(For the Little Ones.)
WHEN the cold wintry wind comes stealing through the crevices of doors and windows, sighing along the passages, puffing the smoke down the chimneys, and making things generally uncomfortable, little readers look back with a feeling of regret upon warm summer days, and forward with hope to the spring yet to come. They long once more to see the flowers budding, and the trees putting forth their green leaves; to bask in the warm sunshine, and to breathe the balmy air of the open fields.
But, as this cannot be at the present season, they are obliged to be content with reading about such things, and thus mentally enjoying them when it is impossible to enjoy them in any other way. That they may have this pleasure, the writer is about to tell them of a long walk he once took in the country on a bright spring, or early summer morning, and how it ended.
The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the hedges were dressed in young spring leaves, and the trees were beginning to look once more as if they really were alive, when the writer set out on a visit to a distant village, in the Lord’s service. In order to reach this place, he had to cross an extensive heath, overgrown in many places with gorse, which, left purposely undisturbed for many years as a cover for game, was in some parts so dense, as to be quite impassable. Then there were hollows half-full of the last winter’s rains; and water-courses not yet quite dry, where torrents had rushed down the slopes into the low-lying, and more level portions of the heath. In these parts, too, there were boggy places, where winter’s snows had lodged and melted, where, no doubt, the wild duck, and the teal, and the snipe, and many a water-loving bird, had dwelt all through the cold and the rain and the wind, as happy and content as my little reader in his warm clothes by the fireside at home. Beside the widespread growth of gorse, and the hollows and half-dried beds of wintry torrents, and the boggy flats below, the ground was everywhere very broken and uneven, and here and there at long distances one passed a pit where, perhaps, gravel had been dug long years before. But in the bright sunshine there was no difficulty in all these things. All that the traveler had to do was to follow a narrow sheep-path, which wound its way along the heath over hill and dell, and in and out among the gorse, now climbing a ridge, now descending a hollow, or skirting a spongy flat, where the spring grass grew the greener for the wet which still saturated the ground. The wild birds were building their nests, or, sitting in the gorse by scores, loudly welcomed the coming summer. The lark, high overhead, sang his matin song, the rooks were winging their way to the ploughed lands in the distance; and, to add to the liveliness of the scene, some two or three pairs of lapwings, supposing that the solitary wayfarer on the heath was come to look for their nests, rose into the air, and began to act as they always do under like circumstances. Has the little reader ever seen one of these birds in the spring? If so, he will understand why they are called lapwings; for, in their anxiety to draw off attention from their nests, they will first circle round and round the person they suspect of a design upon their nests, and then, darting away to a little distance, will drop one wing as if it was broken, and tumble suddenly to the earth. Just skimming the surface, they will rise again, turn a summerset in the air, fall as if shot, and then go flapping their heavy wings awkwardly, as if there was something the matter with them, so as if possible, to persuade the traveler to run after them in the expectation of being able to catch them with his hands. All the time they are acting thus, they keep up a discordant screaming, so that any one unacquainted with their ways would really think they were very badly hurt. Yet such is not the case; there is nothing whatever the matter with them; they are only pretending. Does my little reader ever pretend? You see, even poor foolish birds can play the hypocrite; but then they do not know any better, and therefore we do not blame them. But when children or grown-up people do so, it is very wrong indeed. Again, you see that these lapwings are very suspicious. Hypocrites, big and little, always are. All the trouble that these poor birds took on the occasion just mentioned, in flying to and fro, tumbling about, screaming as if in great pain, darting away to a distance, and then returning and making such a bustle, that the heath for nearly a mile of the way seemed all alive with them, was only because they suspected the intentions of one who had not so much as thought of them, while the disturbance they made was more likely to draw attention to that which they sought to conceal than otherwise. The writer sincerely hopes that his little reader has never imitated these lapwings in trying to conceal something by pretending. Pretense is not only sinful because it is acting untruth, but it is foolish also, as it is sure to be seen through by those who are older and wiser than you are. Far better is it to be honest and straightforward, and, if in fault, to go and confess it at once, than to try to be artful. It is a sad fault in a child, and destroys all confidence. If you have committed one fault, trying to hide it by pretense is but adding two more. It is wrong to hide anything from those that love you and seek your good, and it is vain also; for even if they did not find you out, there is ONE who sees you when you are all alone — sees you even in the dark; One who knows all that you do, and, even all that you think. Now, if ever you should be tempted to hide anything, or to pretend in any way, remember those words of Hagar in the wilderness, “THOU GOD SEEST ME.” Remember, too, that
“Bird of the wilderness,”
the lapwing. It is a large and handsome bird, and no doubt useful in its way, like all the other creatures a good and gracious God has made. And yet it is disliked by many because it is so artful, noisy, and suspicious. But then, as already said, it knows no better. You do. Take care then that you never give cause to anyone who knows you to compare you to a foolish bird. You desire to be beloved by those about you. It would be sad indeed, if they should be compelled to dislike any of your ways, or even in thought should ever have to call you “The little Lapwing.”
But to return to our walk across the heath. There were other things beside the birds to take notice of. The gorse, which grew so abundantly everywhere, had put forth its bright yellow bloom, and, quite clothed the hilltop with a sea of gold and green, spreading far and wide, a beautiful sight to see; rich in promise to the little birds, when, in the hot summer months, each blossom should become a seed-pod, and scatter food to them in endless plenty. It is said that a noted naturalist, on beholding, for the first time in his life, a single gorse-bush in full bloom or an English common, was so delighted, that he went down on his knees, and thanked God for affording him such a beautiful sight! If a solitary gorse-bush could thus affect him, what would he have said to see wave after wave, as it were, of green and gold, rolling over the hilltop and far away into the distance? How you, little reader, would have liked to look upon this sunny scene!
And yet, beautiful as you would have thought it, there are those who look on you with even greater interest; those to whom your spring-time is full of golden promise; those who, as they look upon you now in your childhood, hope to reap a rich harvest of joy when that childhood shall have ripened into youth and manhood. Oh, let them not be disappointed! There is but one way in which you can secure to them unfailingly the harvest their affection craves, and the love and care they have bestowed on your demands. It is this. If you have not done so already, go to Jesus; believe in him who died upon the cross to put away our sins, and rose again, and now sits at God’s right hand, ready to receive you and make you “a new creature” in himself, so that by him (being saved forever and ever), you may bring forth fruit to the glory and praise of God, and the joy and delight of those Christian parents who have doubtless prayed for you ever since you were born. Do this Now, then the New Year will bring a new joy to you and those who love you — a joy never to end, either here or hereafter.
But we have not done with our journey yet. You shall hear more about that, if the Lord will, next month. In the meantime, the writer hopes that, in thinking about the “sea of green and gold” which he saw upon the heath, and the bright promise it held out to the birds who were rejoicing over it, you will think, also, of the rich promise which your childhood gives to those who love you, and whose hearts are waiting for the harvest — WAITING NOW.