PARABLE FOURTH.
THE LITTLE MINER AND HIS FLOWER—TRUST IN GOD.
do not think any of us would care to pass the greater part of our days down in a coal mine, or even to live in the vicinity of one. For miles around the country is barren of trees or flowers; even the grass does not grow there; the very air is dense with black smoke from the numerous chimneys, so that the sky is hidden, as it were, by a thick, murky veil. But, if thus dreary by day, how much more dreadful does it look at night, when the lurid glare from the furnaces lights up the sky with a red gleam, which can be seen far and wide! it has then in it something terrible.
As I said just now, not a flower can thrive in such a close and heavy atmosphere; not even a blade of grass can push its way up through the coal-encrusted soil which covers the earth. Well may it be called the 'Black Country;' and yet there are brave, good men living, ay, and working there, day after day descending those dark shafts and in the underground of the mines living out their hard, laborious lives, braving dangers innumerable, to provide for the wants of their fellow-men; yet I wonder how many of us, as we gather round the cosy fireside of home, ever think of the hardy miners. All honour, then, to that Christian man, whose noble heart thought so much of them and of the risks they encounter in the deep mines; his mighty genius studied to avert the dangers to which they are exposed, and by his clever invention many thousand lives have been saved. Statues are raised to soldiers and statesmen, and their deeds are chronicled all over the world, yet the simple-hearted Cornish chemist has done more for England's glory than all her greatest warriors or statesmen!
Sometimes, it is true, terrible accidents happen even now, and indeed, had any one passed through a certain coal district on the day of which we speak, a scene of desolation and misery would have presented itself; for there had been a colliery accident!—a fearful explosion in a mine through some (as yet) unknown cause, and they were now bringing up the dead and dying. We too often, alas! read these sad accounts in the newspapers, but cannot fully realize the intense anguish and despair among the mining population when such a calamity befalls them. Try to picture, then, the men, women, and even children, who were gathered in anxious groups around the mouth of the pit, eagerly waiting to see if any of their kindred were among the hapless victims; and when the brave rescue party would appear above the shaft, bearing in their arms the sufferers, wailing cries would rend the very air, as some poor woman recognised her son or her 'good man' in the crushed and mangled form they laid so tenderly down!
There was a little cottage standing among others of the same class, but which from its appearance seemed to betoken the residence of one more refined than the rest, for snowy curtains draped the windows, the panes of which were scrupulously clean, and the doorsteps were as white as hands could make them. Going now towards this cottage, a group of men might be seen, carefully carrying a heavy burden, over which a sheet was spread. It was their foreman—a man loved and respected by them all, and the hearts of these rough colliers beat sadly, as they bore him thus towards his once happy home!
The rumour of the catastrophe, and of her husband being one among the many poor sufferers, had burst upon his wife like the surging of an angry wave, overwhelming her with its force, and she sat with ashen cheeks and quivering lips, listening with bated breath for that which she knew must come, the while convulsively clasping in her arms their only child, their fair-haired Davie. But when at last she heard the measured tread of those who bore him coming nearer and nearer to her door, she rose, with a shivering sob, to meet him, as she had ever done, with a loving smile, though now her heart was full of anguish. And he knew her, for he put out his poor crushed hand for her to take, faintly murmuring,—
'My poor, poor girl!'
Tenderly, as with the gentle touch of woman, those rugged men laid him upon the bed from which he had risen in full health and strength, and the wife's hand was firm, as softly she removed the garments from his mangled limbs. Ah, little had she thought, when she bade him 'Good-bye' that morning, his return would have been thus. He had said to Davie in his merry way, laying his hand on the boy's curly head,—