Not long before the death of Mr. Adams, a gentleman said to him: "I have found out who made you." "What do you mean?" asked Mr. Adams. The gentleman replied: "I have been reading the published letters of your mother." "If," this gentleman relates, "I had spoken that dear name to some little boy who had been for weeks away from his mother, his eyes could not have flashed more brightly, nor his face glowed more quickly, than did the eyes and face of that venerable old man when I pronounced the name of his mother. He stood up in his peculiar manner and said,— "Yes, Sir, all that is good in me I owe to my mother." Is not this incident very touching and beautiful? 66 'Do you read ?" "Oh, yes." "And what book did you learn from?" "Oh, I never had a book in my life, sir." "And who was your schoolmaster? " "Oh, I never was at school." Here was a singular case: a boy could read and spell without a book or a master. But what was the fact? Why, another little sweep, a little older than himself, had taught him to read, by showing him the letters over the shop-doors which they passed as they went through the city. His teacher, then, was a little sweep like himself, and his book the sign-boards on the houses. What may not be done by trying! POETRY. THE BLIND BOY. "COME, gentle sister, lead me where And where those fragrant little flowers Through all the air." Thus said a little light hair'd boy, Whilst by his sister led; From whose fair cheek, the rose of health Alas! alas! had fled, But not his joy. For often as he sat alone, And thought of angels bright, A smile would sparkle o'er his cheek, And fill his soul with light; He thought of home. He thought one day, he should behold That land where Angels live, And where to God, in ceaseless songs They endless praises give, In rapturous strains. This child was blind, nor had he ought Of earth's fair pictures seen; Yet in his loneliest hours, he oft Of Paradise had dreamed; That land he sought. And as they, wandering by the brook, Heard the sweet Nightingale Pour forth his sonnet to his mate, Which echoed through the vale, The boy thus spoke. "Do Angels, who live up in heaven, Which thrill my soul-notes borne along The breeze of Heaven." "Yes, yes, my boy, those Angels bright, Who worship God above, Sing sweeter songs than mortal ear Ere listened to with love, On this our earth. For in that far-off spirit-land, And as the Seraphs, with veil'd face, Throughout that heavenly Paradise And as the Seraphs touch the lyre, And sing of Moses and the Lamb, Of Sovereign love. And thus they spend the eternal round In rapturous songs of love, Which none can sing, but those bright ones Who dwell in realms above, Where God resides." The sister ceased her song of heaven, And of the Angels joy; Which thrill'd the little infant soul Of the poor, pale, blind boy, At last he said, "Oh, sister dear, I ofttimes mourn I cannot see the birds, nor flowers, Tho' fain I would. I fain would look on nature's face, I cannot fancy what's a flower, Or what is meant by hues, Nor how appear the stars in heaven Like golden gems in blue: It strangely sounds. "Do not repine," the sister said; Life's journey soon will end, And then you will in heavenly light Eternal ages spend, To praise the Lamb. Then when from earth your spirit soars, And leaves behind your clay, You'll enter from perpetual night Into perpetual day, With sight restored. And then, through fields of living green, Enamelled with fair flowers, Your soul may roam, and seek repose In Eden's fairest bowers; Those built by God." And so it was, this child soon died, And left his clay behind, And soar'd away to endless light; And tho' he was born blind, He saw in heaven. O. B. |