SOME sheets of rather thick paper of a light yellow color are near me as I write; they are covered with dots, hardly larger than the head of a good sized pin.
These dots represent letters or what are called "word signs," such as are used in Braille-type writing. The hand that wrote these sheets is cold and pulseless now, for the Lord who had so loved as to give Himself for Maria James took her very gently home nearly two years ago. For some time before her death she had had a great desire to write the story of her own early days, and especially of her conversion, in the hope that some dear boy or girl by reading it might learn to take an interest in blind children and so grow up to be their friend and helper.
The record was begun, though left in an unfinished state. Not many days before her departure she said to a friend who was much with her: "My little story I should have liked to finish, but the Lord makes no mistakes and He knows I am too weak to hold my dotter now; but some day, perhaps, He will allow you to finish it; you know all I would have written, it will be a TRUE story.”
A True Life Story
At last I have made up my mind to write a story. I meant to do it a long time ago; I had all that I wanted to say floating about in my mind, I had even got the title. Why I did not write it is more than I can explain. Perhaps the Lord intended me to wait till the evening of my life was drawing near before I wrote about the things that happened in its early morning; perhaps I shall write it all the better for having waited, at least I am looking to the Lord that it may be so. There will not be anything very exciting in my story, but it will be real and true, just what I should like to put into the hands of any little friend of mine, and ask him or her to read without being afraid of father or mother disapproving.
The first thing I can remember is that I lived with my parents in a not very large house in one of the side streets, not far from the market-place, in the old garrison town of Colchester. It was a clean, well-kept town, at least so they told me when I grew old enough to take an intelligent interest in my surroundings. Perhaps you will wonder why I say, "they told me." Well, when I tell you that all my life I have been obliged to depend upon others for any information respecting the outside world, simply because I could not see things for myself, you will understand if I sometimes use the expression, "they say," or "they told me." I cannot give a description of the scenery around my birth-place, for how could I give a really interesting account of things I have never seen? But a sightless little girlie can remember facts as well as a seeing child of the same age, and I shall try to tell you just a few of the things in which I was even then interested, in the hope that you like true stories much better than made-up ones.
At the time my story begins there were five of us in family, four girls and a boy, and though baby Willie went to be with the Lord Jesus before three summers had passed over his curly head, Arthur came in his place, so again there were five birdies in the home nest.
I was very fond of my little brother and seldom got tired of nursing and trying to amuse him. Sometimes my mother would say in such a tired voice, "I cannot get baby to sleep, take him and try what you can do." Then I would take him in my arms and walk up and down the house or garden. How proud and pleased I used to feel when the fretful cry ceased, the little head drooped lower and lower upon my shoulder, and I knew by the soft, regular breathing that Arthur was asleep. When about two years old he suffered a great deal from inflammation in his eyes, so much so that my parents were afraid he would lose his sight, and when I tell you that out of the ten children born to them five were blind from birth, you will understand that there was some reason for their anxiety. For some time the doctor came nearly every day to look at his eyes, and when he wished to put some drops into his eyes that he knew would make them smart quite badly for a little while, though they were always better afterward, he would tell me to take the poor little fellow in my arms and sing to him very softly, as he said it always soothed him and helped him to forget the pain.
Like most children who live in a garrison town I soon learned to distinguish the different calls of the bugle, and always knew when the soldiers were passing by the way in which they marched. Sometimes the picket came very near our house, and if I had been naughty my father used to tell me that he would call the soldiers in and let them take me away. Of course he did not really intend doing so, but I thought it was all real and used to be terribly frightened, and would be very quiet and hide in some corner, hardly daring to breathe till they were out of hearing. I think that sometimes I must have been a troublesome child and tried the patience of my mother greatly, for though, as you already know, I was blind from birth, I had a strange, unaccountable fancy for getting into all kinds of dangerous places.
Quite a long garden lay behind the house in which we lived; beyond the garden a field ending in a low wall formed the boundary of that part of the river in which the far-famed Colchester oysters are fed and fattened for market. My sisters and I had often played in the field and one day, finding myself alone there, a great longing seemed to take possession of me to find out what was beyond the wall; I succeeded in climbing it, and walked for some distance along its sloping, slippery edge. Had I taken one false step I should most likely have fallen into the water and been drowned. Do you not think it was very good of God to take such care of a willful, naughty little girl? At last my mother saw me from the cottage window, and I was severely punished for the fright I had given her, but I do not think my love of wandering has ever quite left me.
But I must not forget to tell you about some well-remembered days that, though so many years have passed, still live in my memory as among the happiest of my childhood: days spent in a large house standing in lovely grounds a little way out of the busy town. The house was called "The Rectory," and was the home of a lady whose father used to preach in the church near my home. Miss May, as I will call her, was always very kind to me, and I have often thanked God for giving me a friend who not only took some trouble to give me pleasure, but sowed good seed in my young heart, seed that with the blessing of the Lord was in after years to spring up and bring forth fruit.
Miss May was not at all strong, indeed I think she must often have been weak and suffering. In fine weather she would often spend almost the whole day in the garden, lying in a hammock slung among the branches of a shady beech tree. But her hands were not idle ones; she was nearly always at work making some warm and useful garment, sometimes for a sick child, at others for one of the poor old women in the almshouse, and now and then I had the great treat when the garment was finished of going with her in the pony carriage to take it to the one for whom it was made.
But I had other good times; very often I was allowed to climb up into the hammock, and nestling snugly down by her side (I was very small for my age, or there might not have been room for both) I listened to Bible stories or learned hymns. There was one story I never seemed to grow tired of listening to or Miss May of telling. It was about Christ being not only the Savior of sinners, but the Friend of little children, how He used to take them in His arms and bless them; and when I heard of His giving sight to the blind, I cried when I was told He was no longer on earth. I would I thought have gone to Him and asked Him to open my eyes, for even then I longed to see birds and flowers and all the bright and beautiful things of which others told me, and more than all the faces of those I loved. I do not feel like this now, and am content to wait, for I shall see fairer things than these. I shall "see Jesus," the Savior I have through grace learned to love and trust; and I am glad now to think that His will be the first face that I shall see.
The first hymn my kind friend taught me has been a favorite all through my life, and I expect many of my readers know and love it too.
“Sun of my soul, Thou Savior dear,
It is not night if Thou art near;
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise,
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes.”
I was always afraid during a thunderstorm, for though I could not see the lightning flash, I could hear the peals of thunder, and though I trembled very much, I used to sing my favorite hymn, and find a sort of comfort in doing so. I am not afraid in a storm now, for I have learned the joy of having the Lord as my keeper, and know that no harm could come to me without His permission.