Squib and His Friends

III

For many days the child wandered on through the smiling fields whitening for the harvest, and ever and anon as he neared some village he would see bands of reapers going forth to their toil, singing glad songs; or would meet them returning home at the close of the day, weary, yet rejoicing in the glorious weather, and in the bounteous harvest which God had given them. Many amongst them would speak kindly to the child, and he always had food given him when he needed it; yet he would presently slip away from those who would have befriended him, saying in his heart, —

“These are all workers and toilers. Perchance, if I remain with them they will ask labour of me;” for his heart was yet set against any sort of toil, and as he went along and saw how the world toiled and laboured, he rejoiced to think that no man could ask service of him.

Anon he came, upon one hot, sultry day, to a village. The wide street was empty, for all the world was out in the harvest-fields, but the great trees which bordered the road on either side gave a grateful shade, and from the neighbourhood of an open door, half-way down the street, came the cheerful ring of a blacksmith’s hammer.

The child, being hot and weary, and disposed to linger in the shade, drew nearer, and, pausing by the open door, seated himself upon an upturned barrow and idly watched the flying sparks, and listened to the creaking of the bellows.

Many horses were waiting to be shod, and the smith attended to them in turn. But presently he gave a nod to his companion, who disappeared for a while, and he himself came out wiping his heated brow, and seated himself beside the child, in the cool shadow of the tree.

From beneath the barrow he drew forth provision for his mid-day meal, and, marking the weary and wistful face of the child, he gave him food and drink in abundance, and as they dined together he talked to him kindly.

“Whence art thou, boy?” he asked; “for I know not thy face, albeit I have lived here, man and boy, all my life.”

“I am from a far city,” answered the child; “a city that lies beyond yonder mountains.”

“Nay, that is far indeed!” said the smith; “and whither away now? For thou art over-young to wander alone through the world.”

“I know not,” answered the child, and then he suddenly crimsoned, he scarce knew why, as he felt the eyes of the smith rest gravely upon him.

“Is it well to fly from the nest where the hand of God hath placed us?” questioned the man with gentle severity: the child hung his head and gave no answer.

Dinner being ended, the smith arose and girded on his leather apron afresh; then he turned into the forge and grasped his heavy hammer. But the child eyed him in surprise.

“It is so hot at noonday,” he said; “surely thou wilt rest awhile ere thou dost labour again?”

The smith smiled as he swung his hammer, and blew up his forge with the great bellows.

“Nay, child,” he answered, “rest cometh at night, and sweet it is to the weary who have earned it by the labour of their hands in the appointed place; but the day is given us by the Master for work, and He looks that we fulfil our allotted tasks with the best that is in us. Look, too, at yon patient horses, waiting to be shod, and think of the loads of golden grain awaiting to be drawn homeward by them! Suppose a thunder-storm comes up to-night, and the grain is not housed because the horses be not shod, and that because the smith was sleeping the noontide hour away when he should have been at work. A fine story that for the Master’s ears!”

But the child looked about him round the forge, and said, —

“I had thought it all belonged to thee.”

“Ay, so it does,” answered the smith, “and was my father’s before me.”

“Then why canst thou not rest at thy will, since no man is thy master?”

But at that question the blacksmith turned upon him, and cried with a loud voice, —

“Child! Though the forge be mine, and the anvil and the iron, yet my time is not mine own, for I serve a Master to whom I must give account of each day as it passes. Yet,” he added, in a gentler voice, “He is full of compassion and tender mercy, and hath pity on the weakness of His children.”

And something in the good man’s face made the child ask, —

“Dost thou find pleasure, then, in His service?”

And the blacksmith answered, —

“His smile is worth far more than ten thousand pieces of silver. Ah, my child, thou hast still much to learn, seeing that thou knowest not as yet thy Master.”

But the words fell on unwilling ears, and in his heart the child said, “I have no master;” and presently, while the smith worked, he crept away in the lengthening shadows, for he feared lest the good man might seek to make him his fellow-labourer at the anvil.

IV

Days and weeks rolled by, and the child still wandered on. He met kindness from the people through whose villages he passed, and food and shelter were given him, else must he surely have died. But though his bodily needs were satisfied, a great hunger of the heart arose within him that was less easily appeased, for it seemed to him that he was quite, quite alone in the world, and that he had nothing to do – no part or lot with the busy life he ever saw about him.

The faces of the workers were happy, but his grew pale and thin. Men and boys sang at their toil, or called cheerily to one another, and the women in the houses laughed as they watched the gambols of their children, and would throw pitying glances on the toil-worn little traveller. He was never turned away from a hospitable door where he craved food or shelter, yet his loneliness grew ever greater and greater, and at last his strength began to fail him, till he ofttimes felt he could scarcely drag himself along the road. Yet he still strove to journey on, he scarce knew why, save that he feared always, if he remained in any place, that he would be made a servant by the good people who befriended him.

This was why he would not stop, though almost too ill to trail himself along, until it came to pass that one day he fell beside the road, and lay there near unto death.

Now the place where he fell was a very lonely one, hard by a great wood, and for a long while nobody passed that way, but anon there came by a man, who, when he saw the child, stopped and looked earnestly upon him, and, seeing that he was very ill, lifted him in his arms and bore him away to his own dwelling, which was in the heart of the great wood itself.

For many days the child lay upon the good man’s bed, and it seemed as though the Angel of Death hovered very near to him; yet God had mercy on the boy, and raised him up from his bed of sickness, and the care of the kind master of the house was rewarded.

Little by little the child was able to take note of the things about him, and to sit up in bed and see what went on; and that which struck him most as he watched the good man of the house was, that he was never idle. What it was that he did the child did not at first know, for he worked outside, and all the boy could hear was the ceaseless sound of tools, mingling often with the music of some song or chant which the worker would croon to himself. It sounded like carpentering work, the child thought, and as his strength returned he began to desire to go out and watch it. So one day, feeling stronger than he had done before, he rose and dressed himself, and made his way out into the sunny garden, glimpses of which he had seen all this while through the open casement of the window.

The garden was very full of flowers, which showed signs of tender care; and to the right was a carpenter’s shed, with all the tools and implements, and certain articles standing about, some only just begun, and others quite or almost finished. The master of the house was not in the shed, but sitting in his garden, and in his hands he held a great piece of wood, fashioned in the shape of a cross, upon which he was carving, with wonderful skill and fidelity to nature, a wreath of flowers, copying these from the blossoms which bloomed around him.

When the child appeared, and timidly drew near, the good man greeted him with a smile.

“What art thou doing?” asked the child, “and wherefore dost thou put such strength and skill into a bit of wood? Is it not hard work to carve it thus? And of what use is it when done?”

With another smile the worker made reply, —

“It is hard work, truly, my child, but it is blessed work too, for this cross is to bear a message of comfort and hope to one who will rejoice to hear it.”

But the child’s face was full of perplexity, and his eyes asked the question which his lips knew not how to frame. The master of the house looked searchingly at him, and then said, —

“Knowest thou not, my child, that the cross is the symbol of all the pain or trouble or toil of this present life, which we are called upon to bear, and to share with Him who bore the cross for us, and who has said, ‘If any man would follow me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me?’ And yet, because He hath borne the cross first, He hath hallowed and sweetened it for us. So that we who carry our crosses for love of Him, seeking to follow in His footsteps, find them so covered with flowers that we grieve not at their weight, but rejoice always in the fragrance of the flowers.”

The child answered nothing, and the man presently spoke again, pointing, as he spoke, to a little wreath of smoke that curled up from behind the trees.

“In yonder cottage lives a sick woman upon whom the Lord has laid a heavy cross of pain and suffering. But she takes it from His hand, and makes no murmur. This cross, covered with the forms of beautiful flowers, I am fashioning for her.”

Day by day, as the sun sank to his rest and the master of the house, putting aside his daily task, took out his cross and worked at the flowers on it, the child came forth and sat beside him, watching him and hearing him talk, and little by little it seemed to him that scales fell from his eyes, and that some change he could not understand was wrought within him.

When the cross was completed, he went with the maker of it to the humble cottage where the suffering woman lay, and he watched the light deepen in her eyes as she beheld the gift, and heard the words which the giver spoke of it.

As they left the cottage together, he stole his hand into that of his friend, and asked, —

“Why does she have that pain to bear? Is it not cruel of the Master to send her such a cross?”

“Nay, child,” answered the good man; “we must not speak thus. The Master knows best. He gives to each his own cross, and blessed is every one who bears it after Him in meekness and lowliness of heart.”

“Have we all a cross to bear?” asked the child. “I love not to bear nor to suffer. Fain would I enjoy my life and be happy!”

“And so thou shalt be, even in the cross-bearing, O child, if thou wilt walk after the Master and serve Him,” answered the master of the house. “Hear His own words: ‘Come unto me all that be weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest!’ There is no rest, no earthly happiness that can compare with that which the Master gives to those who come to Him.”

“But how can we come to Him?” asked the child; “and how can we bear our crosses after Him when we know not what they are, nor where to find them?”

But at that question the good man smiled and laid his hand upon the head of the child, drawing him between his knees as he seated himself anew in his garden.

“We have no need to seek crosses for ourselves, my child. The Master gives to each one of us that which He would have us carry. Often it may be no heavier a one than the day’s toil as it comes to us, wrought for Him with the best that is in us. All that we do can be done for Him. He has said so – and blessed be His name! Our daily toil is sometimes hard and cheerless of itself, but borne as the cross after the Master, it becomes sweet and blessed to us. The cross blossoms with flowers beneath His smile. Oh, taste and see how gracious the Lord is. Blessed is the man that trusteth in Him!”

Tears stood in the eyes of the child as he heard these words. He laid his hand upon that of his instructor and said, —

“Suffer me to dwell with thee and learn thy craft, and all that thou canst teach me. I would fain take up my cross and follow the Master. I would work with thee and for thee, and learn to serve others as thou dost.”

But the master of the house looked long and earnestly at him, and answered with tender gravity, —

“No man putting his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.” And as the child gazed at him with wondering and uncomprehending eyes, he added, still very gently, “It is not for us to choose our path, nor the cross we think is lightest and pleasantest to carry.”

Then the child’s conscience suddenly smote him, for he remembered the hods of mortar he had left lying in the great city, beside the unfinished church, and great tears rolled down his cheeks as he began to understand that there, and there alone, lay the cross which the Master had given him to bear. But although he wept bitterly, yet his purpose did not falter. He would go back to his appointed task, and seek the cross he had flung away in impatient despite.

So he said farewell to his friend, who gave him a blessing with tears in his eyes, and began his weary and toilsome journey. Long and hard did the road seem, and often his heart wellnigh failed him, but still he pushed manfully on, for he had learned to look upwards for help and strength. He knew who was his Master.

He met many kindnesses to cheer him on his way, and now when food and shelter were given him, he would strive to repay his hosts ere he started in the morning by some simple act of service – cutting wood or carrying water, or even amusing a fretful child while the mother prepared the morning meal. Service was no longer hard and distasteful to him, for he strove to do all for the Master.

Many a time did some kind woman offer him service in a pleasant homestead, and greatly would the child have rejoiced to be saved the rest of that toilsome journey; but the memory of his forsaken task would come afresh upon him, and he resolutely journeyed on.

“Not mine, not mine the choice,” was the cry of his heart; “I must bear the cross the Master laid upon me!”

V

At last, as he journeyed onwards, he saw the walls of the city rise before him, and hastening onwards ever faster and faster, he approached the familiar town just as the last rays of the sun were illuminating the walls of the monastery and lighting up the beautiful white walls of the church. But what had come to those walls all this while? The child looked, and rubbed his eyes and looked again. For the structure which he had left all rough and unfinished was now a beautiful and stately building, complete in every detail, and upwards into the blue air soared the tapering spire, crowned with its cross, pointing ever upward towards the heaven beyond. And from within the building came a sound of music, like to the sound of many waters; and the child could hear the words of praise and thanksgiving that told of the pious joy which filled the hearts of the worshippers. And as he watched, it seemed to him that a great glory filled the air, and that a cloud of golden light descended upon the church, while grand, beautiful voices from within and without sang the glorious words of promise, —

“The kingdoms of this world shall become the kingdom of our God and of His Christ, and He shall reign for ever and ever.”

Then the child suddenly understood the end and purpose of that toil which he had shunned – to raise a holy house of prayer and praise that should teach men how to live and work that this glorious kingdom might the sooner come.

Now as he stood, watching with a full heart, he felt a touch upon his hand, and saw a hurrying throng going by, and one spoke in his ear and said, —

“Child, haste! haste! the Master hath come and calleth thee!”

And another voice took up the word and said, —

“He calleth for all those who have helped to rear this temple to His honour and glory.”

Then the child suddenly broke into bitter weeping, remembering how he had rejected his share of the work, and had left his hodfuls of mortar lying on the ground. Yet, in spite of his grief and shame, he was borne along by the crowd, and was aware of a strange and wonderful shining, the like of which he had never seen before; and casting himself down with his face to the ground he confessed his unfaithfulness, and prayed for the forgiveness of the Master.

Then it seemed to him that a hand was laid upon him, and a face looked down at him in infinite compassion and love, and a voice said in his heart, —

“Thy sin is forgiven thee. Arise and go in peace. Take up thy cross and follow me.”

And in his rapture the child smote his hands together and cried aloud, —

“O Lord, thy servant heareth!” and in so speaking he awoke.

Yes, he awoke, and behold it was all a dream! And he found himself lying beside his hodfuls of mortar beneath the unfinished walls of the church, while the men lay about resting from the mid-day heat, or eating their noontide meal.

All a dream! And the child’s heart was full of joy; for he was still here, at his post. He could take up his cross and bear it in the Master’s strength, for the Master’s sake, and look forward in joy and hope to that glorious day when the Kingdom should be his for ever and ever.

And so deeply was the vision graven on his heart, that from that day forward toil was blessed to him, and his cross blossomed with flowers, for his work was done with all his might in the power of the Lord, wherefore it was a joy to him and not a source of sorrow; his heart was full of thanksgiving and praise.

Father Gottlieb noted the change in the once pale and sorrowful face, and pausing beside the child one day, he pointed upwards and asked, —

“What dost thou see there beyond, my child?”

And with a smile of beautiful radiance the child made answer, —

“I see the shining of the Master’s face.”

Then the good monk passed on his way rejoicing, and said in his heart, —

“Behold His servants shall serve Him, and they shall see His face. Hallelujah!”

The children were quite silent for several minutes after the reading of the story. Probably both entered more into its spirit than either could have explained. Herr Adler looked first at the one and then at the other, and finally asked smiling, —

“Well, am I to tell my young friend the author that two little boys have liked her story, and have learned something from it?”

“Oh yes, please,” answered Squib, drawing a long breath; and then, after another fit of silent musing, he burst out in his sudden fashion, —

“O Herr Adler, I will try! I will try!”

Herr Adler did not ask what it was that Squib would try to do; but from the kind and gentle look that came into the good man’s face, the little boy knew that he had been understood.

It was very hard to say good-bye. Squib needed all his manliness to hold back his tears; and Seppi’s flowed freely down as their kind friend held their hands in his for the last time, and blessed them both, and kissed them before he took his way down the green slope. Squib went with him a little way, but would not leave Seppi for long, and with another rather husky good-bye, he turned just as the path entered the pine wood, and ran back to Seppi.

He found him lying on the grass, still crying; but he soon wiped away his tears and sat up.

“I shall see him again – somewhere. He said so himself; I am sure it is true. I shall see him again some day. But we shall miss him so! There is nobody else like him in the world. Oh, little Herr, I am so glad that you have seen Herr Adler!”

And Squib answered with earnest gravity —

“And so am I; very glad!”

CHAPTER X.
A MOUNTAIN STORM

“He is more of a squib than ever,” laughed Colonel Rutland.

“I told you he was too good company to be left at home.”

“He’s a walking compendium of instruction, information, and anecdote,” added Mr. Lorimer. “I always told you, Rutland, that that boy hadn’t got his square head for nothing. He will make his mark some day.”

“We’re talking about you, Squib,” cried Uncle Ronald, catching sight of the boy. “Come along, we’re just starting for a walk. You shall tell us a story as we go.”

“Where are you going?” asked Squib.

“To the head of the glacier over there. It’s about five miles off they say; is that too much for you, eh?

“Five miles from here to the glacier,” said Squib, with a little twinkle in his eye; “but how far from the glacier to here?”

Then as the pedestrians looked at him and made no answer, the smile beamed all over his face, and he said, —

“I’ll tell you a story. There was an Austrian lieutenant, and he had ridden to Vienna from Prague. He was dining with a noble lady, and at table they were talking about the distance it was between the two towns. The lady turned and said, ‘You have just come, sir; you can tell us how far it is from Vienna to Prague.’ Then the young man put his hands together and said, ‘Excellency, I can tell you exactly the distance from Prague to Vienna, because I have ridden it; but I have never been from Vienna to Prague yet, so I cannot tell you how far it is.’ Then everybody began to laugh, and the lady said, ‘But, my dear sir, it is the same.’ But he put his hands together again and said, ‘Excellency, from Easter to Pentecost is forty days, but from Pentecost to Easter is three hundred and twenty days! The distance from Prague to Vienna I can tell you, but the distance from Vienna to Prague I do not know.’”

“He was a smart fellow,” remarked Uncle Ronald laughing.

“Yes, he was very funny,” answered Squib, who having been, as it were, wound up, was prepared to “go off” considerably longer. “I will tell you another story about him. He was dining at an inn called the Golden Lion, and several of the people were teasing him and making fun, because he was so funny and silly. And the waiter who was attending them came up and asked him a riddle, and said, ‘Who is it? – my father’s son, but not my brother?’ And he couldn’t guess, so by-and-by the waiter smacked his chest and said, ‘Why, myself of course,’ and then everybody roared with laughter, so that the young officer thought it must be very funny. Just a few days afterwards he was dining with the noble lady again, and at dinner he said suddenly, ‘Excellency, let me ask you a riddle. Who is it? – my father’s son, but not my brother.’ The lady said directly, ‘Why, yourself, of course.’ ‘No, Excellency,’ he said, putting his hands together, ‘not myself – the waiter at the Golden Lion!’”

The gentlemen laughed heartily at the story, and at Squib’s way of telling it, unconsciously imitated from Herr Adler.

“I suppose that’s another of your new friend’s stories? He must have had a wonderful memory, if he’s anything like what you represent him.”

“You couldn’t guess half how good and how clever and how interesting he is if you hadn’t seen him yourself,” answered Squib with enthusiasm. “Mother understands a little, because he once came here; but nobody could find out everything in one afternoon.”

For some little time Squib was the regular companion of his father and uncle on their walks; and he quoted Herr Adler morning, noon, and night, to the great entertainment of the party. These expeditions, many of them very interesting ones, helped Squib over the blank which Herr Adler’s departure had made in his present life. It was Herr Adler’s stories that he quoted to the walking party; but in his heart he turned over many of the other lessons he had received from his friend, and made numbers of resolves, many of which were never entirely forgotten or set aside.

But after spending a week or two at the chalet, the mountaineers went off for another spell of climbing at some distance. More visitors arrived from England to keep company with the ladies; and Squib found himself once more free to resume his old habits, and to return to the Valley of the Silent Watchers, which always drew him like a magnet when he had nothing else to do.

How Seppi’s thin face did light up with pleasure at sight of his friend!

“It seemed as if everything went away together when Herr Adler was gone and you had gone too,” said the little goat-herd with patient sadness. “I know I oughtn’t to say ‘everything,’ when there’s so much left. I did try to think of all the things the good Herr Adler had told us. It helped a great deal; but I am so glad to see you back.”

“I’m glad to come,” answered Squib truthfully enough, “I think I like our quiet days the best. But what will you do in the winter, Seppi, when I’ve gone right away to England, and Herr Adler won’t be coming, and you can’t go out on the hills and draw, and everything is different?”

Sudden tears stood in Seppi’s eyes at the question. He had grown to love Squib with that kind of passionate love that often grows up in the heart of a child, and becomes almost a pain at last. Squib had, as it were, rooted himself into the very fibres of his heart. He had not seriously faced the thought that the little boy was only a bird of passage; that he was here just for a few short weeks, and then would go away, perhaps never to return. He had built up a fanciful idea of his own that the grand people from England, of whom the peasants spoke with reverence and respect, had bought the chalet for their very own, and would often come to it; and Squib had spoken so much of his love for the valleys and mountains that Seppi might be pardoned for thinking he meant to stay there always. To the peasant boy Squib appeared like a little prince, able to come and go and do as he would; and surely if he loved mountains and the free mountain life so much, he would be able to come very often to enjoy them, and stay a long time when he came.

“But – but – you are not going away, are you?” he faltered; “and you will surely come again?”

“I’m not going away yet – not for a good many weeks,” answered the other little boy, “but by-and-by we shall have to go back. I think we’ve got the chalet for three months. And I don’t know about coming again. You see I shall be going to school soon, and then there will only be the holidays – and those, I suppose, will be spent at home. When I’m a man, I think I shall often come to Switzerland and climb mountains, and do lots of nice things; but I don’t think that will be for a good many years. None of the others have ever been abroad, and this is just a treat for me before I go to school.”

Seppi’s tears flowed silently down his cheeks as he heard this, and as he gradually came to understand from his comrade’s explanations that Squib was not a fairy prince, able to come and go at will and do just what he liked, but a little English boy, bound by many rules and regulations, and with a regular round of duties mapped out for him for many years to come. His visions of constantly seeing the little Herr on the hills in summer began to dissolve like dreams at waking time, and his heart seemed to grow strangely heavy as he realized that he might not see his little friend any more after he once left, until both had grown to manhood.

“And it takes such a long, long time to grow up!” he sighed. “Peter is older than I, but he isn’t grown up, though he has been talking of it and waiting – oh, ever so long! What shall I do when I never see you any more – and the years when Herr Adler doesn’t come either?”

“I’ll write to you,” said Squib suddenly, putting out his hand and laying it on Seppi’s; “I’ll write you a letter every quarter, and I’ll send you paper and chalk sometimes by parcel post;” and then warming with his subject, he went on in his vehement fashion, “and I’ll send you an envelope with one of your Swiss stamps on it, if I can get them, and you shall send me a drawing back, and if you can, you will write me a letter too, and tell me how you are, and how Moor is, and Ann-Katherin, and everybody, and the goats. Then we shall seem always like friends, and if I ever can I’ll come and see you; only I can’t promise, because I shan’t be able to do as I like till I’m a man.”

Making plans like this was the best substitute for Seppi’s vague dreams of always having Squib near at hand. As the days flew by they made more and more detailed plans about keeping up some sort of a correspondence, and both were pleased to think that this friendship would not vanish away when the boy was carried off again to England.

All this while Squib had never seen Seppi’s home, save at a distance. The little goat-herd never went back till after Squib had left him in the afternoon, and he was too lame to wander about for pleasure. Moreover, there were the goats to think of and care for, and it had never occurred to him that the little Herr could feel the smallest interest in so poor a place as his home.

Squib, however, had often looked across at it and wondered what it was like inside; but he had not invited himself there in case Seppi’s mother might not like it. Yet he had a great wish to see her, and Ann-Katherin too, and had sometimes thought he would ask Seppi to go home early some day and let him accompany him.

But before he had ever got to the point of doing so, a sudden visit was paid by him to the chalet in a quite unexpected fashion.

For some days it had been very hot indeed – so hot that the little boy had felt indisposed for anything but to lie about in idleness, and even the goats had done little but crowd together in the shelter of the rock and nibble a little bit of grass in quite a lazy way. The dogs seemed to enjoy the sultry weather most, lying side by side in the sun and basking there to their hearts’ content; but sometimes it became too hot even for them, and they would retire panting into the shade with their tongues out, or trot down to the brook for a drink.

Hitherto the summer had been very fine and calm. Once or twice the boys had heard a rumble of thunder far away, but it had never come near them. Seppi had told Squib many stories of the violence of the summer thunder-storms in his valley, and Squib had wished he might see one; and now it seemed as if this wish were to be gratified.