A True Story for the Young
The sun was looking fiercely down
One long, hot August day,
And each side of the glaring street
Had caught his burning ray.
The clock in old St. Mary’s church
Struck out — One — Two—Three Four
So slow, as if it wished to say,
“I never can strike more.”
And as the last long sound died out
Amongst the din and heat,
A young man came, as slowly, round
The corner of the street:
“But four o’clock! Then just two hours
Must thus go creeping on
Before the train that takes me home
Will start from Paddington!
“If I could only find some shade!
The Park?—That is too far;—
But better than the streets would be
The Baker Street Bazaar.”
And as he turned to go, he heard
A supplicating tone,
Which seemed to come from one who had
“A crossing of his own.”
Before him stood a little lad,
Not more than eight years old,
Whose large and worn-out clothes hung down
In many a tattered fold:
He held a great old giant broom,
With stick so tall and strong,
It looked as tho’ it might have swept
The boy himself along:
And he was all begrimed with dirt,
His head and feet all bare,
And on his bony, thin, long face
There was a look of care:
Yet the eyes that sparkled in that face
Seemed charged with childish fun:“
One copper, please, good gentleman,
One copper, only one.”
“And if I give you one, my boy,
Say, shall ybu spend it well?”
“I shall buy victuals with it, sir,
Please, sir, I boards myself.”
“Have you no mother, then, poor child,
No home to call your own?
Or, perhaps, you have got other friends
Somewhere in this great town?”
“I got no mother, gentleman,
She’s dead, and father, too;
So now I sweeps to keep myself,
I’ve nothing else to do:
“I lives with Biddy, she is kind,
And lets me sleep with Pat:
But then, please, sir, I boards mysel’,
And what I earn’s for that.”
His face flushed up with honest pride
As he stood and looked so true:—
It seemed to say, “I help myself.
God helps me so to do.”
“Well, here you are, my little man,
This ‘change’ will just be right;
Do what you can with it—’twill buy
Your supper for to-night.”
But as he spoke he felt quite sad,
Then said with kindly tone,
“What can he do? he is too young
To brave the world alone.”
But the boy’s heart beat fast with joy,
For as he sprang aside,
He saw the paper held three pence,
And a halfpenny beside.
“O thank ye, thank ye, jintleman,”
And he danced across the way,
Wondering whether ‘twould be right
To spend so much that day.
But scarce was reached his corner post
When a loaded ‘bus swept round;
And, ere he saw, the foremost horse
Had knocked him to the ground.
There was no time to move;—the wheels
Rolled on just where he lay;
And the senseless form of that poor child
Was bleeding on the way.
A crowd rushed up and gathered quick;
The child they thought was dead;
But the kind gentleman was first
To raise his drooping head.
Placing his hand on the child’s heart,
He felt a gentle beat,
But soon found out there was no power
To use his legs or feet.
Just then came a policeman up,
And the poor child they bore
Into a druggist’s shop hard by,
A few-doors off, or more.
The druggist was a kind, good
He was a doctor, too,—
He said, for the poor little one
He’d try what he could do.
On a soft couch, in a quiet room,
He had him gently laid;
But when he saw the dreadful hurts
The little body had,
He shook his head, and did not speak
Till, said the boy’s first friend,
“Which is the nearest hospital?
I’ll for a carriage send.”
“The hospital! No need of that;
You cannot move him more;
I do not think that he will live
Much longer than an hour.
“Poor little fellow!
We will try To ease him of his pain;
But much I fear he will not speak
Here in this world again.”
For half an hour they knelt beside
The little unknown one;
They bathed his forehead, rubbed his hands;
Ah! what more could be done?—
For he was dying fast, they knew;
His breath came slow and weak;
When all at once he looked and smiled,
And seemed to try to speak.
His first kind end then said to him ,
“Do you remember me?”
He gasped”, ‘You’re just the jintleman
As the coppers gived to me.”
“Try once again, and ask him now
If he no message sends
To any one with whom he lives,—
Perhaps we can find his friends.”
But no, his eyes grew fixed and dull,—
He could not understand:
While still “the coppers” tight were clasped
In his cold little hand.
The young man stood with pitying eye,
Much wondering whence he came,
Thinking how sad that he should die,
And no one know his name;
Yet sadder if this little one,
With nought on earth to love,
Should know not of the Father’s home
For such as him above!
And soon he thought he’d try once more
If the poor child could speak,
Although it seemed almost too late,
His breath it was so weak.
So in a soft, low, earnest tone,
Said, bending o’er him low,
“Listen, my poor boy, what I say
I wish that you should know;
You have been very badly hurt,
And must die very soon:
Is there no message you would like
To send to any one?”
“Yes, place,” he murmured, as a smile
Broke o’er his dying face,
And his weak little hand he tried
In his kind friend’s to place:
“Yes, plase,—my Sunday lady tell,—
And give her—Charley’s love,—
And that going to Jesus, now,—
To Jesus,—’ome,—above.”
“Where does she ‘ive?” the young man asked,
“Or what’s the lady’s name?”
But there was silence when he spoke,
No other answer came.
The little head had fallen back,
The smile gone from his cheek;
That feeble voice in this sad world
No other word would speak!
A moment more, then all was still;
The happy soul was gone,—
Called to the heavenly home above,
This little unknown one,
To hear his Father’s loving voice
Along the gold-paved street,
Which cannot soil his pure white robe,
Nor hurt his tender feet;
Where he’ll ne’er feel the burning heat,
Nor piercing cold, or rain;
Nor want of food, or friend, or love,
Can ever know again!
Silent beside the lifeless form,
With sad and silent gaze,
Awhile the young man stood;—a tear
Fell on the dead child’s face.
I Iark! The slow clock strikes out once morel—
One — Two — Three — Four — and Five,
‘Tis just an hour since first he saw
This poor dead child alive!
The funeral!—he talked of that
With Charley’s other friend;
Then knew he must not longer stay,
He’d no more time to spend.
The train rushed on which bore him far
From London dust and heat;
But still he heard the old clock strike,
Still saw that shop and street;
Still sat beside the little couch
The faintest word to hear;
And Charley’s dying message still
Kept falling on his ear.
The “Sunday Lady’s” home and name
The young man sought in vain;
Perhaps she knows not why that child
Ne’er came to school again.
So the message has not yet been told
To her for whom ‘twas given;
And Charley now may give it her
Himself, one day, in heaven.
Messages of God’s Love 11/22/1908