The Little Messenger of Love.
’Twas a little sermon preached to me
By a sweet, unconscious child—
A baby girl, scarce four years old,
With blue eyes soft and mild.
It happened on a rainy day;
I, seated in a car,
Was thinking, as I neared my home,
Of the continual jar
And discord that pervade the air
Of busy city life,
Each caring but for “number one,”
Self-gain provoking strife.
The gloomy weather seemed to cast
On every face a shade,
But on one countenance were lines
By sorrow deeply laid.
With low bowed head and hands clasped close,
She sat, so poor and old,
Nor seemed to heed the scornful glance
From eyes unkind and cold.
I looked again. Oh, sweet indeed
The sight that met my eyes!
Sitting upon her mothers lap,
With baby face so wise,
Was a wee child with sunny curls,
Blue eyes, and dimpled chin,
And a young, pure, loving heart
Unstained as yet by sin.
Upon the woman poor and sad
Her eyes in wonder fell,
Till wonder changed to pitying love;
Her thoughts, oh, who could tell?
Her tiny hands four roses held;
She looked them o’er and o’er,
Then choosing out the largest one,
She struggled to the floor.
Across the swaying car she went
Straight to the woman’s side,
And putting in the wrinkled hand
The rose, she ran to hide
Her little face in mother’s lap,
Fearing she had done wrong,
Not knowing, baby as she was,
That she had helped along
The up-hill road of life a soul
Cast down, discouraged quite,
As on the woman’s face there broke
A flood of joyous light.
Dear little child! she was indeed
A messenger of love
Sent to that woman’s lonely heart
From the great Heart above.
This world would be a different place
Were each to give to those
Whose hearts are sad as much of love
As went with baby’s rose.
Harper’s Young People.
I’d rather be right than to be President of the United States.—Henry Clay.