“I’m not the fellow to take that little girl’s piano away from her; and, what’s more, I won’t!” and before Jenny could thank him, he, and the carman whom he had brought to carry away the piano, were through the door and out of sight.
Now, shouldn’t you like to hug that butcher? I should. I tell you what it is, the best hearts are oftenest found under the roughest coats; and this Jenny’s father and mother soon found out, for the gay people who had eaten their dinners and drank their wine, took flight as soon as Poverty came in and sat down at the table with them.
The good butcher did not lose sight of little Jenny, I promise you; he not only forgave her father’s debt but offered to lend him some money to begin business again. What do you think of that?
By-and-by Jenny grew up a big girl, and learned a deal more about music; then she gave lessons on her piano, and helped her father, and beside that played the organ on Sunday in one of the churches. This was very lucky, for her father, through disappointment and too close attention to business, was taken sick, and was unable to earn any more money. By-and-by trouble overtook the good butcher too, and he had a long, and painful, and expensive sickness. Did Jenny forget her benefactor now? Did she draw down her face and her purse-strings and tell him to “trust in Providence?” Did she try to hunt up some fault, which he might at some time in his life have committed, and make that a cover for her parsimony, and an excuse for not helping him in his necessity? Not she. She stood by his bed, gave him his medicines, brought him wine, jellies, and broths, sang to him, read to him, prayed God to save his life, and was as much of an angel as she could be, and be flesh and blood. But the good butcher died, and left a little orphan daughter. Oh, how far the influence of one good deed may reach! He had not laid up money for her in “The Bank of Commerce,” or “The City Bank,” or “The Exchange Bank,” but he had laid a treasure up for her in the Bank of Heaven, by his many benevolent and charitable deeds, and God remembered it; and Jenny took the little weeping Susy home, and fed her, and clothed her, and sent her to school, and taught her to sing and play; and none who listen to the sweet voice, or look upon the sweet face of the butcher’s daughter, as she sings in one of our great churches of a Sunday, know this little story that I have been telling you.
Oh, never believe, dear children, that a good deed goes unrewarded. Angels bend to see it, and a richer, sweeter song, rings through the golden streets of heaven, whenever the strong, loving hand of compassion is held out to the weak, unfortunate and despairing.
THE TWO BABES.
“Cannon thundering, bells pealing, flags waving, illuminations, military parades, peasants, nobles and princes, all crowding to that big house! What the mischief is all this fuss about? Some great victory perhaps. No; as sure as your name is Johnny, it is all about an hour-old baby; but for all that, you had better not speak of him, without taking your hat off; that baby is of some consequence, I can tell you, for all he lies there, wheezing and sneezing, winking and blinking, like an astonished little pup.
Long before he came to town, there were more baby-clothes made up for him than he could wear, should he stay a baby twenty years; and all loaded with lace and embroidery, and finified with silk and satin; and the people left their workshops, and ran to see them, as if they had not another minute to live. Then there were half a dozen rooms, all prepared for his expected little cry-babyship; for you had better not believe that he was going to stay in one room, like any common baby; not he! Then all the gray-haired old men, and beautiful women, bent over his magnificent cradle, and declared him to be the most splendid baby that ever was born; and it was as much as his nurse’s life was worth to stick a pin into him, or wash his little flabby nose the wrong way, or tie his frock a tenth of an inch too tight or too loose, or nurse him a minute too long or too short, or allow an impertinent sunbeam to make him sneeze, when he didn’t want to. Oh, he was a great baby that! Even his playthings were gold crosses and ribbons, that kings have been known to cut each other’s heads off for, scrambling which should wear. Step softly—bend low before his cradle; royal blood flushes that little face. He is the King of Algiers.
Peep with me into yonder stable; the door is a-jar; there is nothing there to frighten you. The light glances through a chink in the roof upon the meek, submissive cattle, who with bowed heads, drowsily dose the listless hours away. Is there nothing else in the stable? Look again. Yes, there in yonder corner, sits a fair young mother. Her coarse mantle is wrapt around her shrinking form, and her small head is drooping, partly with weariness, partly with tender solicitude for the new-born babe upon her lap. No rich wardrobe awaits the little stranger; clothed only in his own sweet loveliness, he slumbers the quiet hours away. But see! above that stable glows a star, brighter than ever glittered on the breast of earthly prince or king; and above that star is a city, “which hath no need of the sun, nor of the moon to shine in it, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof;” and that is the Heavenly Home of the lowly “Babe of Bethlehem.”