“FATHER, do come with me this evening to hear the preaching,” pleaded little Alfred.
“No, my boy—no I came once to please you, and you’ve never given me any peace about it since.”
“Oh, but, dear father, once isn’t enough. You know I went many times before I understood that Jesus loved me, and had washed away my sins.”
“Why, Alfred, what sins had you got that wanted washing away? I am sure both mother and I can say there never was a better lad of ten years old in all the village than our boy. There! trot off alone, my child; perhaps I’ll come along with you next Sunday.” And with this half promise Alfred had to go, sorrowfully remembering many a like one given before only to end in nothing.
Wonderfully beloved was little Alfred; doubly dear, being not only the long-desired son, but also the sole child left to gladden the parents’ hearts; for the daughter, many years older, had now married and gone from the home. His father, who was a working man, indulged, so far as his means allowed, every wish of the child he doted on, and the tender mother could refuse nothing to the fair-haired boy who was the very light of her eyes.
Thus they delighted in God’s sweet gift to them, but knew not the great Giver, and no note of praise from their hearts went up to Him. Yet the God to whom they were so indifferent loved their little son far more than they did; while they sought to make the child’s path brightly joyous here, He gently drew the young heart to far higher, sweeter joys than any they could give, and attracted him by the beauty of the altogether Lovely One, Jesus Christ, His Son.
The work of grace in Alfred’s soul was so gradual that none could say exactly at what time he became the Lord’s. From his earliest childhood he had loved to listen to anything about Jesus; as he grew older he would leave his parents on the Lord’s day for the Sunday school and the preaching, where he could hear about the Saviour. Now, at ten years old, he had come out very brightly and decidedly for Christ, for the good seed had sprung up, and was bearing fruit abundantly. Eager to tell others of the precious Saviour he had found, Alfred begged to have a class in the Sunday school. Very touching was it to the older teachers to see that earnest young face surrounded by his little scholars; the child teacher who, by the Spirit of God, “understood more than the ancients.”
But the hour so spent did not satisfy his longings to serve the Master, and soon another opening was given. At the evening preaching he noticed lads of his own age and older, who, not having learned to read, took little interest in either the hymns sung or the word read; and Alfred, who so keenly enjoyed both, felt he must do something to help them. At once the kind father was appealed to.
“Let me ask some boys to come in of an evening, father: I want to teach them to read, for it makes me so sorry to see them on a Sunday not following the chapters and hymns.”
“But, my boy, a lot of rough lads would make such a litter for your mother; they haven’t services every night in the week; why can’t you get them in there?”
“You see, father, I could not teach them in the dark, and they would not light the lamps for us. Mother says she will not mind a bit any noise we make, if you’ll let me have them here.”
“Then have ’em, my lad, by all means, if it makes you happy; I should have thought it was dull work turning schoolmaster in play hours.” For the father did not understand the constraining love of Christ in that young heart that must find vent.
So the weeknight class, too, was begun, and doubtless more than the letter of the Bible was taught by Alfred to his pupils.
For three years the little laborer worked happily on, the only shadow across his path being the continued indifference of his parents to the things of God. The father would at times yield to the earnest entreaties of his idolized son, and go with him to hear the gospel; but the mother, busy at her little household duties, always had some ready excuse. Could God turn a deaf ear to His young servant’s many prayers for their con version? No. He was about to answer then now, though not in the way that Alfred had so often pictured to himself.
It was a bright July day. The little cottage home lay bathed in sunshine; the very bees seemed to hang lazily on the flower! about the door, as if it were too hot even to gather honey. The busy mother, however was moving here and there at her morning work, with her usual energy, when Alfred looked in to tell her he was off to the town to get “sixpen’y’orth of medicine for their sick neighbor.”
“Poor thing, she’s worse this morning mother, and she has no one to send; it won’t take me long, and perhaps I’ll get a lift.”
“It will be very hot for you along that dusty road, my lad, but you always must be doing something for somebody.”
“Well, this isn’t much to do for anyone mother,” and giving her a loving kiss, he sprang away, down the shady lane that lee into the high road.
The mother, shielding her eyes with her hand, stood at the cottage door to watch till out of sight the lithe young figure; bounding joyously along, so full of health and spirits.
“Bless him,” she murmured fondly to herself, as she turned to her work again; “he does grow a fine big lad, and with such a loving heart, too.”
Not very far had Alfred gone before he came in sight of a traction engine, dragging a huge load of stone along the road he had to travel.
“I shall get my lift there,” thought he, and ran more quickly on to overtake it.
“May I get up and have a ride?” he shouted, as he came panting alongside the engine. A nod gave consent, and Alfred in haste sprang towards the advancing stone wagon. But, alas! spent with the quick run, the usually sure foot missed its aim, and he was thrown backwards by the heavily laden wagon, which, still pursuing its fatal route, came on, crushing with its frightful wheels that fair young form.
Back to the little cottage home that he had left full of life and vigor so short a time before was carried the now dying boy. As tenderly as the rough hands could do it, the suffering child was placed in the father’s great armchair.
“Oh! it’s not my Alfred! it’s not my Alfred!” cried the distracted mother, as she gazed at the mangled form and sorely disfigured features. “Don’t tell me it’s him: shouldn’t I know my own boy? This isn’t him!”
“Mother,” gasped Alfred, faintly, “mother, it is me; don’t take on so, perhaps I’ll be better soon, and if not, I’m going to Jesus—going home—it’s all right, mother,” and the left hand, which had escaped uncrushed, was held tremblingly towards her, as the broken sentences fell from his lips.
The father, who had been hastily called from his work, was calmer and more collected, though his grief was no less deep and overwhelming. His first thought was to procure the best advice for his dearly-loved son.
“We must get him to the hospital,” he said; “if anything can be done, they’ll do it there.”
A litter was quickly formed, and very tenderly the sympathizing neighbors bore the little sufferer to the town. It was not until the sad procession had got well on its way, that the poor mother grasped the thought that her dying child had been taken from her. Then she arose, and rushed wildly out, down the lane, and along the dusty road, where the sun poured its hot beams on her unprotected head. Heedless of her disordered appearance and disheveled hair, she ran on until, near the hospital, she overtook the litter and its bearers.
Alfred was soon laid on a couch, and doctors and nurses gathered round him; but the poor mother’s frantic grief so hindered them that she had to be removed, to be lulled by opiates. She then lay in another room, unconscious, while the young life so dear to her was ebbing out. A very short examination satisfied all that nothing could be done. A kind nurse bending over the lying boy, asked softly—
“Do you think, dear child, you are going to heaven?”
“No, I don’t think so,” answered Alfred, and, pausing for breath, added earnestly, “I know it.” Then, resting his hand lovingly on his father’s head, who knelt sobbing by his side, he murmured, “Dear father, don’t take on so; it’s naught to die when you’ve got Christ; this is the valley of the shadow of death; but it’s not cold, Jesus is with me. Tell mother she mustn’t fret, it’s all right; you must both follow me to heaven—comfort mother.”
The voice was getting low and faint, and the eyelids closed heavily. No one stirred or spoke, or dared disturb the solemn calm brought by the presence of death. But one more sweet testimony was to be given by the faithful young servant to Him, who in his joyous days of health, had won and filled his heart. The eyes opened with a bright glance upwards, his hand waved triumphantly towards Him whom he alone could see, and “Jesus, lovely Jesus!” burst from his lips, as the happy spirit took its flight to Him who loved him. And so the idol was gone, and the cottage home left desolate indeed. Those cruel wheels had even more terribly crushed the poor parents’ hearts than the limbs of their little Alfred. Never again could this world be anything but an empty place to them, for the very light of their eyes had gone from it. Before the year had run its course, the father’s head was snowy white, and his erect form bowed with age, while the once bustling, busy mother’s step had become slow and heavy. God had in past years given them a full cup of earthly happiness, and it had but served to content their hearts at a distance from Himself. Now He had allowed it to be rudely and suddenly dashed from their lips, but still in love. He saw that the only way to draw their hearts from earth to heaven was to place their treasure there. As day by day they spoke together of their loved and early lost one, dwelling on each detail of the sweet Christ-like life, and in thought trying to follow him to the One, in whose bosom they knew he was now resting, the “lovely Jesus” of their little son became to their hearts also, “the altogether Lovely One.”
Several summers have gone by since that July day, when Alfred was taken home; and though the wound seems ever fresh, his father speaks now with kindling eye and brightening smile of the soon-coming glad day of meeting. Having “turned to God from idols,” he is now seeking to serve in his measure “the living and true God,” while waiting for His Son from heaven.
D. & A. C.