Charles and his Mother.
A DIALOGUE.
Charles. Mother, may I play with the baby a little while before I go to school?
Mother. She is asleep now, my son; but you may go softly and look at her.
C. She is just going to wake up, mother! she is smiling and moving her little hands.
M. No, she is only dreaming; don’t hold the curtain back so far, the sun shines on her face.
C. I wonder what she is dreaming about; she looks very sober now; what a pity she can’t tell us when she wakes! Mother, I shall be glad when Susan grows a little bigger, and can run about, and talk, and play with me; I don’t think a little baby is good for much.
M. And what if she should never grow up, Charles?
C. What! be always a little baby?
M. No, my son; what if she should die?
C. Die! O, that can’t be; she has only just begun to live.
M. Who made her live?
C. God, you told me.
M. And cannot God make her die when he pleases?
C. I suppose he can; but he never does, does he? Does he ever kill such little babies as Susan?
M. They very often die, Charles.
C. I never heard of that before; I hope Susan will not die. How old is she, mother?
M. Eight months.
C. O, mother, mother, that is too young to die; I am sure she won’t. Here am I, seven years old, and I am not dead yet.
M. And I am twenty-seven, my dear boy; but for all that, you and Susan may both die before I do, if it should please God.
C. What makes the tears come in your eyes, mother? we shan’t die, I know. See how Susan keeps stirring about! see how red her cheeks are!
M. She is not well; she is feverish, Charles. Do you know there are two little white teeth trying to get through her gums, and they give her a great deal of pain? I shall send for the doctor to-day. The clock is striking nine, Charles, and you must go to school.
C. O dear! and where is my little satchel? and where is my spelling-book, I wonder?
M. You had better look in the breakfast-room; and, Charles, be sure you shut the window; it is very damp this morning.
C. Yes, mother. I wonder what I did with my cap.
M. Don’t bang the door, Charles—and don’t forget to shut the window. I must take the baby down this morning.
TUESDAY MORNING.
Charles meets the doctor coming out of his mother’s chamber.
C. Are you the doctor, sir?
D. Yes, my little man.
C. Is the baby almost well again?
D. O no! no!
C. Why, they told me you were coming to cure her, and you came three times yesterday; for I saw your old horse out of the school-room window.
D. But she is very sick, little boy; somebody left a window open yesterday when it was almost raining, and the nursery maid carried her into a damp room while they were sweeping the nursery.
C. O, doctor, what shall I do? what shall I do?
D. Don’t cry, my little fellow; what is the matter, now?
C. It was I, it was I, that left the window open! mother told me to shut it, and I was hunting for my cap and forgot all about it.
D. Well, that was wrong; but hush up; if your mother hears you sobbing so bitterly she will feel much worse. It was a pity you forgot the window.
C. O, my poor little sister! will you cure her? you can cure her sir, can’t you sir?
D. I will try, but God must help us.
C. And won’t he help you? do you think he will make Susan die?
D. I cannot tell, indeed; but you must ask him to make her well.
C. How can I ask him?
D. In your prayers; do you not say your prayers every night?
C. Yes, the Lord’s prayer, and two other prayers; but there is nothing in them about Susan’s being sick.
D. And can’t you make a little prayer on purpose?
C. I don’t know; I never tried.
D. Then go up into your chamber, my dear child, and kneel down where you always say your prayers every night, and pray to God just as if you could see him in the room with you. You may depend upon it. He is there.
C. Shall I ask him to help you cure Susan?
D. Ask him to cure her if it is best she should get well.
C. Why, it is best certainly. And will it be wrong to tell him how sorry I am that I forgot the window, and ask him to forgive me?
D. No, it will be quite right.
C. Then I will go this minute. You must come again before dinner—won’t you?
D. Yes, I must indeed.
WEDNESDAY MORNING.
Charles comes softly into his mother’s chamber, half dressed.
C. Mother, are you there? it is so dark I cannot see you.
M. I am here, sitting by the bed, my son.
C. The fire is out, and the candle is just going out; may I open the shutter a little way, so that I can see the baby, mother? I won’t wake her.
M. She is not asleep, my dear boy. But what made you wake at day-break?
C. I kept thinking of Susan when I was asleep, mother. What makes her so still? is the pain better?
M. It is all gone, Charles; she will never feel it again; open the shutters wide and come here.
C. O, mother, mother! (burying his face in her lap,) I do not wish to look at her.
M. What is the matter, Charles? tell me.
C. She is dead—she is dead! the tears keep rolling down your cheeks—and she is lying just like my little canary bird—and I do believe she is dead!
M. Yes! my baby is dead, Charles! and—
C. Don’t cry, don’t cry! dear mother; you did not cry when I came in—I will leave off crying if you will, mother.
M. Look at her little pale face, Charles;—why are you unwilling to look at her?
C. I do not know. Will you take her off the bed? are you afraid to hold her in your arms?
M. O, no; I have held her a great while to-night, Charles, and she died in my lap.
C. And were you all alone?
M. No, there were two or three people with me then, and they were very kind; but I sent them all away at last.
C. Why, mother?
M. Because sometimes I wanted to cry, and sometimes to pray, and I liked better to be alone. I was praying when you came in, Charles.
C. Mother, I prayed yesterday about Susan, but God did not mind it. What makes you pray now that she is dead?
M. I was praying that I might remember how happy little Susan’s soul is, and that I might not be so wicked as to complain because God had taken her away again; and that I might be a better woman now, and think more of heaven.
C. You need not pray for that, mother; you are a very good woman, the best woman in the world.
M. Nobody can be good without praying, my son; and I had a great many things to beg of God. I was asking him to make the little boy who is spared to me, a good child.
C. Ah, mother, that is because I forgot the window!
M. No, my child, I was not thinking of that then; but if you should pray to God to help you to cure your faults, you will find it becomes much easier for you.
C. Then why did he not cure Susan’s sickness when I begged him so hard?
M. Are you sure it would have been better for Susan to live?
C. I don’t know; she would have cried sometimes, I suppose.
M. But she never will cry now, Charles; her soul is with God in heaven, and her body cannot feel pain now.
C. But it would have been better for us if she had lived to grow up, mother. What makes you cry again?
Enter Aunt Catherine.
C. I am glad you have come, aunt; I have made mother cry again, and I cannot help crying too. I do think it would have been better for us if Susan had not died.
A. Your mother thought so at first, Charles; but now she knows it would have been wrong to have wished little Susan here just for her own pleasure, when the little creature is happier in heaven. Besides, God would not have taken her if it had been for your mother’s real good to let her stay.
C. I cannot understand that, do you mother?
M. I do! I do! but I cannot talk about it now.
C. So sudden! three days ago she was well!
A. Come, my dear child, come and let me finish dressing you, and your mother will talk to you about Susan very often; kiss the dear baby’s cheek, Charles,—your mother is holding her up to you.
C. O, if she could only be made alive again!
A. Hush—do not sob so loud! come with me, Charles, and I will tell you how we think God has already made her alive in heaven.
