It had hung there ever since the day that Tiny was born. A poor old pilgrim gave it on that very day to Josiah in exchange for a loaf of bread. By that I do not mean that Josiah sold the loaf to the poor old hungry pilgrim. Josiah was too charitable to make a trade with a beggar. But the stranger said this strange thing to Josiah:—“I am near to death—I shall sing no more—I am going home. Keep my harp for me until a singer asks you for it, and promises you that he will sing unto the Lord a New Song. Give it to him; but be sure before you do so that he is worthy to sing the song unto the Lord.”
So Josiah had taken the harp home with him, and hung it on the wall, as I said, on the day that Tiny was born. And he waited for the coming of the poet who should have that wondrous song to sing.
The father, when he saw what it was the boy would do, made a little move as if he would prevent him; but the mother playfully caught the old man’s hand, and held it in hers, while she said aloud, “Only one song, Tiny. Your father’s rest was disturbed last night—so get through with it as quickly as you can.”
At these last words the old man looked well pleased, for he fancied that his wife agreed with him, because he would not yet allow himself to believe that it was for his boy Tiny that the old pilgrim left the harp.
And yet never was a sweeter voice than that of the young singer—old Josiah acknowledged that to himself, and old Josiah knew—he was a judge of such things, for all his life he had been singing songs in his heart.
Yes! though you would never have imagined such a thing, that is, if you are in the habit of judging folks from their outward appearance—he had such a rough, wrinkled face, brown with freckles and tan, such coarse, shaggy grey hair, and such a short, crooked, awkward figure, you never would have guessed what songs he was for ever singing in his heart with his inward voice—they were songs which worldly people would never hear—only God and the angels heard them. Only God and the holy angels!—for as to Kitty, though she was Josiah’s best earthly friend, though she knew he was such an excellent man, though she believed that there was not a better man than he in all the world, though year by year he had been growing lovelier and lovelier in her eyes—yes! though his hair, of course, became rougher and greyer, and his figure more bent, and his hands harder, and his teeth were nearly all gone!—growing lovelier because of his excellence, which increased with age as good wine does—still even she, who knew him better than any person on earth, even she knew him so little that she never so much as dreamed that this wonderful voice of Tiny’s was but the echo of what had been going on in Josiah’s heart and mind ever since he was himself a child!
It was because he understood all this so very well that Josiah was troubled when he thought about his son.
But to go back to the singer in the chimney-corner. Tiny sat alone on his side of the fire-place, in the little chair fashioned out of knotted twigs of oak which his father had made for him long ago. Opposite him were the old folks—the father with his arms folded on his broad chest, the mother knitting beside him, now and then casting a sidelong glance at the old man to see how it went with him.
Wonderful was that song which Tiny sung!
Even the winter wind seemed hushing its voice to hear it, and through the little windows looked the astonished moon.