nothing more. Deep silence reigned around her, only broken by the rustling of the evening wind among the leaves of the trees, and now and then the solitary doleful sounds which were winged across from the distant nightingales, and now and then a beetle humming in the air, or a glow-worm shining amongst the shrubs.

Sorrowfully Mary rose up from her mossy seat, put her faggot on her shoulders, and took the way home.

But the sensations kindled by the pleasant dream lived on in her heart, and the image of the friendly man had impressed itself indelibly on her mind.

If she could but recall his name! In her dream it was repeatedly and distinctly pronounced in the songs of the birds, but at the moment of awaking it had escaped, and, cast about as she might, it was not again to be found.

This is not to be wondered at. All over Christendom there are still houses like those of the heathens, where the name in which all salvation is contained is unknown, or, if known, unpronounced.

Such a house that of the parents of this poor child unfortunately was. Mary had never yet been in school. Father and mother, when admonished of their duty, had always pretended that the child was too unwell to be at the time sent to school; and the frequency with which their residence in town had been changed, rendered it difficult for the authorities to take proper oversight of the children.

Mary was now in her own street, walking silently on, trying and trying whether the dear name which she had dreamed would not come back again.

With a friendly "Good evening, my child," a man in a black dress and white bands placed himself beside her. He had just been dispensing comfort at a dying bed.

Mary, buried in thought, was rather startled at the salutation, and stared with great eyes at the stranger, but did not recognise him, for she had never been in church, or only by accident for a few hasty moments. She returned laconically the hearty greeting, fell back again into the train of her meditations, and continued to proceed silently along the street.

The man, however, did not leave her, but entered into conversation, asking from what place she came so late, who her parents were, and in what state matters were at home; and as he spoke so affectionately and paternally, the child gradually opened her whole heart, and went on to tell of their great poverty, and how her mother was so sick, and her little brother and sisters hungered, and her father--but, as she mentioned her father, the tears started to her eyes, and she could not utter one word more for sobbing.

Then the pastor told her--for we already know that it was he--to keep up her spirits, and be of good cheer, better times might come round again. "For," said he, "there lives one, a good, rich, powerful Lord; they only required to apply to Him, and complain to Him of their want, and He would certainly help them; He had already assisted many thousands of poor people."

When the maiden heard these words, she suddenly stood still in the middle of the street, and the look with which she regarded the pastor distinctly asked, "Who is the Great Helper? Mention His name!" And the latter continued his discourse thus: "Do you not know the dear Lord who feeds the birds in the air, which sow not neither reap, and who clothes the lilies of the field, which toil not, neither spin, and yet are more beautifully arrayed than Solomon in all his glory? You surely know Him; or did you never hear of Jesus, the merciful Saviour?"

At these words Mary knew not what to make of it. Ah, thought she, transported with joy, now I have it! Yes! yes! so sounded the name which the birds in the wood praised in my dream!

She thought, but kept close all that had happened to her, and what she had met with, and said, in a touchingly suppliant voice, "Dear sir, tell me more of this Jesus;" and how willingly her friendly companion complied with her request!

He commenced and explained how all the children of men must have perished on account of their sins, had the great and holy God strictly and righteously dealt with them. He next told her of the merciful love of the Almighty--that it was so great that He rather gave for them His most beloved and eternal Son, than leave them to the destruction which they had deserved. This Son, though beyond all measure rich, yet for our sakes became a poor man and our brother, and is rightly named Jesus the Saviour. He staked His all to deliver us and redeem our lost inheritance; and He is now the helping friend of poor sinners, who still, though unseen, goes about over the land, and blessing, and dispensing kindness and comforts wherever He is but desired.

This was the substance of the discourse which the pastor held with the little wood-gatherer, in a way which children could understand.

Meanwhile, to the no small disappointment of the latter, they had reached the town. The pastor made the girl show him the dwelling of her parents, and, after again pressing her not to forget what she had heard, shook hands with her, and, with a hearty "Good night, my dear," took his departure. The girl returned the greeting from the bottom of her heart, thanked him for his words, and went on her way with the bundle of sticks. She had never gone there so light, so free, so happy as at this hour.

When she came home, her father was sitting behind the empty table, gloomy and silent, with his head resting on both hands. The mother was lying in her sick-bed, with immeasurable sorrow imprinted on every feature.

"What have you brought?" shouted the father, with a rigid face, as she entered.

"This wood, father," replied Mary; "and," added she, her countenance lighted up with joy, "a dear, dear friend, who has everything in abundance."

"A friend!" muttered the father; "what sort of friend is it, Mary?"

"One so powerful and rich, that it is an easy thing for him, dear mother, to restore you to health with a word, and no less quickly to bring you work, dear father, and all that we need."

"And this friend may be?"

"He is called Jesus, and"----

She would have said more, but scarcely had she pronounced the name Jesus than her father, with wild blasphemy and cursing, commanded instant silence, and threatened her with blows should she ever again think of coming to him with such fooleries and pronouncing that name.

And, alas! the sick mother was of the same opinion, and manifested as much anger as her husband, and said: "Had you brought us home a few pence for bread, that would have been better."

It is scarcely in the power of words to express what Mary felt at this reception. The weight upon her breast prevented her from uttering a single word more. She stole softly into the dark closet which was the common sleeping apartment of herself, her father, and two sisters.

Overcome with grief, she sank down on the hard straw mattress; and who knows whether she had ever again risen from it, had her oppressed heart not found relief in giving vent to a flood of clear tears, and had she not, at the same time, recalled to memory the kind, comforting form which had appeared to her in the dream.

"Oh, Lord Jesus," sighed Mary, "thou dear friend of poor sinners, see, see, how I also am a poor, poor, little bird; and my sisters, and we all, all! Oh, help us also! Restore my mother to health, and make my father cheerful and good! Give us bread, and peace; give us peace, and make us love Thee, and be obedient to Thee!"

Sobbing, she sighed it up, and sighed and whispered much more besides. Then she became still, and wept no more, for it was with her as if one sweet yes after another sounded in her ear. Full of blessed peace, she fell asleep. Hope was the good angel that closed her eyes.

Next morning she was the first out of bed, and cheerfully and actively busied herself in sweeping the room, and, as far as possible, putting everything in its place.

She then sat down by the bedside of her mother, and said, "Mother, certainly the Saviour helps!"

To her mother's question how she had fallen into this strange way of speaking, Mary began to relate all the occurrences of the day before,--how she had fallen asleep in the wood, what a dream she had had, how a well-disposed man had made up to her on the way, and this and that which he had spoken.

And she told it so lively, and with such simple and childlike gladness, that the mother could not be satisfied with hearing; and at length tears stood in her eyes, and she seized Mary's hand, and said, "Oh, Mary, that you would but dream once more!"

Meanwhile, the father also had entered the room; but when he heard the words, "Jesus," and "prayer," and remarked the solemn and impressed air of both mother and daughter, he broke into a fury, and said, "Mary, bring once more that absurd stuff to light, and you may look about for where to live; I tolerate you no longer here! Go and get bread. If matters do not soon take a different turn in my family, I am resolute, and there is nothing of which I will not be capable. The criminals in the penitentiary may be called happy compared with us, and death is to be preferred to this life of starvation and distress!"

He said this with a countenance of deep despair and a horrible aspect. Mary sprang towards him, clung tenderly to his knee, and said with a voice which might have moved a stone--

"Oh, father, do not be so sad, do not be so angry. You will see that we will certainly be helped!"

The father put her away from him, though with a gentle push; and, whether his heart was touched I know not, went in silence out of the room, shut the door behind him, and was soon lost in the streets of the town.

When he returned towards noon, sulky and out of humour, he found Mary busy, spreading a tattered napkin on the table, and laying earthenware dishes. At the same time she set as many knives and forks as could be found; and did it all with such a cheerfulness of her own, as if she was preparing for a feast anticipated by no one else.

"Have we anything to eat?" asked he.

"I do not understand either," chimed in the mother, "what the foolish child means."

Mary, however, rejoined, "I think some one will indeed provide something for us."

"Don't begin again to be absurd," shouted the father, and held his clenched fist close to the child's face.

Mary bent her head and was silent. Did she perhaps know some secret? She knew none; only her heart said, "The friend that feeds the birds cannot and will not forsake us!"

Just as it struck mid-day in the clock on the tower, the room-door, opened, and a neat, well-clad maid entered, with a great, and to appearance heavily-laden basket on her arm.

"My master's compliments," began she, "and you would perhaps accept this from him if you can use it. Mr. B. bids me say that you were so much in his mind last night, that he could scarcely sleep on your account. He then thought that you might possibly be in present difficulties; and should it be the case, you would perhaps excuse his sending this small contribution to your household. He will himself, in the course of a few days, come and see how matters stand with you."

Saying this, she emptied the basket, laid several beautiful loaves upon the table, handed forth a pot of butter, and a large piece of meat. There also lay at the bottom of the basket a cloth dress already worn, but still in good condition, and a piece of linen lay beside it. The maid said, "For shifts for the children."

When the shoemaker B. saw the one unpacked after the other, he stood like a pillar, and strove to utter a word of thanks, but was wholly unable. His wife made no less effort to stammer out from her sick-bed some expression of gratitude; but, as she would speak, she broke into loud sobbing, and instead of words, poured forth a stream of tears. Nothing remained but that little Mary should be the mouth of her parents.

"Give your good master," said the girl, "thousand, thousand thanks. The Lord Jesus will recompense what he has done for us in His name!" She then turned to her father and mother with joy beaming from her eyes, and said, "Do you see? there is indeed the dear, powerful Friend! Come let us eat what he has provided, and let us be happy!"

But hunger and thirst had left the parents. The father wept, standing speechless and as if thunderstruck in the middle of the room; then all at once he took up his little daughter, pressed her to his heart, and turned up his eyes as if he would direct them to heaven; and how further the hardened man began to weep and sob is scarcely to be told.

The mother called from her bed one time after another, "It is the Lord! it is the Lord!" but more than this her excessive agitation prevented her from saying.

The scene of tears was still continuing when the door opened afresh, and introduced the gentleman himself who had just sent the provisions and clothing, a substantial merchant of that place.

At the sight of the weeping faces he started, and stopped at the threshold, saying "Children, what is the matter with you?" No answer. "But I entreat you," continued he with increasing interest, "what has happened to you?"

Again no answer, but only a smile and a sigh through tears.

Then Mary took up the word once more, and said, "Dear, noble sir, it is from joy and gratitude that we are all weeping."

"Indeed," rejoined the benefactor, "that is well worth such a trifle. You see, Mr. B., I had to leave you two years ago, and give the work for my family to others, for, to tell you candidly, it was impossible to be any longer satisfied with you. I learned, besides, that you had entered upon an irregular life. I confess that since then I thought no more of you, until in the past night, as I could not sleep, all at once the thought of you entered my mind, and whether I would or not, I felt anxious for you. I should have hastened to you myself this morning had not an unforseen engagement thwarted my design; and in the meantime I forwarded the few refreshments. But now tell me how matters stand with you. That you were very poor I learned from those in my service, of whom I enquired this morning. Have you again bethought yourself of the duties which you owe wife and child? Just open up your heart to me, and explain all."

The master of the house stood a few seconds opposite his benevolent guest, with eyes fixed on the ground, and dumb; he then covered his face with his hands, and cried in a loud and truly heart-rending voice, "No, no! I am a godless man; but, with God's help"----

He would have said more, but tears choked his utterance.

His friendly visitor then grasped him by the right hand, and said, with winning kindness and gentleness, "Compose yourself, compose yourself; all may, all will take a turn for the better. Listen! Because I expect that you will henceforth lead a regular life, and keep steadily at your work, I will make an advance for the purchase of as much leather as you require, and not only will I give you the work from my house, but I hope to be able to procure other friends to do the same. Now, is that agreeable to you? Say what you think."

These words were scarcely pronounced, when the tradesman, deeply moved, suddenly fell upon his knees, and cried, "God be merciful to me a sinner! Mary, I now see it with my own eyes. Your Saviour lives!"

The mother, from her couch, made similar exclamations, and the generous guest kept ever and anon wiping his eyes.

At last he said, "Children, I pray you be still. You break my heart. Eat now; be cheerful. For to-day, farewell; I will return to-morrow." With this he left, moved to the very heart.

It would be tedious to relate in detail what further took place. From that time, in the cottage of the shoemaker, all old things passed away and all things became new. Those who had formerly been acquainted with the family no longer recognised it. Husband and wife walked hand and hand in the countenance of the Lord. Their union was of the happiest, their house a bright example to the whole neighbourhood. The children were trained up in the fear and admonition of the Lord, and, neatly clad, regularly attended the school of a pious teacher.

Mary bloomed in the society of the powerful and loving Friend who feeds the birds and clothes the lilies, happy and lovely as a flower of paradise in the dark valley of the earth. The father by and bye kept, sometimes three, sometimes even four journeymen, and his family had their daily bread in abundance.

He did not remain one farthing in the debt of his benefactor, who afterwards learnt, of course, all that had transpired previously to his first visit. He was even able to give something of his own to the treasury of love, and many a contribution for missionary, Bible, and other Christian associations, were received from him by the pastor, who kept the promise he had made to Mary of visiting them, and in no family of his parish passed his time oftener, or with greater pleasure, than in that of the shoemaker. The peace of God was enthroned beneath the richly blessed roof, for the Prince of Peace Himself had in mercy taken up His abode there.

The parents, afterwards, following close on each other, died in a joyful faith in Him who, in a twofold sense, had been to them resurrection and life.

Mary had been shortly before married to a cabinetmaker, an upright man, who was well aware what a pearl the Lord had presented him with in his wife. On the marriage day, the bridegroom made his bride a present of a beautiful family Bible, with gilt edges and silver clasps. The bride, in return, gave him a piece of embroidery, wrought by her own hand, and set in a gilt frame. There were on it full-topped trees, and branches decorated with all kinds of little birds. A kind form wandered beneath the shade of the trees, and strewed corn right and left for the happy songsters. At the foot of the piece, composed of particles of gold, might be read the words:--"Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. _Are ye not much better than they?_"

* * * * * * * *

*THE CLAREMONT SERIES, 1/.*

_*Handsomely bound in Cloth. Illustrated.*_

1. THE CLAREMONT TALES A story for Boy and Girls. By A.L.O.E.

2. A WREATH OF SMOKE Or A Wedding in a London Fog. By A.L.O.E.

3. GRACE VERNON. Or Christian Lore and Loyalty. By A.L.O.E.

4. CHRISTIAN CONQUESTS A Collection of Stories, by A.L.O.E.

5. POMEGRANATES FROM THE PUNJAB A Series of Stories, by A.L.O.E.

6. THE LAKE OF THE WOODS A tale of the Backwoods. By A.L.O.E.

7. TALES ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE PARABLES A Collection of Stories, by A.L.O.E.

8. LITTLE BULLETS FROM BATALA Or Indian Stories, by A.L.O.E.

9. SEVEN PERILS PASSED A Series of Stories, by A.L.O.E.

10. THE BATTLE OF LIFE Or What is a Christian? Stories by A.L.O.E.

11. THE WONDROUS SICKLE Stories by A.L.O.E.

12. THE KING'S HIGHWAY Stories on the Commandments. By Rev. Dr. Newton.

13. THE SAFE COMPASS And How it Points. By Rev. Dr. Newton.

14. THE GIANTS, AND HOW TO FIGHT THEM And other Stories. By Rev. Dr. Newton.

15. BURTIE COREY The Fisher Boy. A Temperance Story.

16. OLD CARROLL'S WILL Or "Take Care of 'Number One.'" By S. G. Goodrich.

17. THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS By John Bunyan. Illustrated.