"THE STILL SMALL VOICE"POOR, tired little Frank! He had gazed at that stereotyped street panorama, till his eyelids were drooping with weariness. Omnibuses, carts, cabs, wheelbarrows, men, women, horses, and children; the same old story. There is a little beggar-boy driving hoop. Franky never drives hoop;—no, he is dressed too nicely for that. Once in a while he takes the air; but Peter the serving-man, or Bridget the nurse, holds his hand very tightly, lest he should soil his embroidered frock. Now little Frank changes from one foot to the other, and then he creeps up to his young mamma, who lies half-buried in those satin cushions, reading the last new novel, and lays his hand on her soft curls; but she shakes him off with an impatient "Don't Franky;" and he creeps back again to the window. There winds a funeral slowly past. How sad the mourners look,
clad in sable, with their handkerchiefs to their eyes! It is a
child's funeral, too; for there is no hearse, and the black pall
floats from the first carriage window, like a signal of distress. A
sudden thought strikes Franky,—the tears spring to his eyes, and,
creeping again to his mother's side, he says, "Mamma, must I die, too?" The young mother says, abstractedly, without raising her blue eyes from the novel she is reading, "What did you say, Frank?" "Mamma, must I die, too?" "Yes—no! What an odd question! Pull the bell, Charley. Here, Peter, take Frank up stairs to the nursery, and coax Bruno along to play tricks for him;" and Frank's mamma settles herself down again upon her luxurious cushions. The room is very quiet, now that Franky is banished; nobody is in it but herself and the canary. Her position is quite easy; her favorite book between her fingers,—why not yield herself again to the author's witching spell? Why do the words, "Must I die, too," stare at her from every page? They were but a child's words. She is childish to heed them; and she rises, lays aside the book, and sweeps her white hand across her harp-strings, while her rich voice floats musically upon the air. One stanza only she sings, then her hands fall by her side; for still that little, plaintive voice keepings ringing in her ear, "Must I die, too, mamma?" Death!—why, it is a thing she has never thought of;—and she
walks up to the long mirror. Death for her, with that beaming eye,
and scarlet lip, and rosy cheek, and sunny tress, and rounded limb,
and springing step?
Death for her, with broad lands, and full coffers, and the world of fashion at her feet? Death for her, with the love of that princely husband, who covets even the kiss of the breeze as it fans her white brow? Darkness, decay—oblivion? (No, not oblivion! There is a future, but she had never looked into it.) "Well, which is it, my pet, the opera, the concert, or Madama B.'s soiree? I am yours to command." "Neither, I believe, Walter. I am out of tune to-night; or, as Madame B. would say, 'Vaporish;' so I shall inflict myself on nobody. But—" "O, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rose; I am fond of a merry face, too. Smile, now, or I'm off to the club, or the billiard room; or, as husbands say when they are 'hard up' for an excuse, I have 'a business engagement.' What! a tear? What grief can you have, little Rose?" "You know, Walter, what a strange child our Frank is. Well, he asked me such an odd, old-fasioned question to-day, 'Must I die, too, Mamma?' in that little flute-like voice of his, and it set me thinking, that's all. I can't rid myself of it; and, dear Walter," said she, laying her tearful cheek upon his shoulder, "I don't know that I ought to try." "O, nonsense, Rose!" said the gay husband, "don't
turn Methodist, if you love me. Aunt Charity has religion enough for the whole nation. You can't ask her which way the wind is, but you have a description of 'Canaan.' Religion is well enough for priests; it is their stock in trade;—well enough for children and old people;—well enough for ancient virgins, who like vestry meetings to pass away a long evening; but for you, Rose, the very queen of love and beauty, in the first flush of youth and health—pshaw! Call Camille to arrange your hair, and let's to the opera. Time enough, my pet, to think of religion, when you see your first gray hair." Say you so, man of the sinewy limb and flashing eye? See!—up Calvary's rugged steep a slender form bends wearily beneath its heavy cross! This sinless side, those hands, those feet are pierced—for you. Tortured, athirst, faint, agonized,—the dark cloud hiding the Father's face,—that mournful wail rings out on the still air, "My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?" The dregs of live, our offering for all
this priceless love, O sinless Son of God! The palsied hand, and
clouded brain, and stammering tongue, and leaden foot of age, thy
trophies? God forbid! And yet, alas! amid dance, and song, and
revel, that "still small voice" was hushed. The winged hours,
mis-spent and wasted, flew quickly past. No tear of repentance fell;
no sup-
pliant knee was bent; no household altar flame sent up its grateful incense. "Must I die, too?" Sweet child!—but as the sun dies; but as the stars fade out; but as the flowers die, for a resurrection morn! Close the searching eye beneath the prisoning lid; cross the busy hands over the pulseless heart. Life—life eternal! for thee, thou young immortal! Joy to thee, young mother! From that grave, so tear-bedewed, the flower of repentance springs, at last. No tares shall choke it; no blight or mildew blast it! God's smile shall be its sunshine, and heaven thy reward. Dear reader; so the good Shepherd hides the little lamb in his arms, that she who gave it life may hear its voice and follow. |