BENNIE’S CHRISTMAS.
CHAPTER I.
BENNIE’S HOME.
It was very cold down in the old lumber yard which skirted the canal, and Bennie’s little hands were numb and blue as he gathered the bits of boards and shingles and piled them in his basket, until it seemed as if so small a boy as he could not lift the heavy load. But Bennie was used to burdens and hardships; indeed, he would hardly have known himself without them, and when the basket was full he took it in both his hands and walked slowly along the towpath towards the miserable hovel he called his home. As he came near the bridge a young lady was going up the stone steps which lead to the street above, and with her was a little boy just Bennie’s age, but so different in looks and dress and general appearance that one could not fail to notice the contrast at once. Clad in a warm winter suit of the latest style Wallie Morgan knew nothing of cold or hunger and cruel neglect, and the sight of Bennie, with his ragged clothes and old slouched cap roused the boy nature and he called out, “Halloo, there, tow-head! What are you stealing chips for from my father’s lumber yard? I mean to tell him of you, Mr. Out-at-the-knees.”
“Hush, Wallie!” said the young lady whose face was very sweet, “you should not speak so to the little boy. He looks very poor and very cold. Come here, boy, and tell me your name and where you live.”
She held her hand towards the child, who was scowling defiantly at Wallie, but who, at the sound of her voice, seemed intuitively to recognize an ally in her, and replied: “He ’allus calls me tow-head, or out-at-the-knees, ’cause my hair’s white and my trouses is tore. I can’t help it, I didn’t make myself.”
“Who did make you?” the young girl asked, and Bennie replied, “I dunno, mother’s dead and pa gets drunk. I dunno nothing.”
“Don’t know who made you! That’s dreadful,” the lady said. “Why, you poor child, you must come to Sunday school and into my class and I will tell you about God. Will you come next Sunday? It is the church on the corner.”
“Will he be there?” Bennie asked, nodding towards Wallie.
“Yes, he is in my class, and I am his Aunt Nellie; but he will be very kind to you. He is not a bad boy. Come, and perhaps you may get something at Christmas. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes, it’s when the old chap fetches things down the chimbly; but he never brung me none. We’re poor, and Hetty keeps house and runs the streets all the time, and Mag and I is alone. I’ll tell Maggie, and mayby she’ll come. She’s got a new gown Miss Katy give her. I must go now, we are goin’ to have hasty puddin’ for dinner.”
He took his heavy basket and almost staggering under the load walked slowly away. As usual at that time of day Hetty was out, but Maggie, a dark faced girl of twelve, was waiting for him, and with her help a fire was soon kindled in the old broken stove, and the hasty pudding, of which Bennie had spoken, was boiling and bubbling in the one kettle the miserable house afforded.
“I wish we had some ’lasses, don’t you?” Bennie said, as Maggie poured into his dish more than half of the blue milk she had begged of a neighbor.
But molasses was a luxury quite beyond the means of the Hewitts, and so Bennie ate his pudding and skimmed milk, and told Maggie of Wallie Morgan who had called him tow-heard and of the beautiful lady who had invited him to Sunday school.
“Yes that’s Nellie Morgan, his aunt; his mother’s dead, and she keeps house and has a class, a big one, in Sunday school, and give Jane Shaw a doll and a dress and lots of candy and pop-corn last Christmas, and her brother Tim got a top and a whip.”
“My, that’s jolly; less go to her class next Sunday,” Bennie said, his fancy caught with the top and the whip, and the shoes which would keep his little red toes from the cold.
But Bennie was a delicate child and when Sunday came he was sick and lay on an old rug in a little room off from the kitchen where he was safe from his drunken father, while Maggie went to church and into Miss Morgan’s class.
That day was a new era in Maggie’s life, and unmindful of the bitter cold which struck through her thin garments and made her shiver involuntarily, she hurried home to Bennie with the picture card she had received and the wonderful story she had heard of Jesus’ birthday and the baby born among the cows and oxen in that far off manger in Bethlehem. Wonderingly Bennie listened, asking innumerable questions about the child; was he ever cold, or hungry, and was he afraid of the cattle, and did his father get drunk and thrash him? To all these inquiries Maggie answered no decidedly, but when Bennie asked if he really could hear what every body said and would give them what they wanted, Maggie was doubtful. She thought, however, they better try it, and so the two forlorn little ones knelt down as Maggie said they did in church and tried to pray. But neither knew what to say and when Bennie suggested that his sister ought to know “’cause she’d been to meetin’,” she answered, “I know they said Our Father, I am sure of that.”
But Bennie scoffed at this idea, “That baby in the hay our father! Why, pa is drunk down to the grocery!”
As well as she could, Maggie explained, drawing some from her imagination, some from what Miss Morgan had told her, and some from faint remembrances of a time when her mother, who died at Bennie’s birth, had taught her of God and Heaven. Half convinced, half doubtful still, Bennie tried again, and said, “Our Father, if you is my father, and was oncet a little boy like me, give me something to eat and some gooder trouses and shoes, and a pair of lines on the tree when you have your birth night.”
“For Christ’s sake; say that,” Maggie whispered, and Bennie rejoined, “Who’s he! I shan’t do it. I’m not goin’ to get ’em mixed, I’ll stick to Our Father.”
And surely the good Father, who is so kind and pitiful to the little ones, heard that prayer of the ignorant child, and would in His own time and way answer it.
CHAPTER II.
BENNIE’S FIRST CHRISTMAS.
The snow had fallen all day long, and from the window of his wretched home Bennie had watched the feathery flakes as they fell in perfect clouds, covering the old lumber yard where only yesterday he had gathered his basket of wood and chips, covering the tow path which skirted the canal, and covering the roofs of all the houses as far as he could see. It was the first genuine snow of the season, and he wanted to enjoy it as he saw some school-boys doing on the bridge, but his toes were out of his shoes, and his elbows were out of his jacket and there was that little hacking cough to which he was subject every winter, and which this season was worse than usual and kept him awake at night. He had learned that wet feet and chilled limbs increased it, and he dreaded to lie all day long in that dreary little bed-room, with no fire and nothing pleasant to look at. From his mother, who had been his father’s superior in every respect, he had inherited a love of the beautiful, an appreciation of comfort and pretty things, which made the squalor around more offensive, and he could not endure the thought of being sick again, as he was a month ago, when he was soaked in a rain and had the cough so badly; and then, he wanted to go to the Christmas-tree that night, and Hetty had said that he “should not stir a step if there was any sign of his coughing, for she would not be bothered with a sick young one again.” So, lest he should take cold and cough Bennie staid in doors all day and watched the falling snow, and late in the afternoon hailed with delight a rosy cloud in the west which said the storm was over. It was not very cold, and when the sun went down and the full moon rose up over the carpet of pure white snow Bennie thought he had never seen so beautiful a night, or felt as happy as he did when starting for the church, with Maggie as his chaperone. She had been three times to Sunday school and when Miss Morgan asked for the little boy seen that cold day in the lumber yard, Maggie had told her of his ragged clothes and worn-out shoes, and Miss Nellie, who was like an angel of mercy in the homes of the poor, had made a note of it; determining after Christmas was over to find the child and do what she could for him.
It was early when Maggie and Bennie entered the church, but they found it nearly full, and abashed at the sight of so many strangers and attracted by the heat of the registers Bennie insisted upon staying by them, near the door where he was jostled by the crowd and jeered at by some thoughtless boys who made fun of his old clothes and asked “what he would take for himself, rags and all.” But Bennie bore their jeers meekly and only doubled his fist once, so intent was he upon the tree in the chancel, bending with its hundreds of gifts. He had never dreamed of anything like that, and his belief in Bethlehem’s baby grew stronger as he saw this tangible commemoration of his birth night. How fine it all was, and how splendidly the rector looked in his white robe, and how grandly the music of the organ rolled through the aisles, making the floor tremble under his feet, and causing him to start a little and look down to see what was the matter. And when the children began one of their Christmas carols and sang of the “Silent night, the holy night,” Bennie felt a strange thrill creep over him and every nerve quivered with excitement as he listened to the words:
“All is calm,—all is bright
· · · · ·
Glories stream from Heaven afar,
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,
Christ the Saviour is born.”
Was Heaven, of which Maggie had told him such wonderful things, any better than this, or the children there happier than these whose faces looked so eager and expectant as they went up to the tree, and so full of joy when they came back? They were calling the names very rapidly now, and Bennie held his breath to hear, and watched them anxiously. Wallie Morgan seemed to be a favored one, for he was called many times, and when he came back with a pair of red lines with little tinkling bells, Bennie exclaimed aloud, “Oh, if they’d only call me!”
Would they? Was there anything for him on that heavily laden tree? There were gifts for Johnnie and Jakie, and Susie and Freddie, and Sam, and yes,—certain and true, he heard his name at last, or something like it, and half started forward, when a rough boy caught his arm, saying, “’Tain’t you. It’s a gal.”
No, it was not Bennie, but it was Maggie, his sister, whose name he had heard and who received a Bible and a bundle of something which looked like clothes.
“Maggie Hewitt; Maggie Hewitt,” Bennie heard a woman in front of him say. “That is a new name. Who is she?”
“Oh, some waif Miss Nellie has picked up, I dare say,” was the reply. “She is always doing such things, you know. Isn’t she beautiful to-night with that long feather and jaunty sacque?”
Bennie thought she was beautiful and watched her admiringly as she moved among her pupils, sharing their joy and occasionally trying to repress their wild spirits. Johnnie and Jakie and Tommie again, and Susie and Katie and Anne, but no Bennie Hewitt; he had been forgotten; there was nothing for him, and with a choking, gasping sensation he stood, holding fast to the pew railing in front of him, while the grand old anthem Glory to God on High, rang through the church, and the final prayer was said. But the music and the prayer were nothing to him now; faith in Bethlehem’s baby was gone, and his little heart was as empty of happiness as the tall tree was of gifts, and as full of bitter disappointment as the church was of people, all moving out and crowding him as they went. Maggie had been near the chancel with Miss Morgan’s class, and when at last she came there were few left in the church, and these were gathered about the rector, near the tree.
“Oh, Ben, see what I’ve got; a bran-new gown,” Maggie said, as she caught sight of her brother.
At the sound of her voice Bennie’s pent-up grief gave way, and a low, piteous, wailing cry reached the ear of Nellie Morgan, who, in a moment was at Bennie’s side asking what was the matter.
“Everybody got somethin’ but me, and I never had a darned thing. I thought the baby in the stable would bring me suthin’; I asked him this mornin’ would he.”
This was the sobbing reply of the little ragged boy who cried as if his heart would break, while Nellie tried to comfort him. In the multiplicity of her cares she had forgotten him, and she felt so grieved and sorry, until an idea struck her. There were a few whispered words to Wallie, whose hands were full, and then turning to Bennie, she asked what he wanted most.
“Some lines and some shoes,” he said, and glancing at his thin, worn boots, Nellie replied, “Poor boy, you do need shoes, and you shall have them to-morrow, while the lines,—” she turned appealingly to Wallie, who, after a momentary struggle, laid the lines in her hand. “Yes,” she continued, “you shall have the lines to-night. Wallie gives them to you, and is sorry for the naughty words he said to you the other day. Now, shake hands and be friends with him.”
Such generosity and self-denial were more than Bennie could comprehend, and he stood staring blankly at Wallie, while his lip quivered and the tears rained down his cheek.
“Git out! Yer only foolin’,” he said, while the glimmer of a smile showed round his mouth.
Wallie had felt like crying himself, but at the sight of tears in another he assumed a show of manliness and answered, “No, I ain’t foolin’. I want you to have ’em. Auntie can knit me some more. They are three yards long. Look!” and with a swift movement he threw them across Ben’s neck, exclaiming, “Get up there! Go ’long!”
Quick as thought Ben started off on a brisk canter, with sundry little squeals and kicking up of heels, and before the astonished rector could stop it the two boys had made the entire circuit of the church, one as driver and the other as horse! It was an unprecedented thing, but Bennie knew no better, and Wallie would not admit that he was sorry. It was the greatest fun, he said, and Ben was the nicest kind of a horse, because he squealed and kicked up so good! To Bennie that race was, perhaps, the best part of the festival, though the next day was to him the real Christmas, the white day of his life, which he never forgot. There was much cheer and festivity at the Morgan house that Christmas time, for many guests were staying there, and Nellie, as the mistress, had numberless duties to perform, but she did not forget her promise to little Ben, and just before the bell at St. Luke’s rang for the morning service, the Morgan carriage stopped at the wretched house where the Hewitts lived, and Nellie entered the cold, dirty room, laden with gifts for Bennie. There was a warm suit of Wallie’s half worn clothes, a pair of shoes, with mittens and tippet, a book of pictures, and a horse on wheels, which, possibly, pleased the little boy more than all the rest. He was very happy and proud in his new clothes, and when the next Sunday came and Nellie Morgan joined her class in Sunday school Bennie was the first one she saw, his face all aglow with excitement and eager expectancy. Forlorn and despised as he was, he was no ordinary child, and the quickness with which he comprehended her and the aptness of his replies and questionings surprised and interested Miss Nellie, who felt that she had known the child for years, so fast did he gain upon her love during that first hour of teaching. Regularly every Sunday after that, through sunshine and storm, Bennie was in his place, his lesson always perfect, and his brain full of the puzzling thoughts which had come to him during the week, and which only Miss Nellie could explain. Of the child Jesus he was never tired of hearing, and the story of Bethlehem was told him again and again until he knew it by heart, and prompted both Miss Morgan and his sister if, in telling it, they deviated ever so little from the original. Of Calvary and its agony he did not care to hear. There was something horrible to him in that three hours’ suffering, and the darkened sky and opening graves, and he would far rather think of Christ as a little child sleeping on a mound of hay, or playing by the door of his home in Nazareth.
“Seems if I got nearer to Him, and He was sorrier for me when I’m cold and hungry and father licks me so hard for nothin’,” he said, and his prayers were mostly said to the baby boy he had first heard about, and we have no doubt that God listened with love and sympathy for the poor child who sometimes asked so touchingly, “Was you ever hungry, dear Jesus, and be flogged and cuffed as I am when I hain’t done nothin’, and did the snow come into your winder and cover the front of your bed, and make you so cold at night?”
At first Bennie’s prayers were mostly interrogatories of the Lord with regard to His early life; but as he learned more from the faithful Nellie, he came at last to ask for what he wanted in his own peculiar way, and God, who always hears and answers the prayer of faith like Bennie’s, heard and answered him, as we shall see in our next chapter.
CHAPTER III.
BENNIE’S SECOND CHRISTMAS.
The year had rolled round swiftly, and the little ones of St. Luke’s were again looking eagerly forward to Christmas Eve and the wonderful tree, which all the summer long had been growing down by the lake and gathering new beauty and strength for the task it was to perform. It was in the cellar of St. Luke’s now, and the ladies and children were busy trimming the little stone church on the corner, and Maggie Hewitt was with them, holding twine and pulling twigs for Miss Nellie, at whose side she hovered constantly, and whom some of the young girls called “Miss Morgan’s shadow.” But Bennie was not there, and if you had gone down on the tow path that winter day and entered the room, into which the snow used to drift at night, and where Bennie used to hide away from his drunken, crazy father, you would scarcely have known the place. Nellie Morgan had proved the good angel of that house, as of many others, and discovering that appreciation of tidiness and comfort which Bennie possessed to so great a degree, she had made his surroundings as pleasant as possible under the circumstances. Bennie was a delicate child, and often sick for days and even weeks, and when Miss Nellie found how distasteful to him was that dingy, dreary room where the broken window was stuffed with rags, and the damp, stained paper hung in strips on the wall, she went to work with a will, and many an article of cast off furniture found its way from the garret of the Morgan house to the hut on the tow path, and in comparison with his condition one year ago, Bennie now lodged like a prince, and felt almost as happy as one. There was fresh paper on the walls, the window was mended, and a clean white curtain hung before it; a strip of carpet covered the floor, and Bennie’s bed was a wide, capacious crib, which had once been Wallie Morgan’s; and there, propped up with pillows and clad in a bright dressing-gown, Bennie lay that December day when his sister Maggie was busy at the church where he so longed to be. A severe cold had settled on his lungs, and for weeks he had kept in doors, trying to subdue the tickling cough, which harassed him day and night.
“Oh, if I only can be well by Christmas, I want to see Jesus’ birth night once more. Do you think he’ll let me go?” he would say to Miss Nellie, when she came, as she often did, to see him, and with tears in her eyes Nellie would smooth the light hair of the little boy who had grown so fast into her love, and answer that she hoped so, when all the time there was a great fear in her heart that never again would Bennie celebrate the Saviour’s birth night.
But she would not tell him so then, for she felt sure that he was one of the little ones of whom our Savior said “of such is the kingdom of Heaven.” Her labor had not been in vain so far as Bennie was concerned. With astonishing avidity he had seized upon her words of instruction, and now, whether awake or asleep, the baby of Bethlehem was always present with him, the friend to whom he told his joys and griefs and to whom he often prayed for his drunken father, his idle, wicked sister Hetty, and his other sister, Maggie, whom he loved so well.
Such a child could not fail to influence any household for good, and it was observed by many that Mr. Hewitt worked more steadily, and was not intoxicated so often as of old, while Hetty was less in the street and never brought her vile, noisy companions to disturb her sick brother. And Bennie was very happy except when he thought of the Christmas Festival and his desire to attend it.
“Please, Jesus of Bethlehem, let me be well enough to go there just this once and hear my name called from the tree, will you, and I’ll be so good and not fret at Mag when my side aches and I cough so hard.”
This was Bennie’s prayer, or the substance of it, said often to himself, but for once God did not seem to hear the little boy, for his cough daily grew worse, the pallor about his lips grew deeper, the red on his thin cheeks redder, and his great blue eyes had in them that bright, glassy look which only the eyes of consumptives wear.
“I can’t go; he won’t let me,” he said, with a burst of tears, the morning before Christmas to Miss Nellie, who had come down to see him, and who tried to comfort him by saying that he would be remembered just the same, and that his presents would be new to him Christmas morning.
“’Tain’t that,” he answered with quivering lip, “’Tain’t the presents. It’s going up myself and feeling that he counts me in as one of ’em, I want to hear Him call my name,—Bennie Hewitt, and know how it sounds.”
It was a fancy of his that Jesus himself called the names of the little ones, and Nellie did not try to dispel the illusion. Jesus would call him soon, she was sure, and with a kiss and a promise to come again on the morrow she left him and went back to the church where she was busy all the day with Maggie as her constant aid. And while they trimmed the house of God and hung their gifts upon the tree, little Bennie lay in his crib thinking about it and of the tree of life, of which Nellie had once read to him. Would he ever see that tree, and would there be something on it for him, and could he bathe his burning cheeks and hands in that pure river of water, and wouldn’t it be nice to have no nights to cough so in, and no need of sun or moon to light those golden streets.
It was nearly dark when Maggie came in, full of the beautiful church and the tree on which were so many curious things.
“Something for you,” she said to Bennie. “I saw more than one, and I’ll bring ’em to you when it’s out. Don’t cry, Bennie, I’m so sorry you can’t go with me. Next year you will.”
“No, Maggie, I shall never go—never hear my name,” Bennie tried to say, but a fit of coughing severer than any he had ever had came on and the cloth he held to his lips was stained with blood.
Neither Hetty nor Mag knew the danger, or what those crimson stains portended, and both went to the church leaving their father with Bennie, who at first lay very still and seemed to be asleep; then he began to grow restless and asked his father to read to him of the “golden city where the gates stand always open and there is neither sun nor moon.”
But Mr. Hewitt was unused to the Bible, and did not know where to find that description of the New Jerusalem of which Bennie talked so much, sometimes coherently and sometimes not, for his mind wandered a little and was now in “Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blest,” where the tree of life was growing and where Christ’s name was written on the foreheads of his children, and then at the church where the names were called, his perhaps, and he bade his father listen and tell him if he heard it.
“I can’t go up,” he said, “I’m so sick, but Maggie will bring them, and next year I shall see that other tree in the New Jerusalem, I guess I will, I mean, for I have tried to be good since she told me how, and I’ve prayed to Jesus every day. Do you love Him, father?”
There was no answer from the rough-faced man who sat watching his child with a pain in his heart such as he had not felt in years.
“Father!” and Bennie’s voice was very low and pleading, “You ain’t drunk now one bit.”
“No, by Jove, no,” came emphatically from the father’s lips, and Bennie continued, “Don’t ever be so any more, will you? Promise me, father, promise your little sick boy, who is going to die.”
“No, Bennie, you must not die, and I’ve been so hard on you, and flogged you when I was in drink,” Mr. Hewitt sobbed, laying his head upon the pillow, while Bennie went on: “But I’ve forgiven that, father, and I was naughty sometimes, and called you names and made faces at you when you did not see me. I’m sorry for it now, and when I’m gone remember me as I was at the best, when I tried to be good, and, father, don’t drink any more, please keep sober, for Maggie’s sake, and Hetty’s; will you? Say you will; say it, father, quick.”
His wasted hand rested lovingly on the bowed head of his father, who faltered out: “Yes, Ben, I’ll try, I will, so help me God.”
“And He will help you, father, I’ll ask Him, now; He will hear me because I am going to die,” and folding his hands reverently, Bennie prayed, “Oh, Jesus, man Jesus, I mean; please keep father from getting drunk, and don’t let him trade at the groceries where they sell it; then he won’t see it and want it so bad, and make him a good man, for Christ’s sake.”
Bennie’s voice ceased, and for a long time there was silence in the room, broken at last by the sound of steps outside, and Maggie came rushing in, her arms full of presents and her cheeks glowing with excitement and exercise. But she stopped quickly when she caught sight of Bennie’s face. It was very white, with a rapt look upon it, as if he were already lost to earth and was listening to “the shouts of them who triumph, the song of them that feast.” But her voice called him back and his eyes sparkled with pleasure for a moment as she spread his presents before him, and told him how many times his name had been called.
“Six times; ’most as often as Wallie Morgan’s; and look, here’s a Christmas card, and a bran-new suit of clothes, and a ball, and a top, and a jumping jack, and—and—oh, Bennie, guess what else; a pair of skates from Wallie Morgan.”
She had kept the skates for the last, knowing how her brother had wanted them, and now, at sight of them, he did seem to brighten up, and took them in his hands and examined them carefully; then, laying them where he could see them, he said, “Yes, I’m so glad, and they are all so good. I’d like to skate just once. I know I could beat Tom Carter in a little while; but, Maggie, I’m going to die. It came to me to-night. I’m going where Jesus is, and pa is not going to drink anymore, and Hetty must stay home nights, and you must be a real good girl, and not romp and tear your clothes so much.”
“Oh, Bennie, Bennie,” and all the brightness was gone from Maggie’s face as she dropped beside the bed, and seizing her brother’s hand begged of him to stay with her and not leave her all alone.
“Father and Hetty will be with you, and Jesus, too,” the pale lips whispered, and then Bennie’s mind began to wander, and he talked strange things of the Tree of Life, which he said was hung with tapers and beautiful gifts, some of which were for him, and he listened to hear his name, bidding his father and sisters keep very quiet lest he should fail to catch the sound.
All night they sat by him, scarcely daring to move, while, with closed eyes and parted lips, he lay listening—listening—till over the snow-clad town the grey morning broke and the Christmas chimes were rung from the church tower; then with a triumphant voice he cried, “There, he has called me at last, little Bennie Hewitt, he said. Didn’t you hear his voice? He’s there, with something for me. I’m going now. Good-bye. Tell Miss Morgan she told me the way, and I love her for it. I wish more ladies would hunt up the poor little boys on the canal. I’m going up the aisle, and the music is playing, too. Such music! oh, Maggie, don’t you hear it? It’s better than the ‘Silent Night,’ and I hear the heavenly hosts sing ‘Alleluia.’ Little Bennie Hewitt they call. Yes, I’m coming—coming—coming. A golden harp and golden crown. That’s what is on the tree for me and joy forever and forever. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.”
Little Bennie was dead and the Christmas he had looked forward to so eagerly was kept with the Saviour he loved, and when Miss Nellie came to inquire for him she found only a white wasted form which her own hands made ready for the grave. The new suit of clothes which was to have kept him warm, were put upon him, and flowers from the Morgan conservatory were placed in his hands and on his pillow, and over the little coffin bitter tears were shed and promises were renewed as the wretched father whispered to himself, “I’ll keep my word to Ben. I’ll try to be a man.”
There’s a small white head stone near the gate in the Rosedale Cemetery, and Bennie’s name is on it.
“Bennie Hewitt.
Died December 25, 1883,
Aged 9 Years.”
Strangers pass it by and think nothing of it, but God knows all about that little grave and the boy sleeping there, and when the Golden City shall indeed come down and Christ’s saints be gathered home, Bennie will be with them, where there is no more night, or need of sun or moon, for the glory from the Eternal Throne transcends the light of noonday and Christ is all in all.
Does my story seem a sad one to you, my little readers? In one sense it is, and in another it is not. It is always sad to see the children die, but when like Bennie they go from cold and hunger and toil, to be forever with the Lord it is for them a blessed thing, so, on Christmas morning of 1884 do not think of little Bennie, as in the grave where they laid him one year ago, but
In that far off, happy country
Which no human eye hath seen,
Where the flowers are always blooming,
And the grass is ever green.
There we find our little Bennie. No more hungry days and freezing nights and cruel blows for him, for he is safe forever. Jesus called his name, and he has gone to that beautiful land where so many children are, and where, I pray, we too may meet to celebrate our Saviour’s birth in one never ending Christmas.
Brown Cottage,
Christmas—1884.
THE END
OF
BENNIE’S CHRISTMAS