St. Nicholas, Vol. 5, No. 4, February 1878 by Various

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[Illustration: AFTER THE SNOW-STORM.]

ST. NICHOLAS.

VOL. V.
FEBRUARY, 1878.
No. 4.

[Copyright, 1878, by Scribner & Co.]

THE SHEPHERD-BOY.

BY EMILY S. OAKEY.

Little Roy led his sheep down to pasture,
And his cows, by the side of the brook;
But his cows never drank any water,
And his sheep never needed a crook.

For the pasture was gay as a garden,
And it glowed with a flowery red;
But the meadows had never a grass-blade,
And the brooklet--it slept in its bed;

And it lay without sparkle or murmur,
Nor reflected the blue of the skies.
But the music was made by the shepherd,
And the sparkle was all in his eyes.

Oh, he sang like a bird in the summer!
And, if sometimes you fancied a bleat,
That, too, was the voice of the shepherd,
And not of the lambs at his feet.

And the glossy brown cows were so gentle
That they moved at the touch of his hand
O'er the wonderful rosy-red meadow,
And they stood at his word of command.

So he led all his sheep to the pasture,
And his cows, by the side of the brook;
Though it rained, yet the rain never patter'd
O'er the beautiful way that they took.

And it wasn't in Fairy-land either,
But a house in a commonplace town,
Where Roy as he looked from the window
Saw the silvery drops trickle down.

For his pasture was only a table,
With its cover so flowery fair,
And his brooklet was just a green ribbon
That his sister had lost from her hair.

And his cows they were glossy horse-chestnuts,
That had grown on his grandfather's tree;
And his sheep they were snowy-white pebbles
He had brought from the shore by the sea.

And at length, when the shepherd was weary,
And had taken his milk and his bread,
And his mother had kissed him and tucked him,
And had bid him "good-night" in his bed,

Then there enter'd his big brother Walter,
While the shepherd was soundly asleep,
And he cut up the cows into baskets,
And to jack-stones turned all of the sheep.

THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS.

(_A Story of the Middle Ages._)

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRONICLES OF THE SCHOeNBERG-COTTA FAMILY."

CHAPTER III.

The next day, Gottlieb began his training among the other choristers.

It was not easy.

The choir-master showed his appreciation of his raw treasure by
straining every nerve to make it as perfect as possible; and therefore
he found more fault with Gottlieb than with any one else.

The other boys might, he could not but observe, sing carelessly enough,
so that the general harmony was pretty good; but every note of his
seemed as if it were a solo which the master's ear never missed, and
not the slightest mistake was allowed to pass.

The other choristers understood very well what this meant, and some of
them were not a little jealous of the new favorite, as they called him.
But to little Gottlieb it seemed hard and strange. He was always
straining to do his very best, and yet he never seemed to satisfy. The
better he did, the better the master wanted him to do, until he grew
almost hopeless.

He would not, for the world, complain to his mother; but on the third
evening she observed that he looked very sad and weary, and seemed
scarcely to have spirits to play with Lenichen.

She knew it is of little use to ask little children what ails them,
because so often their trouble is that they do not know. Some little
delicate string within is jarred, and they know nothing of it, and
think the whole world is out of tune. So she quietly put Lenichen to
bed, and after the boy had said his prayers as usual at her knee, she
laid her hand on his head, and caressingly stroked his fair curls, and
then she lifted up his face to hers and kissed the little troubled brow
and quivering lips.

"Dear little golden mouth!" she said, fondly, "that earns bread, and
sleep, for the little sister and for me! I heard the sweet notes
to-day, and I thanked God. And I felt as if the dear father was hearing
them too, even through the songs in heaven."

The child's heart was opened, the quivering lips broke into a sob, and
the face was hidden on her knee.

"It will not be for long, mother!" he said. "The master has found fault
with me more than ever to-day. He made me sing passage after passage
over and over, until some of the boys were quite angry, and said,
afterward, they wished I and my voice were with the old hermit who
houses us. Yet he never seemed pleased. He did not even say it was any
better."

"But he never gave you up, darling!" she said.

"No; he only told me to come early, alone, to-morrow, and he would give
me a lesson by myself, and perhaps I should learn better."

A twinkle of joy danced in her eyes, dimmed with so many tears.

"Silly child!" she said, fondly, "as silly as thy poor mother herself!
The master only takes trouble, and chastens and rebukes, because he
thinks it is worth while, because thou art trying and learning, and art
doing a little better day by day. He knows what thy best can be, and
will never be content with anything but thy very best."

"Is it that, mother? Is it indeed that?" said the boy, looking up with
a sudden dawning of hope.

And a sweet dawn of promise met him in his mother's eyes as she
answered:

"It is even that, my own, for thee and for me!"

CHAPTER IV.

With a glad heart, Gottlieb dressed the next morning before Lenichen
was awake, and was off to the choir-master for his lesson alone.

The new hope had inspired him, and he sang that morning to the content
even of the master, as he knew, not by his praise, but by his summoning
Ursula from the kitchen to listen, unable to resist his desire for the
sympathy of a larger audience.

Ursula was not exactly musical, nor was she demonstrative, but she
showed her satisfaction by appropriating her share of the success.

"_I_ knew what was wanting!" she said, significantly. "The birds and
the blessed angels may sing on crumbs or on the waters of Paradise; but
goose and pudding are a great help to the alleluias here below."

"The archduchess will be enraptured, and the Cistercians will be
furious!" said the choir-master, equally pleased at both prospects.

But this Gottlieb did not hear, for he had availed himself of the first
free moment to run home and tell his mother how things had improved.

After that, Gottlieb had no more trouble about the master. The old
man's severity became comprehensible and dear to him, and a loving
liberty and confidence came into his bearing toward him, which went to
the heart of the childless old man, so that dearer than the praise of
the archduchess, or even the discomfiture of the Cistercians, became to
him the success and welfare of the child.

But then, unknown to himself, the poor boy entered on a new chapter of
temptations.

The other boys, observing the choir-master's love for him, grew
jealous, and called him sometimes "the master's little angel," and
sometimes "the little beggar of the hermitage" or "Dwarf Hans'
darling."

He was too brave and manly a little fellow to tell his mother all these
little annoyances. He would not for the world have spoiled her joy in
her little "Chrysostom," her golden-mouthed laddie. But once they
followed him to her door, and she heard them herself. The rude words
smote her to the heart, but she only said:

"Thou art not ashamed of the hermit's house, nor of being old Hans'
darling?"

"I hope, never!" said the child, with a little hesitation. "God sent
him to us, and I love him. But it would be nice if dear Hans sometimes
washed his face!"

Magdalis smiled, and hit on a plan for bringing this about. With some
difficulty she persuaded the old man to take his dinner every Sunday
and holiday with them, and she always set an ewer of water--and a
towel, relic of her old burgher life--by him, before the meal.

"We were a kind of Pharisees in our home," she said, "and except we
washed our hands, never ate bread."

Hans growled a little, but he took the hint, for her sake and the
boy's, and gradually found the practice so pleasant on its own account,
that the washing of his hands and face became a daily process.

On his patron saint's day (St. John, February 8), Mother Magdalis went
a step further, and presented him with a clean suit of clothes, very
humble but neat and sound, of her own making out of old hoards. Not for
holidays only, she said, but that he might change his clothes every
day, after work, as her Berthold used.

"Dainty, burgher ways," Hans called them, but he submitted, and
Gottlieb was greatly comforted, and thought his old friend a long way
advanced in his transformation into an angel.

So, between the sweetness of the boy's temper and of his dear mother's
love which folded him close, the bitter was turned into sweet within
him.

But Ursula, who heard the mocking of the boys with indignation, was
not so wise in her consolations.

"Wicked, envious little devils!" said she. "Never thou heed them, my
lamb! They would be glad enough, any of them, to be the master's angel,
or Dwarf Hans' darling, for that matter, if they could. It is nothing
but mean envy and spite, my little prince, my little wonder; never thou
heed them!"

And then the enemy crept unperceived into the child's heart.

Was he indeed a little prince and a wonder, on his platform of gifts
and goodness? And were all those naughty boys far below him, in another
sphere, hating him as the little devils in the mystery-plays seemed to
hate and torment the saints?

Had the "raven" been sent to him, after all, as to the prophet of old,
not only because he was hungry and pitied by God, but because he was
good and a favorite of God?

It seemed clear he was something quite out of the common. He seemed the
favorite of every one, except those few envious, wicked boys.

The great ladies of the city entreated for him to come and sing at
their feasts; and all their guests stopped in the midst of their eager
talk to listen to him, and they gave him sweetmeats and praised him to
the skies, and they offered him wine from their silver flagons, and
when he refused it, as his mother bade him, they praised him more than
ever, and once the host himself, the burgomaster, emptied the silver
flagon of the wine he had refused, and told him to take it home to his
mother and tell her she had a child whose dutifulness was worth more
than all the silver in the city.

But when he told his mother this, instead of looking delighted, as he
expected, she looked grave, and almost severe, and said:

"You only did your duty, my boy. It would have been a sin and a shame
to do otherwise. And, of course, you would not for the world."

"Certainly I would not, mother," he said.

But he felt a little chilled. Did his mother think it was always so
easy for boys to do their duty? and that every one did it?

Other people seemed to think it a very uncommon and noble thing to do
one's duty. And what, indeed, could the blessed saints do more?

So the slow poison of praise crept into the boy's heart. And while he
thought his life was being filled with light, unknown to him the
shadows were deepening,--the one shadow which eclipses the sun, the
terrible shadow of self.

For he could not but be conscious how, even in the cathedral, a kind of
hush and silence fell around when he began to sing.

And instead of the blessed presence of God filling the holy place, and
his singing in it, as of old, like a happy little bird in the sunshine,
his own sweet voice seemed to fill the place, rising and falling like a
tide up and down the aisles, leaping to the vaulted roof like a
fountain of joy, and dropping into the hearts of the multitude like dew
from heaven.

And as he went out, in his little white robe, with the choir, he felt
the eyes of the people on him, and he heard a murmur of praise, and now
and then words such as "That is little Gottlieb, the son of the widow
Magdalis. She may well be proud of him. He has the voice and the face
of an angel."

And then, in contrast, outside in the street, from the other boys: "See
how puffed up the little prince is! He cannot look at any one lower
than the bishop or the burgomaster!"

So, between the chorus of praise and the other chorus of mockery, it
was no wonder that poor Gottlieb felt like a being far removed from the
common herd. And, necessarily, any one of the flock of Christ who feels
that, cannot be happy, because if we are far away from the common
flock, we cannot be near the Good Shepherd, who always keeps close to
the feeblest, and seeks those that go astray.

CHAPTER V.

It was not long before the watchful eye of the mother observed a little
change creeping over the boy--a little more impatience with Lenichen, a
little more variableness of temper, sometimes dancing exultingly home
as if he were scarcely treading the common earth, sometimes returning
with a depression which made the simple work and pleasures of the home
seem dull and wearisome.

So it went on until the joyful Easter-tide was drawing near. On Palm
Sunday there was to be a procession of the children.

As the mother was smoothing out the golden locks which fell like
sunbeams on the white vestments, she said: "It is a bright day for thee
and me, my son. I shall feel as if we were all in the dear old
Jerusalem itself, and my darling had gathered his palms on Olivet
itself, and the very eyes of the blessed Lord himself were on thee, and
His ears listening to thee crying out thy hosannas, and His dear voice
speaking of thee and through thee, 'Suffer the little children to come
unto me.'"

But Gottlieb looked grave and rather troubled.

"So few seem thinking just of His listening," he said, doubtfully.
"There are the choir-master and the dean and chapter, and the other
choristers, and the Cistercians, and the mothers of the other
choristers, who wish them to sing best."

She took his hand. "So there were in that old Jerusalem," she said.
"The Pharisees, who wanted to stop the children's singing, and even the
dear Disciples, who often thought they might be troublesome to the
Master. But the little ones sang for Him, and He knew, and was pleased.
And that is all we have to think of now."

He kissed her, and went away with a lightened brow.

Many of the neighbors came in that afternoon to congratulate Magdalis
on her boy--his face, his voice, his gentle ways.

"And then he sings with such feeling," said one. "One sees it is in his
heart."

But in the evening Gottlieb came home very sad and desponding. For some
time he said nothing, and then, with a brave effort to restrain his
tears, he murmured:

"Oh, mother! I am afraid it will soon be over. I heard one of the
priests say he thought they had a new chorister at the Cistercians
whose voice is as good as mine. So that the archduchess may not like
our choir best, after all."

The mother said nothing for a moment, and then she said:

"Whose praise and love will the boy at the Cistercian convent sing,
Gottlieb, if he has such a lovely voice?"

"God's!--the dear Heavenly Father and the Savior!" he said, reverently.

"And you, my own? Will another little voice on earth prevent His
hearing you? Do the thousands of thousands always singing to Him above
prevent His hearing you? And what would the world do if the only voice
worth listening to were thine? It cannot be heard beyond one church, or
one street. And the good Lord has ten thousand churches, and cities
full of people who want to hear."

"But thou, mother! Thou and Lenichen, and the bread!"

"It was the raven that brought the bread," she said, smiling; "and thou
art not even a raven,--only a little child to pick up the bread the
raven brought."

He sat silent a few minutes, and then the terrible cloud of self and
pride dropped off from his heart like a death-shroud, and he threw
himself into her arms.

"Oh, mother, I see it all!" he said. "I am free again. I have only to
sing to the blessed Lord of all, quite sure He listens, to Him alone,
and to all else as just a little one of the all He loves."

And after the evening meal, and a game with Lenichen, the boy crept out
to the cathedral to say his prayers in one of the little chapels, and
to thank God.

He knelt in the Lady chapel before the image of the infant Christ on
the mother's knees.

And as he knelt there, it came into his heart that all the next Week
was Passion week, "the still week," and would be silent; and the tears
filled his eyes to remember how little he had enjoyed singing that day.

"How glad the little children of Jerusalem must have been," he thought,
"that they sang to Jesus when they could. I suppose they never could
again; for the next Friday He was dead. Oh, suppose He never let me
sing to Him again!"

[Illustration: "'LOOK AT ME,' THE OLD MAN SAID."]

And tears and repressed sobs came fast at the thought, and he murmured
aloud, thinking no one was near:

"Dear Savior, only let me sing once more here in church to you, and I
will think of no one but you; not of the boys who laugh at me, nor the
people who praise me, nor the Cistercians, nor the archduchess, nor
even the dear choir-master, but only of you, of you, and perhaps of
mother and Lenichen. I could not help that, and you would not mind it.
You and they love me so much more than any one, and I love you really
so much more than all besides. Only believe it, and try me once more."

As he finished, in his earnestness, the child spoke quite loud, and
from a dark corner in the shadow of a pillar suddenly arose a very old
man in a black monk's robe, with snow-white hair, and drew close to
him, and laid his hand on his shoulder and said:

"Fear not, my son. I have a message for thee."

At first, Gottlieb was much frightened, and then, when he heard the
kind, tremulous old voice, and saw the lovely, tender smile on the
wrinkled, pallid old face, he thought God must really have sent him an
angel at last, though certainly not because he was good.

"Look around on these lofty arches, and clustered columns, and the long
aisles, and the shrines of saints, and the carved wreaths of flowers
and fruits, and the glorious altar! Are these wonderful to thee?
Couldst thou have thought of them, or built them?"

"I could as easily have made the stars, or the forests!" said the
child.

"Then look at me," the old man said, with a gentle smile on his
venerable face, "a poor worn-out old man, whom no one knows. This
beautiful house was in my heart before a stone of it was reared. God
put it in my heart. I planned it all. I remember this place a heap of
poor cottages as small as thine, and now it is a glorious house of
God. And I was what they called the master-builder. Yet no man knows
me, or says, 'Look at him!' They look at the cathedral, God's house;
and that makes me glad in my inmost soul. I prayed that I might be
nothing, and all the glory be His; and He has granted my prayer. And I
am as little and as free in this house which I built as in His own
forests, or under His own stars; for it is His only, as they are His.
And I am nothing but His own little child, as thou art. And He has my
hand and thine in His, and will not let us go."

The child looked up, nearly certain now that it must be an angel. To
have lived longer than the cathedral seemed like living when the
morning stars were made, and all the angels shouted for joy.

"Then God will let me sing here next Easter!" he said, looking
confidingly in the old man's face.

"Thou shalt sing, and I shall see, and I shall hear thee, but thou wilt
not hear or see me!" said the old man, taking both the dimpled hands in
one of his. "And the blessed Lord will listen, as to the little
children in Jerusalem of old. And we shall be His dear, happy children
for evermore."

Gottlieb went home and told his mother. And they both agreed, that if
not an angel, the old man was as good as an angel, and was certainly a
messenger of God.

To have been the master-builder of the cathedral of which it was
Magdalis's glory and pride that her husband had carved a few of the
stones!

The master-builder of the cathedral, yet finding his joy and glory in
being a little child of God!

CHAPTER VI.

The "silent week" that followed was a solemn time to the mother and the
boy.

Every day, whatever time could be spared from the practice with the
choir, and from helping in the little house and with his mother's
wood-carving, or from playing with Lenichen in the fields, Gottlieb
spent in the silent cathedral, draped as it was in funereal black for
the sacred life given up to God for man.

"How glad," he thought again and again, "the little children of
Jerusalem must have been that they sang when they could to the blessed
Jesus! They little knew how soon the kind hands that blessed them would
be stretched on the cross, and the kind voice that would not let their
singing be stopped would be moaning 'I thirst.'"

But he felt that he, Gottlieb, ought to have known; and if ever he was
allowed to sing his hosannas in the choir again, it would feel like the
face of the blessed Lord himself smiling on him, and His voice saying,
"Suffer this little one to come unto me. I have forgiven him."

He hoped also to see the master-builder again; but nevermore did the
slight, aged form appear in the sunshine of the stained windows, or in
the shadows of the arches he had planned.

And so the still Passion week wore on.

Until once more, the joy-bells pealed out on the blessed Easter morning.

The city was full of festivals. The rich were in their richest holiday
raiment, and few of the poor were so poor as not to have some sign of
festivity in their humble dress and on their frugal tables.

Mother Magdalis was surprised by finding at her bedside a new dress
such as befitted a good burgher's daughter, sent secretly the night
before from Ursula by Hans and Gottlieb, with a pair of enchanting new
crimson shoes for little Lenichen, which all but over-balanced the
little maiden with the new sense of possessing something which must be
a wonder and a delight to all beholders.

The archduke and the beautiful Italian archduchess had arrived the
night before, and were to go in stately procession to the cathedral.
And Gottlieb was to sing in the choir, and afterward, on the Monday, to
sing an Easter greeting for the archduchess at the banquet in the great
town-hall.

The mother's heart trembled with some anxiety for the child.

But the boy's was only trembling with the great longing to be allowed
to sing once more his hosannas to the blessed Savior, among the
children.

It was given him.

At first the eager voice trembled for joy, in the verse he had to sing
alone, and the choir-master's brows were knitted with anxiety. But it
cleared and steadied in a moment, and soared with a fullness and
freedom none had ever heard in it before, filling the arches of the
cathedral and the hearts of all.

And the beautiful archduchess bent over to see the child, and her soft,
dark eyes were fixed on his face, as he sang, until they filled with
tears; and, afterward, she asked who the mother of that little angel
was.

But the child's eyes were fixed on nothing earthly, and his heart was
listening for another voice--the voice all who listen for shall surely
hear.

And it said in the heart of the child, that day: "Suffer the little one
to come unto me. Go in peace. Thy sins are forgiven."

A happy, sacred evening they spent that Easter in the hermit's cell,
the mother and the two children, the boy singing his best for the
little nest, as before for the King of kings.

Still, a little anxiety lingered in the mother's heart about the pomp
of the next day.

But she need not have feared.

When the archduchess had asked for the mother of the little chorister
with the heavenly voice, the choir-master had told her what touched her
much about the widowed Magdalis and her two children; and old Ursula
and the master between them contrived that Mother Magdalis should be at
the banquet, hidden behind the tapestry.

And when Gottlieb came close to the great lady, robed in white, with
blue feathery wings, to represent a little angel, and sang her the
Easter greeting, she bent down and folded him in her arms, and kissed
him.

And then once more she asked for his mother, and, to Gottlieb's
surprise and her own, the mother was led forward, and knelt before the
archduchess.

Then the beautiful lady beamed on the mother and the child, and, taking
a chain and jewel from her neck, she clasped it round the boy's neck,
and said, in musical German with a foreign accent:

"Remember, this is not so much a gift as a token and sign that I will
not forget thee and thy mother, and that I look to see thee and hear
thee again, and to be thy friend."

And as she smiled on him, the whole banqueting-hall--indeed, the whole
world--seemed illuminated to the child.

And he said to his mother as they went home:

"Mother, surely God has sent us an angel at last. But, even for the
angels, we will never forget His dear ravens. Wont old Hans be glad?"

And the mother was glad; for she knew that God who giveth grace to the
lowly had indeed blessed the lad, because all his gifts and honors were
transformed, as always in the lowly heart, not into pride, but into
love.

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