Kitabı oku: «Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing», sayfa 17
SPEAK KINDLY
SPEAK kindly, speak kindly! ye know not the power
Of a kind and gentle word,
As its tones in a sad and weary hour
By the trouble heart are heard.
Ye know not how often it falls to bless
The stranger in his weariness;
How many a blessing is round thee thrown
By the magic spell, of a soft, low tone.
Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of the sad and lonely, they're dear, how dear,
And they nothing cost.
Speak kindly to childhood. Oh, do not fling
A cloud o'er life's troubled sky;
But cherish it well—a holy thing
Is the heart in its purity.
Enough of sorrow the cold world hath,
Enough of care in its later path,
And ye do a wrong if ye seek to throw
O'er the fresh young spirit a shade of woe.
Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of joyous childhood, they're dear, how dear—
And they nothing cost.
Speak gently to age—a weary way
Is the rough and toilsome road of life,
As one by one its joys decay,
And its hopes go out 'mid its lengthened strife.
How often the word that is kindly spoken,
Will bind up the heart that is well nigh broken,
Then pass not the feeble and aged one
With a cold, and careless, and slighting tone;
But kindly, speak kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of the care-worn and weary, they're dear, how dear—
And they nothing cost.
Speak kindly to those who are haughty and cold,
Ye know not the thoughts that are dwelling there;
Ye know not the feelings that struggle untold—
Oh, every heart hath its burden of care.
And the curl of the lip, and the scorn of the eye
Are often a bitter mockery,
When a bursting heart its grief would hide
From the eye of the world 'neath a veil of pride.
Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of the proud and haughty they're often dear,
And they nothing cost.
Speak kindly ever—oh, cherish well
The light of a gentle tone;
It will fling round thy pathway a magic spell,
A charm that is all its own.
But see that it springs from a gentle heart,
That it need not the hollow aid of art;
Let it gush in its joyous purity,
From its home in the heart all glad and free.
Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost
By gentle words—to the heart and ear
Of all who hear them they're dear, how dear—
And they nothing cost.
HAVE PATIENCE
IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finished mangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She had swept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it a saucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin, and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place, though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat and comfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle.' She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty. She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and her thin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showed signs of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grew later, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach of some one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near her door. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; it stopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid face brightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine, intelligent-looking lad, about thirteen years of age, whom she welcomed with evident delight.
"You are later than usual to-night, Stephen," she said.
Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himself in the seat Mary had quitted.
"You do not look well to-night, dear," said Mary anxiously; "is anything the matter?"
"I am quite well, mother," replied the boy. "Let me have my supper. I am quite ready for it."
As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look. Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper, of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen, and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent. In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, rested his elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His hands covered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickle down his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though he were ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said, in a tone of indignation and resolve,
"Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer."
Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then, taking a stool, she seated herself beside him.
"Why, Stephen," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how many hundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's the matter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?"
Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of his thick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the too evident marks of cruel usage.
"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could he be so cruel?"
"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forth his mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion, and he was sorry for it after."
"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry with you?"
"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he counted the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; they had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain, but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said something to him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a careless little rascal, that he lost all patience with me. That hurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he knew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was going into a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling me about patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I know he was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he didn't say so."
"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "he would be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexed that he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you bore it so patiently.
"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his ill temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdy and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work."
Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent and thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner that almost made poor Stephen cry,
"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkind treatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer, Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. You know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed and clothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined that you should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in all my toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world, And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad, and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if you are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it was for me to get you this situation; you might not get another; you must not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must be patient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, God knows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have to suffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, a few years longer."
Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears, while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not in vain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said,
"Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came in to-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But I will promise you to be patient and industrious still. Considering all that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to do for you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady. I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I am patient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be.—It's not so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there's one comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundays with you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper. We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time."
Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, his patience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poor fellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in a small country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for five years, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was a little, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself away with continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetually fretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other, perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he did cease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor lad was an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many, many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; but he was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother. And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nights and blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessed Sundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would always strengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in the end, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolution for the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped would result from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only had faith in her doctrine—that patience and industry would some time be rewarded. How the reward was to come in her son's case, she could not see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that the doctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith.
It was now nearly four years since the conversation between mother and son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturday evening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle, kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked much older, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this moment looking very downcast.
"I do not see that anything can be hoped from him," said Stephen, with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; I have borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent a moment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding all this, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me a single kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know that apprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word to me about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word."
"You must speak to him," said Mary; "you cannot leave without saying something; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannot refuse to do something to help you."
"It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy to do it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of telling him how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary. But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feel that he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask a favour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now, mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'd sooner do anything than that. He ought to do something for me, and there's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him on Monday."
Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up his courage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be done when his master and he were in the shop together, for there they were liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time they separated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in the shop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over: everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired into the little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they were alone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account for the sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken in silence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed, still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his first cup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun to swallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before him untouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deep breath, coloured slightly, and then began:—
"If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you."
His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed his keen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at all surprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well, sir, speak on."
Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tell his little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on he became quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonished himself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. He told all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dwelt strongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during his apprenticeship, and finished by entreating his master now to help him to do something, for he had nothing in the world to turn to, no friends, no money, no influence.
His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes from Stephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, then left his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began to rummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen.
Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Then still without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort of grunting ejaculation—"Humph! so your mother gets her living by mangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you some schooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would be made. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tell her she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, and here's the salary that's due to you. Now you may go to bed."
As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation in his throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; he would even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before he could speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick, and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such a man, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time to get up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday, when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle of clothes;—should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not be ungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, and stood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His master was sitting, solitary, at the tea-table.
"I am going, sir, good-bye," said Stephen.
"Good-bye, sir," returned his master, without, looking at him. And so they parted.
The result of the application told, the mother and the son sat together that night in silence; their hearts were too full for words. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment. Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to form plans for the future—how he should go about to seek for another situation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephen had pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went, "Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet," when they were startled by a loud rap at the door.
"Who's there?" shouted Stephen.
"A letter for you," was the reply.
Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. A letter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised, Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying. He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, that was his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was very like his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightened by a flash of hope; she could not read writing—Stephen must read it for her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was the first thing he saw—he examined it—it was actually a ten pound Bank of England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's; what could this mean? But there was a little note which would perhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it. There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephen read them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he was reading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what was the meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could not understand it.
"Do read up, Stephen," she exclaimed.
With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time to keep from crying, Stephen read,
"MADAM—Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth mangling for; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants; in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I did not mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't see that I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if he would rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad to have him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such lads are not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won't repent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I am better than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way of doing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'll be glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours,
"J. W."
"I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knew you would get on!"
Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had any reason to repent. He got on even beyond his mother's most soaring hopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived a flourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that his mother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a very proud and a very happy woman.
DO THEY MISS ME?
Do they miss me at home? Do they miss me?
'Twould be an assurance most dear,
To know at this moment some loved one
Was saying, "I wish he was here!"
To feel that the group at the fireside
Were thinking of me as I roam!
Oh, yes! 'twould be joy beyond measure,
To know that they missed me at home.
When twilight approaches—the season
That ever was sacred to song—
Does some one repeat my name over,
And sigh that I tarry so long?
And is there a chord in the music,
That's missed when my voice is away?
And a chord in each glad heart that waketh
Regret at my wearisome stay?
Do they place me a chair at the table,
When evening's home pleasures are nigh!
And lamps are lit up in the parlour,
And stars in the calm azure sky?
And when the "Good Nights" are repeated,
And each lays them calmly to sleep,
Do they think of the absent, and waft me
A whispered "Good-Night" o'er the deep?
Do they miss me at home? do they miss me?
At morning, at noon, or at night,
And lingers one gloomy shade round them,
That only my presence can light?
Are joys less invitingly welcomed,
Are pleasures less hailed than before,
Because one is missed from the circle?
Because I am with them no more?
Oh, yes! they do miss me! kind voices
Are calling me back as I roam,
And eyes are grown weary with weeping,
And watch but to welcome me home.
Kind friends, ye shall wait me no longer,
I'll hurry me back from the seas;
For how can I tarry when followed
By watchings and prayers such as these?
