“He’s born of flesh, and like the Holy One of God, he’s heir to its temptations; but Calvary is on earth, and one free, ardent sigh, heaved by that heart, and borne upon thy wings to Calvary’s height, can have the potency to banish far all the contending powers of ill.”
The angel’s head bent low in silent adoration.
Four years had passed. ’Twas in the month of May. The earth was clothed in emerald-robe of varied hue, begemmed with sparkling flowers. The blushing trees poured forth their spicy fragrance on the hazy atmosphere, till it seemed heavy with their odorous breath. The social hum of a thousand insects—the carol of the feathery songsters, warbling forth their richest strains from the topmost boughs, rousing the wood-nymphs from their mossy beds to mingle their wild music with the laughing brooks that gurgle at the shaggy mountain’s base—all, all shone forth with the unrivaled splendor of the primal moon, when Nature first, awaked by God’s command, burst forth from chaos!
Such was the scene—well suited to the gambols which a fairy child held with his guardian-angel as they played along the flowery meads, like cherub spirits in the fields of Paradise. As the little one would tottle o’er some tiny shrub, the angel form with outstretched wing upheld him, and he rose unhurt, and onward ran, till charmed by the music of some little flower, he wondering stopped to pluck its shining blossoms, and as the golden petals of a buttercup were scattered in his grasp, the little spirit freed, beheld the rosy babe that erst had slumbered on the downy couch—the same sweet angel by his side. Full in the pathway of the innocent there lay a sleeping reptile—his tiny foot was raised to tread upon the venomed head—when lo! a gaudy butterfly, lured by the angel’s whisper, lit on his outstretched arm, and when from shrub to shrub it flew, the little rover turned in eager chase.
Time sped again. The sweet flower-spirits had, once more, sought the abodes of man. One rested on a nectared leaf of rose-geranium; a low moan roused it from its fragrant couch; and there before it lay the little child, and near, hovered the angel! But, as it bent over the restless sleeper, a cloud, like mists that veil the evening star, shadowed its beaming face: for, on the surface of that snowy breast, there sat a little elf, tracing dark characters. A rude blast whistling through the trees shook the loose casement. The dreamer woke—and, clambering from his little bed in haste, he sought his mother’s couch. “Oh! mother, mother dear!” he cried—her arms were forth to meet him—and as she clasped his trembling limbs, and folded him closer to her breast, he murmured, “Dear, dear, sweet mamma! let me sleep beside you! I’m afraid to stay in that cold, dark room alone!”
“My love,” answered a mild, sweet voice, “Arthur is not afraid—Arthur’s a little man!”
“But Arthur is afraid to-night, mamma!” cried he, nestling still closer to her breast.
“ ’Tis nothing but the wind you hear, my love; the good wind, that blew down Arthur’s pretty kite when it had lodged in the high branches. And will it not displease papa, when he comes home, to find his little son afraid to stay alone.”
“Mamma, but will the wind not hurt me when it blows so hard?”