The Cruise of the Shining Light. Duncan Norman
visible in the starlight–a child’s beseeching eyes.
“Jus’ for a little spell?” he pleaded.
I said that I was glad to have him.
“An’ you isn’t so wonderful sleepy, is you?”
“No, sir,” I yawned.
He sighed. “I’m glad,” said he. “An’ I’m grateful t’ you, lad, for bein’ kind t’ ol’ Nick Top. He ain’t worth it, Dannie–he’s no good; he’s jus’ a ol’ fool. But I’m lonely the night–most wonderful lonely. I been thinkin’ I was sort o’ makin’ a mess o’ things. You is happy, isn’t you, Dannie?” he asked, in a flash of anxious mistrust. “An’ comfortable–an’ good? Ah, well! maybe: I’m glad you’re thinkin’ so. But I ’low I isn’t much on fetchin’ you up. I’m a wonderful poor hand at that. I ’low you’re gettin’ a bit beyond me. I been feelin’ sort o’ helpless an’ scared; an’ I was wishin’ they was somebody t’ lend a hand with the job. I overhauled ol’ Chesterfield, Dannie, for comfort; but somehow I wasn’t able t’ put my finger on a wonderful lot o’ passages t’ tie to. He’ve wonderful good ideas on the subjeck o’ manners, an’ a raft of un, too; but the ideas he’ve got on souls, Dannie, is poor an’ sort o’ damned scarce. So when I sot down there with the bottle, I ’lowed that if I come up an’ you give me leave t’ sit on the side o’ your little bed for a spell, maybe you wouldn’t mind recitin’ that there little piece you’ve fell into the habit o’ usin’ afore you goes t’ bed. That wee thing about the Shepherd. You wouldn’t mind, would you, just sort o’ givin’ it a light overhaulin’ for me? I’d thank you, Dannie, an you would be so kind; an’ I’ll be as quiet as a mouse while you does it.”
“The tender Shepherd?”
“Ay,” said he; “the Shepherd o’ the lambs.”
“‘Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me;
Bless thy little lamb to-night;
Through the darkness be Thou near me;
Keep me safe till morning light.
“‘All this day Thy hand has led me,
And I thank Thee for Thy care;
Thou hast warmed me, clothed and fed me:
Listen to my evening prayer.
“‘Let my sins be all forgiven;
Bless the friends I love so well;
Take us all at last to heaven,
Happy there with Thee to dwell.’”
And now the lower stars were paling in a far-off flush of light. I had been disquieted, but was by this waxing glow made glad that the sea and rock of the world were to lie uncovered of their shadows while yet I was awake. ’Twas a childish prayer–too simple in terms and petition (as some may think) for the lad that was I to utter, grown tall and broad and lusty for my years; but how sufficient (I recall) to still the fears of night! They who are grown lads, like the lad that was I, got somewhat beyond the years of tenderness, cling within their hearts to all the lost privileges of love they must by tradition affect to despise. My prayer for the little lamb that was I presented no aspect of incongruity to my uncle; it left him silent and solemnly abstracted: the man being cast into a heavy muse upon its content, his head fallen over his breast, as was his habit, and his great gray brows drawn down. How still the night–how cold and clear: how unfeeling in this frosty calm and silence, save, afar, where the little stars winked their kindly cognizance of the wakeful dwellers of the earth! I sat up in my bed, peering through the window, to catch the first glint of the moon and to watch her rise dripping, as I used to fancy, from the depths of the sea.
“But they stray!” my uncle complained.
’Twas an utterance most strange. “Uncle Nick,” I asked, “what is it that strays?”
“The feet o’ children,” he answered.
By this I was troubled.
“They stray,” he repeated. “Ay; ’tis as though the Shepherd minded not at all.”
“Will my feet stray?”
He would not answer: and then all at once I was appalled–who had not feared before.
“Tell me!” I demanded.
He reached out and touched my hand–a fleeting, diffident touch–and gently answered, “Ay, lad; your feet will stray.”
“No, no!” I cried.
“The feet of all children,” said he. “’Tis the way o’ the world. They isn’t mothers’ prayers enough in all the world t’ change the Shepherd’s will. He’s wise–the Shepherd o’ the lambs.”
“’Tis sad, then,” I expostulated, “that the Shepherd haves it so.”
“Sad?”
“Ay–wondrous sad.”
“I’m not able t’ think ’tis sad,” said he. “’Tis wise, Dannie, I’m thinkin’, t’ have the lads wander in strange paths. I’d not have un suffer fear an’ sorrow, God knows! not one poor lad of all the lads that ever was. I’d suffer for their sins meself an’ leave un go scot free. Not one but I’d be glad t’ do it for. But still ’tis wise, I’m thinkin’, that they should wander an’ learn for theirselves the trouble o’ false ways. I wisht,” he added, simply, “that they was another plan–some plan t’ save un sorrow while yet it made un men. But I can’t think o’ none.”
“But an they’re lost?”
He scratched his head in a rush of anxious bewilderment. “Why, Dannie,” cries he, “it cannot be! Lost? Some poor wee lads lost? You lost, Dannie? My God! You, Dannie–you that lies there tender an’ kind an’ clean o’ soul in your little bed? You that said the little prayer t’ the tender Shepherd? You lost! God! it could not be. What’s this you’re tellin’ me? I’m not able t’ blaspheme the Lord God A’mighty in a way that’s vile as that. Not you, lad–not you! Am I t’ curse the God that would have it so?” cries he, in wrath. “Am I t’ touch your young body here in the solemn night, am I t’ look into your unspoiled eyes by day, an’ feel that you fare into the dark alone, a child, an’ without hope? Me think that? Ol’ Nick Top? Not I! Sin? Ay; you’ll sin. God knows so well as I you’ll sin. He made you, lad, an’ knows full well. You’ll be sore hurt, child. For all he learns o’ righteousness, Dannie, a man suffers; an’ for all he learns o’ sin he pays in kind: ’tis all the same–he learns o’ good an’ evil an’ pays in the same coin o’ sorrow. I’m not wishin’ you sorrow: I’m wishin’ you manhood. You’ll wander, like all lads, as God knows, who made un an’ the world they walks in; but the Shepherd will surely follow an’ fetch home all them that stray away upon hurtful roads accordin’ t’ the will He works upon the sons o’ men. They’s no bog o’ sin in all the world He knows not of. He’ll seek the poor lads out, in patience an’ love; an’ He’ll cure all the wounds the world has dealt un in dark places, however old an’ bleared an’ foul they’ve growed t’ be, an’ He’ll make un clean again, rememberin’ they was little lads, once–jus’ like you. Why, by God! Dannie,” cried he, “I’d do as much meself!”
“Ay,” quoth I; “but the parsons says they’re lost for good an’ all.”
“Does they?” he asked, his eyes blank.
“Deed so–an’ often!”
“Ah, well, Dannie!” said he, “bein’ cut off from the discussion o’ parsons by misdeeds, I’m not able t’ say. But bein’ on’y a lost soul I’m ’lowed t’ think; an’ I’ve thunk a idea.”
I wondered concerning it.
“Which is, speakin’