OF my early life I cannot remember much before we went to the mountains, and still I have always had a vague remembrance of a pleasant home surrounded with tall trees, a fountain bubbling up and catching the sun’s rays in a thousand bewildering forms, sweet flowers, and singing birds; while in my own little room there was a curious round glass with rock and moss at the bottom, where the gold fish flashed their beauty through the crystal water. Then there were days indistinct and shadowy, when the glory and beauty had gone, where I hardly knew, and we had another home—my mother, Jennie, and I.
My father I had seldom seen, and now I saw less of him than before. I did not so much wonder, for it was not home to me, that little brown house perched like a bird’s nest on the shelf of the mountain. I did not like it, and often used to ask my mother why we were there. She never used to answer me; but putting her arm around me drew me closely to her, kissing me over and over again, while the tears fell on my face, but saying nothing.
It was not so with Jennie, the pretty golden-haired baby that I used to rock in a nice little crib in our first home. Then we had pretty carpeted floors, and I could ride my pony all day in a room made on purpose to play in.
But when I grew older I saw it all, and understood why my mother pressed me to her heart and wept. I then knew what made my father reel and stagger so as he came up the path; and why, when Jennie put up her hands, and crowed out her evening welcome, he took no notice of her, and one night came very near crushing the little creature as he fell over the threshold. Oh, sad, sad days, when he was so cross, declaring the house was cold and cheerless, or the rooms were so bare of comfort—when he went to the village at the foot of the hills every morning, and if he did not come back at night, mother took Jennie in her arms, and we went after him.
In this way we lived till Jennie was five years old; then mother grew sick, and for days lay on the bed so white and still, Jennie curling up beside her, putting her little chubby cheek close to the thin pallid one, while I dug up raspberry roots and boiled them into broth for mother and the baby to eat.
One day she spoke less frequently; I thought she was asleep, and walked about very carefully so as not to wake her: at length she looked up, beckoned me to her, put her arms about my neck, and kissed me. “Whatever happens,” she said, “you must be a good boy, Marston. You are now almost ten years old; you will take good care of Jennie, and never let her leave you.”
“I will, mother; but what makes you talk so?” and I cried aloud in grief and fear.
“I am very sick, Marston, and I may die. If I do, you will take care of Jennie; promise me.”
“Yes, mother; but you will not die. God must not—”
“Hush, my son; God knows what is best; you will always remember to love and obey Him.”
“How can I, mother, if he takes you? You are all we have in the world. What will Jennie and I do without you? No, mother, if he is good, he will not do this;” and I buried my face in the pillows. My poor sick mother put her thin arms about my neck, and drew me still nearer, her hot cheek meeting mine.
“God is good, my child, and still I must leave you. Mother would not tell you any thing that was not so. You believe me, Marston?”
“I believe you, mother,” I cried passionately, “but I cannot let you go; if you go, I must go with you.”
“No, Marston, you must stay to take care of Jennie and your father. Jennie is such a little girl, what would become of her without you?”
“Will it make you happier, mother, if I take care of Jennie?” and I kissed her white cheeks again and again.
“Yes, my son, I shall be very happy if you will promise to be a good boy, and take care of your little sister for Christ and for me.”
“I will promise; I will be good, mother,” and my tears were dried.
Invested with a new dignity as the protector of my little sister, I must be a man; and I took up Jennie and fed her from the one little china bowl that remained to us of our old home.
Weary with the effort of talking, my mother fell asleep, looking so calm and placid; while I rocked the baby, and watched her quiet breathing.
Presently a neighbor came in, and bending over the bed asked how long she had been sick.
“Two weeks,” I answered.
“Poor thing; why didn’t she send for the doctor?”
“She thought she should be better soon,” I replied, laying Jennie down on the foot of the bed; and going softly to my mother, I gently kissed the pale forehead.
“Marston, promise,” and she opened her eyes.
“I do, I will, mother.”
“Dear me, Mrs. Howe, why did you not send for me? your husband told me this morning that you were sick; and as soon as we had dinner, I came right up.”
“I knew there was no help for me. If it was not for leaving my children—”
“Don’t be troubled, Mrs. Howe. It isn’t much that I have, but such as it is they shall have a part.”
Slowly the sun went down, and as the darkness rolled up the mountain father came home. He was steadier than usual, and for the first time he seemed sorry that mother was sick; took her hand kindly in his, and bent over the pillow and kissed her.
“Only get well, Mary, and I will stay at home always.” It was all he could say, the tears choked him.
“I am very sick, Robert. You will do this for the children,” and her eyes closed.
All night the two watched by her bed, Mrs. Jeffries and father; while Jennie nestled in my arms, occasionally putting up her mouth for a kiss, thinking it was mother.
I lived an age in that night, and how many resolves I formed and plans laid of what I would do, and how I would care for that one little sister.
Alas, I had to learn that he who wins must walk through rough places; that the sweet rest for which we long is only given to those who have been prompt in duty, resolute against temptation, strong in faith, patient in the hour of trial. Alas for the weary feet that must walk through the world without a mother’s guidance.
Before morning Jennie and I were alone, while my poor father was stricken into soberness.
Three months passed. My father was much steadier, stayed more at home, and was no longer cross and overbearing; for hours would he read to us, then taking Jennie on his knee, sing her to sleep.
“If mother could only see him,” I said frequently to myself. I had not known he was so handsome, for he kept himself much better, and looked like a new man. Then at night he would put us in bed, and sometimes sit down by himself, or go out looking so good and happy; I did not understand it.
One day I had been down to Mrs. Jeffries with Jennie, and Mr. Jeffries asked me what I would think if my father gave me a new mother. I told him that could not be; we could not have but one mother, and our mother was dead.
“But what if your father marries again?”
I went home in tears. Cheerless as our home was, I could not bear that another should enter it. It was no place for a good woman to come, and I felt it so. It was not long, however, before I found the reality of what I feared. My father, on the strength of his good looks, married a pretty, showily dressed woman, and brought her to our mountain home. Very kindly he introduced us; but she did not so much as kiss either of us. I grew indignant, and could have darted out of the house, but for my remembered promise to my mother.
A year, and she had turned us out, while a baby of her own nestled in her arms, and our father was nearly as bad as ever. Jennie had always been a delicate little thing, or my new mother would not so readily have parted with her. But my father, with all his waywardness, always said to her that we should not be parted.
We knew no one but Mrs. Jeffries, and she kindly consented to take us in; while her husband allowed me to hold the horses, and after a time to drive them to and from the stable.
In this way I gained something. The first winter I was there I went to school eighteen days; not enough to learn much, and still enough to give me a thirst for more. The schoolmaster was a lame man that lived near the school-house, and directly on my way.
Thin and scant my clothes were, and I used sometimes to go in and warm myself. What a different atmosphere pervaded his home: his mother, a sweet woman, with soft braids of still brown hair about her face, while her mild blue eyes reminded me of my own mother, and not unfrequently the tears would start as she inquired kindly for my little sister.
Charles Brisbane was to be a clergyman; and when he read and prayed with us every morning, it seemed the easiest thing in the world to be good, and I wondered why my father had not been just such another good man. And when at the close of the day he talked to us of the dear Saviour, who came down to earth, took upon himself our nature, suffered and died to redeem us, I resolved that I would love and trust and serve him; and then I thought he would take care of Jennie and me, and make my father a sober man. Then I used to shut my eyes, and dream all sorts of pleasant things, longing for a world where the people loved each other and did right, and where death would never come.
My dear mother seemed to be very near me whenever Charles Brisbane was talking; and when I went back to Mr. Jeffries’ it did not seem so hard to do the little errands that were always ready for me.
Jennie was beginning to do something for Mrs. Jeffries, who herself took the lead in her own house-work; and of course could not be expected to do more for us than to see that we had plenty to eat, were tidy, and not actually ragged.
I remember stopping one day at Mr. Brisbane’s, and how I longed to be able to go to school regularly; and could not but say this in rather a fretful mood.
“I am sorry that you cannot come, Marston; but remember that you can learn, wherever you are.”
“How so?” said I.
“By reading and studying at home. Improve all your time; always have a book in your pocket or on a shelf near you.”
“But I have no books.”
“I am going to give you some. Here is the Geography you studied at school, and your Arithmetic. True, you are just commencing, but with occasional help, I have no doubt you will get on finely. Come to school when you can; but when kept at home by Mr. Jeffries, do not fret over it. Do your work faithfully, and look forward. God helps those who help themselves. He will not leave you, my boy.”
How strong and happy I felt as I climbed up the hill-side to Mr. Jeffries’ house. I forgot the dark, cold mornings when I had to rise at four o’clock, and make paths through the snow; and help feed the stock and see to the horses, the poor patient brutes waiting until an opening could be made in the trough, or the snow melted. Then there were pigs to feed, and corn to shell for the poultry, and the kitchen to sweep; and by the time I had done it was nearly noon, and too late for school that day. And Jennie would climb up into my lap, and tell me not to cry; and I would read my Geography to her very much as, the last summer, I had read Jack the Giant Killer, Babes in the Wood, Robinson Crusoe, and Sinbad the Sailor; her blue eyes looking up wonderingly as she nestled still closer, laying her white velvet cheek to my brown one.
Dear little comforter, much as I loved her, my heart rebelled not a little at the loss of school-hours. Still I did not forget Mr. Brisbane’s words, so that I neither cried nor murmured outwardly, studying every moment I could get, and repeating my lesson aloud to Jennie, who in her turn began to study geography, and to make figures on my slate.
My writing lesson I suffered the most in. But Mrs. Jeffries had a sister that visited her occasionally, and when there, Miss Grimshaw condescended to set me copies; so that between my duties at home, Mr. Brisbane, and Miss Grimshaw, I made considerable advancement.
Mr. Jeffries scolded not a little whenever he saw my books, and one day actually tossed them out of the window, where Molly the cook rescued them from a mischievous puppy, minus one of the covers. I could have cried over this; but the leaves were all there, and afterwards Mrs. Jeffries gave us two chairs and a little table in her linen closet; and as this was the tidiest place in the house, and above all, never entered save by Mrs. Jeffries, we were for a time uncommonly happy.
While I had my books and a chair in the linen closet, Jennie had a few pots of geraniums and tea-roses that Mrs. Brisbane had sent her, and which she nurtured with great care. Never shall I forget the look of distress on the little face, when one morning she had watered them tenderly, taxing her strength not a little to set them where they would have all the benefit of the sun, watching them with delight, counting the buds on the rose-bush, and thinking of the little bouquets she would be sure to make, first for me and then for Mrs. Jeffries, putting one in Miss Grimshaw’s room by way of surprise. All at once Mr. Jeffries came through the room, and seeing the little girl idle for the moment, with one sweep of his hand landed the rose-bush in the middle of the yard, the stem broken and the opening buds torn. There was not a tear, not a word of complaint as she stole up to the linen closet and laid the ruined stem in my hands, hiding her face on my shoulder, and trembling like an aspen.
“Who has done this, Jennie?” said I hurriedly, and in a passion.
“Don’t be vexed at him; it was Mr. Jeffries. He’ll be sorry to-morrow.”
“But this was yours; what right had he to touch it? I will go and ask him;” and I flung down my book and started up.
“No, Marston, you must not anger him. It is all the home we have; and if you vex him, he may turn us away, or at least not let you have this nice little closet to study in.”
There was something in Jennie’s philosophy that quieted me a little; and drawing her to my side, I tried first to command myself and then comfort her. Excited as the poor child was, she soon fell asleep; and not seeing any thing but the clean white linen in the room, I took off my coat and spread it on the floor, and laid her down. Accustomed to a hard bed, she did not waken. Try as I would, I could not study, but sat looking at the broken rose-bush and then at the thin, troubled face of the sleeper, the blue lids swollen, and the delicate veins plainly perceptible about the throbbing temples.
“How could he do it? By what right deny this little child the only treasure she possessed?” and I was getting into a passion again, when Mrs. Jeffries entered.
She read it all at a glance; went out and brought a quilt and a pillow for Jennie, and taking up the broken stalk, looked at the roots.
“It will live. There is another pot, Marston, and if you will fill it with fresh mould, I will help you. Its beauty has gone for the present, but it will grow again.”
I did not move or stir, my anger was too deep. She laid her hand on my shoulder, and kindly said, “You can’t be sorrier than I am, Marston. I saw it all: but you wont be angry; Mr. Jeffries will be sorry to-morrow.”
“Just what Jennie said; but that wont help it.”
“It may, Marston; at least it will not do any good to be angry about it. I know you wont, Marston.”
“No, I will not be angry;” and at once I went to work filling the pot. Mrs. Jeffries cut off the broken part, put the buds the least injured in a little china vase filled with salt and water, and set them on a shelf in the little attic where Jennie slept. I did not see Jennie again till my work was done at night, when she said cheerily,
“Mrs. Jeffries says it will grow again. It was very good of her, wasn’t it, Marston?” and she nestled by my side, and together we studied our geography.
When the warm weather came, the schoolmaster and his mother went away, and we never saw them afterwards. When the June sun was glowing, and the soft winds wafted the fragrant breath of flowers up through the mountain gorges, Mr. Jeffries’ house was once more filled with visitors; and I was not unfrequently called upon to show some gentleman or lady the best views, as they were called, until I became familiar with the beauties and glories of nature, and felt their genial influence thrilling me with a new and indefinite pleasure.
Sometimes I was brought face to face with the storm in the mountain passes, while thunder and lightning shook and vibrated through them, rolling slowly down the sides of the mountain and echoing along the valley in terrific grandeur.
One day in the heat of summer a gentleman came up, saying to Mr. Jeffries that it was his intention to remain for a week; that he had come out of the city expressly for mountain air and scenery, and that he wished to make the best use of his time. His name was Kirby, and he had not been there a day before I felt that he was another Charles Brisbane—the same views, the same hopes, the same manner characterized them; and after my work was done in the morning, it was my privilege to join him in his rambles, provided I returned in time to have every thing in readiness for the night. What made this arrangement still pleasanter, Jennie was permitted to go with us whenever it was not too far, while Mr. Kirby would tell us stories of mountains over the sea.
I remember, one evening, we were flinging our lines in a little brook that ran gurgling along through the green grass like a silver serpent, when Mr. Kirby told us of the Rosenlani glacier in such glowing language, that we seemed to see distinctly the pale sunshine dancing on its sharp peaks of frosted silver, its blue ice caverns, its fringe of firs, with hanging ledges of short crisp grass, and giant masses of grey rock, and the sudden shower of snow from falling avalanches. Then he unrolled a map, and pointed out the jagged pyramid of the Wetterhorn, and told us of the people that lived there; and by the time we returned, in season to have our trout for supper, we had learned more of the geography of Switzerland than we should have learned from poring over books for a long time.
“To-morrow,” said Mr. Kirby, “we must go up to the highest point of the mountain. I am afraid my little Jennie must stay at home.”
“Why so, Mr. Kirby?” and Jennie pressed to his side; “I like to be with you and Marston.”
“I should like to have you go, but I am afraid it would make you sick; it will be a hard walk for us. If I give you a nice story to read, it will interest you quite as much; and when we come back, you shall tell us all about it. Besides, Miss Grimshaw is to teach you how to hem that new handkerchief. You will be contented to stay now, wont you?”
“If you think it best,” and the long brown lashes drooped over the blue eyes.
The next morning I was up earlier than usual; but not before Jennie, who insisted on sharing my labor, feeding the pigs, and then scattering corn to the poultry, and throwing wheat to the few pigeons that circled about the premises.
“I do want to go with you,” she said as she kissed me good-by; but Mr. Kirby was there with the neatly bound book he had promised, and the tears were soon dried, Jennie looking the last look as she ran up to her attic to lay aside her treasure, till the moment when her work should be done and Mrs. Jeffries should give her permission to do what she pleased.
“Shall you have patience to climb?” asked Mr. Kirby as we stood at the base of the tallest peak, its jagged sides covered with stunted shrubs and shelving rocks as far as the eye could reach, a veil of clouds and mist resting on the summit.
“I shall like it exceedingly. You forget that I am accustomed to climbing.”
“What was it that Miss Grimshaw called you and Jennie the other day?”
“The Climbers.”
“Yes, and the name rather pleased me,” continued Mr. Kirby. “Heights are to be won every day, and our stand-point to-day should be in advance of what it was yesterday. We are, or should be, all climbers, using every incident, occasion, and advantage as a stepping-stone to something better.”
“I fear some of us are doing it at a snail’s pace; a lifetime of such climbing as mine would not amount to much.”
“You remember the hare and the tortoise,” said Mr. Kirby, “and which won the race. The hare started off as some people would to go up this mountain; but he soon grew weary, and lay down to rest. The tortoise began as he could hold out, and the end justified his wisdom.” I now understood why Mr. Kirby was walking leisurely.
“When I was a lad,” continued he, “I often visited my grandfather, who lived on a farm in the country. On one occasion he hired two men to work in the harvest-field. One man looked at the small field of wheat contemptuously, and declared it his opinion the job had better be given to one; he could do it all himself before sundown. Still my grandfather insisted on the two, and accordingly they began. One worked furiously, and at noon he was far in advance of his companion. As the hot hours passed his arm grew nerveless, his back felt as though it was broken, his limbs ached, and his head felt like bursting. Long before sundown he had to withdraw to the house of the farmer; while his companion, who had husbanded his strength, was left to finish the field alone. Patience when we commence is quite as needful in intellectual as in physical effort. The end of the race tells who wins.”
“There is a good deal of consolation in that,” I ventured to remark. “Climbing hills I can easily do; but I am sometimes afraid that is the only climbing that will be allowed me.”
“Not if you wish another. Obstacles vanish before a strong and resolute will.”
“But circumstances, Mr. Kirby.”
“Look behind you, Marston, and you will see that while walking and talking at our leisure, we have been advancing all the time, and have in reality made a very perceptible ascent. The valley looks like a green thread, and the few buildings that we see like pigeon-houses.”
“Yes, indeed; we get along better than I expected. We’ve been steadily at it, that’s all.”
“That is it, Marston, steadily at it. Perseverance is sure, sooner or later, to overcome.”
“And if we have a plan, and steadily follow it, shall we succeed?” I asked.
“Almost sure to do so; not by one endeavor, not by two, but by years of perpetual toil and labor. Climbers have more to contend with than those who sit still in the valley. Do you begin to weary, Marston?”
“Oh no; but the path is much rougher, and I slip backward instead of getting forward.”
“Now you see why I took this staff tipped with a sharp iron. It will help us when the way is slippery. Give me your hand; it is hard work, but nothing good is achieved without labor.”
At length we reached a cliff which, projecting boldly into our path, rose like a dark grey wall to bar our advance.
“What shall we do now?” I asked; “go back?”
“Never do that, unless you are out of the way,” said Mr. Kirby. “We must get up just as we have come so far, by climbing. But it is so steep on this side, we shall have to go round.” After a short pause to ascertain the most favorable point, Mr. Kirby with his iron-tipped staff proceeded to put his advice into practice. Each step was carefully taken, another, and another; while, as we advanced, helps arose on all sides: here was a twig, there a rock, and there a secure place for the feet; and without any great fatigue, and almost before we were aware, we stood on the top of the enormous mass that but a short time before had loomed up threateningly.
“You see where we are,” said Mr. Kirby. “Remember, and never give up when you undertake any thing. Stop only sufficiently long to make sure of the way, and then advance, one step at a time. You see here how clearly one step prepares the way for another; so it will ever be. Oaks are strengthened by wind and storm; so men grow firm by combating with difficulty and opposition.”
“I don’t see how that can make them strong,” I said; for I did not clearly understand the import of his words.
“I do not mean strong in body merely, although this might follow, but strong in spirit, more resolute to do, more determined to endure. If boys possess this quality, they will be pretty sure to make strong, reliable men, able to take a position in the world and have an influence among men. But look; what a splendid view we have from this point;” and Mr. Kirby looked over the broad panorama with an eye that seemed to see the Deity in his works; and from the top of that table rock he told me of his own life, of the obstacles in his way, the poverty and destitution that he had known: “And still by climbing, just as we have been doing to-day, I have made some progress; and if I keep on—”
“What will you make?” I asked in my eagerness.
“What would you say if you knew I had no higher ambition than to be a clergyman?” looking at me with a half smile in his clear dark eye.
“I think I should be a lawyer, if I was in your place, Mr. Kirby.”
“A lawyer; why so?”
“Why, there’s a better chance to rise in the world. It must be very nice to sway men as easily as lawyers do; and then there’s a chance of one day being senator or judge.”
“It must be very pleasant, you say, to sway men as lawyers do. Do you not think it equally good to sway men as clergymen do? It is the lawyer’s business to help men out of temporary difficulties. It is the clergyman’s business to show men a better way: first to show them their condition as sinners, then to tell them of the precious Saviour who died to redeem them, and who will not only save them from temporary difficulties, but raise them to an eternity of happiness. Is there any thing more glorious than this, Marston?”
“I hardly know, sir. It has always seemed to me I should like to be a lawyer. Yet it must be pleasant, as you say, to make people better.”
“I hope you will always think so, Marston,” and Mr. Kirby gathered some wild flowers. “They will remind us of the walk. Flowers have the happy power of always calling our best thoughts to the surface.”
“It would seem your best thoughts are always there, Mr. Kirby.”
“On the contrary, my best thoughts are sometimes out of sight entirely. I have to be very watchful over myself. I am too readily given to despondency, and not willing to trust and be bright and cheerful when it looks dark and lowering.”
“Is it our duty always to be bright and glad?” I asked.
“I think so, Marston.”
“But if every thing goes wrong with us?”
“Every thing cannot go wrong with us, if we love and trust the Saviour, for he has said that all things shall work together for our good.”
“That is what mother used to say. I always wondered how she could.”
“Because she trusted him, and this trust made her cheerful and happy.”
“If we go to the top,” I ventured to say, “we must be going;” and again the dry moss rustled beneath our feet. We had not gone far before dark clouds began to scud over the sky, portending a sudden storm.
“Had we not better return?” I asked.
“We are much nearer the top than the bottom of the mountain,” said Mr. Kirby. “If a storm should come, it would reach us before we could get half way down. You are not afraid of a storm, Marston.”
“Not of mere rain; but this is no place as to the wind, to say nothing of thunder and lightning.”
“All these are in His keeping. We are the objects of his love.” He had hardly finished speaking, when a fearful gale swept down the mountain, and nearly bore us away with it. The rain quickly followed, while the thunder was startling, with its quick, sharp reports, then rolling along in one continued roar till lost in the distance.
“This will not last long,” said Mr. Kirby, and took shelter under a great rock, drawing me after him. How long we stood there I hardly know, for the dense mass of black clouds floating so near us, carried swiftly by the winds, rolling and unrolling their rugged edges, fringed with the lurid glare, was the most fascinating spectacle that I had ever witnessed.
After explaining to me the different strata of the atmosphere and some of the causes of this sudden change in the clouds, Mr. Kirby spoke of that great day of storm and dread, when there would be some to cry for the mountains to cover them from the wrath of the Lamb, and others to whom He would be as the shelter of a great rock.
Then we stepped out from under the rock. The shower was over, and we again advanced. For a time the ascent was more precipitous than any that we had met before, while the wet boughs, brushing against our faces, would have seriously disturbed a less persevering spirit than Mr. Kirby’s.
Among the remembrances of that day were the tiny pools and cascades, filled to overflowing during the shower. Then there were spots of soft green beds of beautiful moss, and short, steep acclivities, such as would hardly afford footing for the chamois or gazelle.
At length we stood at the top. Here, on the very summit of the mountain, was a lovely little lake, its water clear as crystal, where the clouds could see their beauty reflected without comment or obstruction.
How proud and happy I felt. The work was done. I had often looked up, but never before attempted going to the top. Once decided upon, it was done. Would it be as easy with every thing else?
Scarcely had we turned from the lake, when the sun came out, rolling up the floating mists into wool-like drapery of clouds, revealing a panorama of surpassing grandeur.
Beneath us lay a succession of hills, shelving down to the valley, while further in the distance were green fields, with farm-houses looking hardly bigger than mole-hills, with the river winding on to the ocean like a long blue thread; and the ocean itself, whose boundary I could not define, was an object of strange wonder to me. Ignorant as I was, I could not understand the strong emotion that thrilled me, depriving me entirely of the power of speech.
“How beautiful He hath made them all;” and Mr. Kirby lifted his hat, and stood uncovered, awed by the glorious majesty around him. As I looked at him, I felt a still stronger yearning for something higher and nobler. That hour, I am persuaded, was a turning-point in my life. New hopes fluttered into being; new resolves were registered; new purposes were to be maintained; and a strong confidence was born within me, that the Lord would not leave me desolate.
Mr. Kirby talked of God’s exceeding great love, and how he never turned any away, even the poorest and weakest, that might call upon him for aid. He also told me several wonderful things of the mountains, and the transformation continually going on in them; and then of Hugh Miller, and the ways by which he had achieved his great work.
It surprises me now, when I think how much was crowded into that one day. It was to me like a new revelation; the very air was full of a new life; I breathed freer than I had done for months. A new path was opening, and I felt strong to tread where others had gone before—others as poor and friendless as I was. Oh that we could always keep ourselves on the mountain heights of faith and hope.
With Mr. Kirby near to prompt and encourage me, I forgot my ragged clothes and rimless hat, and that my shoes were old and patched—forgot, or rather did not know, that to become learned as he was would require years of time and a great deal of money, a commodity that I knew little about. My heart was light and buoyant. I thought I could do it, and hope began to trill a measure that was henceforth to ring on all through my life.
The sudden shower had rendered fresh and green each leaf and flower, while the bright sun-rays had transmuted the drops to brilliant diamonds, suspended in lavish profusion from tree and shrub, catching and reflecting its light in countless forms of splendor.
Just then a wren flew out of a thicket, and settled on a low spray just in our path. With a sweep of my hand I could have reached the fearless little songster, fresh, bright, glad, offering its tribute to the Creator.
“Shall not we thank him too?” said Mr. Kirby; and suiting the action to the word, he knelt, and placing one hand upon my bowed head, implored God, for Christ’s sake, to have compassion upon me, to make me a child of God, to forgive my sins, and to give me a teachable spirit, that I might be willing to be led, and might, through the influence of his grace, grow up to be a good and useful man.
This was the first time that anybody had ever prayed alone with me, save my mother; and it brought her so forcibly before me, that I could not keep down the sobs.
Going home, I asked Mr. Kirby if we should ever see him again.
“It is not probable,” he answered. “It is very possible that I may be sent abroad; and if so, we may never meet again; but whether we meet or not, I shall think of you, Marston, and pray that we may both live so as to meet in heaven.”
Jennie saw us coming, and bounded over the brook that ran at the back of the house and across the pasture to meet us, breaking out into a glad welcome, telling us that she had finished the book, and nearly hemmed the handkerchief. “Here it is,” holding it up for inspection.
“Very well done,” said Mr. Kirby, shaking it out, and examining it attentively. “Now, my little friends, I want you both to remember this day. It may be the last chance I shall have to speak to you alone. Do your duty wherever you are. Let your first question be, Is it right? and then never turn back, nor be discouraged. Do this, and you will advance, just as we did in climbing the mountain to-day, one step at a time; so by one act of duty at a time, one good purpose well carried out, success will follow.” Then putting his hand on each of our heads, “Give your hearts to Christ now; love and serve him. Wherever I go, I shall think of you, and shall hope you are workers for him, let your surroundings be what they may.”
