But where was the child delaying? On the homeward way was he, And across the dike, while the sun was up An hour above the sea. He was stopping, now to gather flowers, Now listening to the sound, As the angry waters dashed themselves Against their narrow bound. “Ah! well for us,” said Peter; “That the gates are good and strong, And my father tends them carefully, Or they would not hold you long! You’re a wicked sea,” said Peter: “I know why you fret and chafe; You would like to spoil our lands and homes But our sluices keep you safe!”
But hark! Through the noise of waters Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child’s face pales with terror, And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment, And, stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender, childish hand. ’Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes; But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means. A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart Grows faint that cry to hear, And the bravest man in all the land Turns white with mortal fear. For he knows the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night, And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might.
And the boy! He has seen the danger, And, shouting a wild alarm, He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm. He listens for the joyful sound Of a footstep passing nigh, And lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry. And he hears the rough winds blowing, And the waters rise and fall, But never an answer comes to him, Save the echo of his call. He sees no hope, no succor; His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, Though he perish at his post!
So, faintly calling and crying Till the sun is under the sea, Crying and moaning till the stars Come out for company, He thinks of his brother and sister, Asleep in their safe warm bed; He thinks of his father and mother, Of himself as dying—and dead; And of how, when the night is over, They must come and find him at last: But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast.
The good dame in the cottage Is up and astir with the light, For the thought of her little Peter Has been with her all night. And now she watches the pathway, As yestereve she had done; But what does she see so strange and black Against the rising sun? Her neighbors are bearing between them Something straight to her door: Her child is coming home, but not As he ever came before!
“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!” And the startled father hears, And comes and looks the way she looks, And fears the thing she fears: Till a glad shout from the bearers Thrills the stricken man and wife— “Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, And God has saved his life!” So, there in the morning sunshine They knelt about the boy; And every head was bared and bent In tearful, reverent joy.
’Tis many a year since then; but still, When the sea roars like a flood, Their boys are taught what a boy can do Who is brave and true and good. For every man in that country Takes his son by the hand, And tells him of little Peter, Whose courage saved the land. They have many a valiant hero Remembered through the years, But never one whose name so oft Is named with loving tears. And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, And told the child on the knee, So long as the dikes of Holland Divide the land from the sea! Phœbe Cary.
THE “COURSE OF LOVE” TOO “SMOOTH.”
She came tripping from the church-door, her face flushed by emotions awakened by the just uttered discourse, and eyes bright with loving expectation. He shivered on the curbstone, where for an hour he had waited impatiently, with a burning heart fairly palpitating in his throat, and frozen fingers in his pockets. They linked arms, and started for the residence of her parents. After a few moments’ hesitating, silence, he said, “Jane, we have known each other long. You must know just how I feel. You must have seen that clear down at the bottom—O Moses!”