Part 3 (2/2)

The father, when he saw what it was the boy would do, made a little move as if he would prevent him; but the mother playfully caught the old man's hand, and held it in hers, while she said aloud, ”Only one song, Tiny. Your father's rest was disturbed last night--so get through with it as quickly as you can.”

At these last words the old man looked well pleased, for he fancied that his wife agreed with him, because he would not yet allow himself to believe that it was for his boy Tiny that the old pilgrim left the harp.

And yet never was a sweeter voice than that of the young singer--old Josiah acknowledged that to himself, and old Josiah knew--he was a judge of such things, for all his life he had been singing songs in his heart.

Yes! though you would never have imagined such a thing, that is, if you are in the habit of judging folks from their outward appearance--he had such a rough, wrinkled face, brown with freckles and tan, such coa.r.s.e, s.h.a.ggy grey hair, and such a short, crooked, awkward figure, you never would have guessed what songs he was for ever singing in his heart with his inward voice--they were songs which worldly people would never hear--only G.o.d and the angels heard them. Only G.o.d and the holy angels!--for as to Kitty, though she was Josiah's best earthly friend, though she knew he was such an excellent man, though she believed that there was not a better man than he in all the world, though year by year he had been growing lovelier and lovelier in her eyes--yes! though his hair, of course, became rougher and greyer, and his figure more bent, and his hands harder, and his teeth were nearly all gone!--growing lovelier because of his excellence, which increased with age as good wine does--still even she, who knew him better than any person on earth, even she knew him so little that she never so much as dreamed that this wonderful voice of Tiny's was but the echo of what had been going on in Josiah's heart and mind ever since he was himself a child!

It was because he understood all this so very well that Josiah was troubled when he thought about his son.

But to go back to the singer in the chimney-corner. Tiny sat alone on his side of the fire-place, in the little chair fas.h.i.+oned out of knotted twigs of oak which his father had made for him long ago. Opposite him were the old folks--the father with his arms folded on his broad chest, the mother knitting beside him, now and then casting a sidelong glance at the old man to see how it went with him.

Wonderful was that song which Tiny sung!

Even the winter wind seemed hus.h.i.+ng its voice to hear it, and through the little windows looked the astonished moon.

Josiah lifted up his eyes in great amazement as he heard it, as if he had altogether lost himself. It was nothing like his dream that Tiny sang, though to be sure it was all about a Beautiful Gate.

Altogether about the Beautiful Gate! and of the young poet, who, pa.s.sing through it, went his way into the great Temple of the World, singing his great songs, borne like a conqueror with a golden canopy carried over him, and a golden crown upon his head! Riding upon a white horse splendidly caparisoned, and crowds of people strewing mult.i.tudes of flowers before him! And of the lady who placed the victor's crown upon his head! She was by his side, more beautiful than any dream, rejoicing in his triumph, and leading him on towards her father's palace, the Beautiful Pearl Gates of which were thrown wide open, and the king himself with a bare head stood there on foot, to welcome the poet to the great feast.

With this the song ended, and with a grand sweep of the silver strings Tiny gently arose, and hung the harp against the wall, and sat down again with folded hands and blus.h.i.+ng cheek, half frightened, now when all was over, to think what he had done. The fire had vanished from his eyes, and the red glow of his cheek went following after; and if you had gone into Josiah's kitchen just then, you never would have guessed that _he_ was the enchanter who had been raising such a storm of splendid music.

At first the old man could not speak--tears choked his words. ”Ahem,”

said he once or twice, and he cleared his voice with the intention of speaking; but for a long time no words followed. At length he said, shaking his head,--”It isn't like what I dreamed--it isn't like what I dreamed;” and one would have supposed that the old man felt himself guilty of a sin by the way he looked at Tiny, it was with so very sad a look.

”But beautifuller,” said the mother, ”beautifuller, isn't it, Josiah!”

”Yes,” answered Josiah; but still he spoke as if he had some secret misgiving--as if he were not quite sure that the beauty of the song had a right to do away with the sadness of his dream.

”But,” said Tiny, timidly, yet as if determined that he would have the matter quite settled now and for ever--”_am_ I a singer, father? _am_ I a poet?”

Slowly came the answer--but it actually came, ”Yes,” with a broken voice and troubled look, and then the old man buried his face in his hands, as if he had p.r.o.nounced some dreadful doom upon his only son.

”Then,” said Tiny boldly, rising from his seat, ”I must go into the world. It says it needs me; and father, shall _your_ son hide himself when any one in need calls to him for help? I never would have gone, father, if you and mother had not said that I was a singer and a poet.

For you I know would never deceive me; and I made a vow that if ever a time came when you should say that to me, then I would go. But this is my home, father and mother; I shall never get another. The wide world could not give me one. It is not rich enough to build me a home like this.”

”Don't speak in that way,” said the old man; and he turned away that Tiny should not see his face, and he bent his head upon the back of his chair.

Presently Tiny went softly up to him and laid his hand upon Josiah's arm, and his voice trembled while he said, ”Dear father, are you angry with me?”

”No, Tiny,” said Josiah; ”but what are you going to do with the world?

You! ... my poor boy.”

”Good!” said Tiny with a loud, courageous voice--as if he were prepared, single handed, to fight all the evil there was in the world--”Good, father, or I would not have dared to take the pilgrim's harp down from the wall. I will sing,” continued he still more hopefully, and looking up smiling into the old man's face--”I will sing for the sick and the weary, and cheer them; I will tell the people that G.o.d smiles on patient labour, and has a reward in store for the faithful, better than gold and rubies. I will get money for my songs, and feed the hungry; I will comfort the afflicted; I will--”

”But,” said Josiah solemnly, lifting his head from the back of the chair, and looking at Tiny as if he would read every thought there was in the boy's heart, ”What did all that mean about the Beautiful Gate?

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