My First Cruise, and Other stories

by William Henry Giles Kingston

It was strange to see the effect of Tiny’s song upon those people! How bright their faces grew! kind words from a human heart are such an excellent medicine—they make such astonishing cures! You would have thought, had you been passing by the crowd that gathered around Tiny, you would have thought an angel had been promising some good thing to them. Whereas it was only this young Tiny, this country lad, who had journeyed from the shadow of the Great Forest, who was telling them of a good time surely coming!

When he had finished his song, Tiny would have put up his harp, and gone his way, but that he could not do, because of the crowd.

“Sing again!” the people cried,—the beggars and rich men together (it was a long time since they had spoken with one voice). Did I tell you that a number of rich men had gathered, like a sort of outer wall, around the crowd of poor people which stood next to Tiny?

“Sing again,” they cried; and loud and clear above the other voices said one, “There is but a solitary singer in the world that sings in such a strain as that. And he, I thought, was far away. Can this be he?”

Then Tiny’s heart leaped within him, hearing it, and he said to himself: “If my father and mother were but here to see it!” And he sang again—and still for the poor, and the weary, and the sick, and the faint-hearted, until the street became as silent as a church where the minister is saying, “Glory be unto the Father.” And indeed it was just then a sacred temple, where a sacred voice was preaching in a most sacred cause.

I’m sure you know by this time what the “cause” was? And while he sang, the rich men of the outer circle were busy among themselves, even while they listened, and presently the person who had before spoken, made his way through the crowd, carrying a great purse filled with silver, and he said, “You are the poet himself—do with this what you think best. We have a long time been looking for you in the world. Come home with me, and dwell in my house, oh, Poet, I pray you.”

Tiny took the heavy purse, and looked at it, and from it to the people.

Then said he—oh, what melody was in his voice, how sweet his words!—“None of you but are my friends—you are more—my brothers and sisters. Come and tell me how much you need.” As he spoke, he looked at the woman who stood nearest him, with the dead baby in her arms. Her eyes met his, and she threw back the old, ragged shawl, and showed him her little child. “Give me,” said she, “only enough to bury it. I want nothing for myself. I had nothing but my baby to care for.”

The poet bowed his head over the little one, and fast his tears fell on the poor, pale face, and like pearls the tears shone on the soft, white cheek, while he whispered in the ear of the woman, “Their angels do always behold the face of Our Father.” And he gave her what she needed, and gently covered the baby’s face again with the tattered shawl, and the mother went away.

Then a child came up and said—now this was a poor street beggar, remember, a boy whom people called as bold as a thief—he came and looked at Tiny, and said gently, as if speaking to an elder brother whom he loved and trusted: “My father and mother are dead; I have a little brother and sister at home, and they depend on me; I have been trying to get work, but no one believes my story. I would like to take a loaf of bread home to them.”