Josiah lifted up his eyes in great amazement as he heard it, as if he had altogether lost himself. It was nothing like his dream that Tiny sang, though to be sure it was all about a Beautiful Gate.
Altogether about the Beautiful Gate! and of the young poet, who, passing through it, went his way into the great Temple of the World, singing his great songs, borne like a conqueror with a golden canopy carried over him, and a golden crown upon his head! Riding upon a white horse splendidly caparisoned, and crowds of people strewing multitudes of flowers before him! And of the lady who placed the victor’s crown upon his head! She was by his side, more beautiful than any dream, rejoicing in his triumph, and leading him on towards her father’s palace, the Beautiful Pearl Gates of which were thrown wide open, and the king himself with a bare head stood there on foot, to welcome the poet to the great feast.
With this the song ended, and with a grand sweep of the silver strings Tiny gently arose, and hung the harp against the wall, and sat down again with folded hands and blushing cheek, half frightened, now when all was over, to think what he had done. The fire had vanished from his eyes, and the red glow of his cheek went following after; and if you had gone into Josiah’s kitchen just then, you never would have guessed that he was the enchanter who had been raising such a storm of splendid music.
At first the old man could not speak—tears choked his words. “Ahem,” said he once or twice, and he cleared his voice with the intention of speaking; but for a long time no words followed. At length he said, shaking his head,—“It isn’t like what I dreamed—it isn’t like what I dreamed;” and one would have supposed that the old man felt himself guilty of a sin by the way he looked at Tiny, it was with so very sad a look.
“But beautifuller,” said the mother, “beautifuller, isn’t it, Josiah!”
“Yes,” answered Josiah; but still he spoke as if he had some secret misgiving—as if he were not quite sure that the beauty of the song had a right to do away with the sadness of his dream.
“But,” said Tiny, timidly, yet as if determined that he would have the matter quite settled now and for ever—“am I a singer, father? am I a poet?”
Slowly came the answer—but it actually came, “Yes,” with a broken voice and troubled look, and then the old man buried his face in his hands, as if he had pronounced some dreadful doom upon his only son.
“Then,” said Tiny boldly, rising from his seat, “I must go into the world. It says it needs me; and father, shall your son hide himself when any one in need calls to him for help? I never would have gone, father, if you and mother had not said that I was a singer and a poet. For you I know would never deceive me; and I made a vow that if ever a time came when you should say that to me, then I would go. But this is my home, father and mother; I shall never get another. The wide world could not give me one. It is not rich enough to build me a home like this.”
“Don’t speak in that way,” said the old man; and he turned away that Tiny should not see his face, and he bent his head upon the back of his chair.