“WAX lights, sir? Wax lights, sir?” cried a little boy of eight or nine years sir of age, whose weak voice scarcely attracted attention. The bright pink spot upon each of Bobby’s sunken cheeks, which became brighter as a fit of coughing checked his utterance, and as he leaned against the back of a seat to support himself, too plainly told that consumption had marked him for its own.
It was at a pretty watering-place in Lancashire that Bobby was crying “Wax lights, sir?” and many merry, happy children might be seen digging in the sand and building mimic castles to be washed away by the rising tide, with the fathers and mothers sitting near, enjoying the sea breezes, and sharing in the innocent mirth of their little ones.
“Where is your father, my boy?” asked a kind gentleman of poor little Bobby.
“I have no father or mother now,” replied the boy, sadly, as soon as he could speak.
The gentleman, seeing how ill he was, made enquiries, and, finding the boy’s story was true, obtained his admission into a hospital.
There Bobby remained for three weeks, without appearing to get either better or worse. On the gentleman calling to see him, the doctor told him in the boy’s presence that it was a bad case of consumption — that although he could never be better, yet he might live a long time, and therefore he must be removed to the workhouse to make room for those who could be cured. These words went to poor Bobby’s heart, for he had been taught to dread the workhouse, and his mother’s last words were, “Trust in God, my child; try to get an honest living, and don’t go to the workhouse.”
That night little Bobby’s heart was very sad, and about midnight the nurse saw the little fellow slide out of bed and kneel down. She listened, and heard him say, “Please, Lord Jesus, don’t let me go to the workhouse.”
Three times he repeated the words, and then he knelt in silence.
After a little while the nurse, being afraid lest the little boy should take cold, went to lift him into bed again, but little Bob was not there: he had gone — not to the workhouse, but to be with Jesus in heaven:
“In that beautiful place He has gone to prepare,
For all who are washed and forgiven;
And many clear children are gathering there,
For of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
Little Bob’s prayer was answered: the Lord Jesus did not let him go to the workhouse! Now, dear children, though I should hope none of you are as poor as little Bob, you may all make a friend of Jesus, and you will find that He is always ready to hear and answer even the prayers of little children because He loves them.
R. B. Y.