“Night after night I used to creep in from the street through dirty, stinkin’ halls, and cry myself to sleep. An achin’ came into my heart then which hasn’t never quite left it; and it was this lonesomeness ’at finally made me run away—leavin’ her to face it out—all by herself.
“My blood has turned to water, I reckon, and I feel like a baby to-night. I don’t suffer, understand; I feel as though I was a little chap again, and that my mother didn’t have to work; but was holdin’ me on her lap. She did hold me that way once—the time the ambulance brought my old man home—but she couldn’t sing then. It seems to me that if you’d just sing me a regular cradle-song—I could slip away into pleasant dreams.”
The Friar cleared his throat a time or two before he found his voice; and then he said in a low tone: “I used to sleep in a store-box, Promotheus, when I was a lad—and I know exactly what you feel. I’ll sing you a cradle-song, a song for little children of all ages. It is a great privilege to be a little child, Promotheus, and—and I wish you pleasant dreams.”
Then Friar Tuck drew a deep, full breath, and held it down until all the quiver had gone from his lips. When he started to sing, his voice was low an’ soothin’, and full o’ tenderness; and after the first line, Promotheus gave a little sigh o’ content, nodded his head, and shut his eyes.
The’ was one tune we every last one of us liked. The Friar generally sang it to words which began: “Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah”; and he usually sang it with a swing which was like a call to battle; and this time he sang the same tune, but soft and close and restful, and the words he used began: “Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.” These words sound purty flat when ya give ’em cold; but they didn’t sound empty to us, as we stood lookin’ down at Promotheus. All alone, he had taken his chance when he took on with Ty Jones; and now he was cashin’ in this chance and it made us mighty sober.
The Friar finished the first four lines alone, and then the angels seemed to join in with him. We had all been purty certain that the’ wasn’t nothin’ in the shape of earthly melody fit to hold a candle to the Friar; but just at this point a new voice joined onto the Friar’s which sent a thrill through us and made us stop breathin’. A queer, half frightened look crossed the Friar’s face for a second; but his voice didn’t waver for a single note. Instead, the’ came a new tone of thanksgivin’ and confidence in it which took all the sting out o’ death and made it all right and pleasant, like the cool and restfulness o’ night, after the heat of day.
“All this day Thy hand has led me,
And I thank Thee for Thy care;
Thou hast warmed me, clothed and fed me;
Listen to my evening prayer,”