Newspaper Page Text
FEBRUARY, 1894.
As the stranger entered, the baby turned and looked at him.
Why did the King stop suddenly and press his hand upon his
heart? Why did his sad face turn ashy pale?
Those blue, innocent eyes; that fair, baby face, with the soft rings
of hair clustered round it!
Had his angel brother come back to life? For this child —this liv
ing child, by the side of its dead mother —was the perfect semblance
of the lost picture.
For a moment they looked at one another; I know not which felt
the more startled; the beggar child or the powerful King.
Then the baby turned to its dead mother and began to cry again.
The King gazed around the room, and his eyes fell upon a cup of
milk on a rude shelf.
Poor mother! Her last act had been to provide food for her child.
The King took the cup in his hand and moved toward the bed. ’
“Come, little one,” he said softly, “come and drink some nice milk.”
What! Is this Rupert, the proud and haughty king, stooping to
feed a beggar’s child? Holding out his arms, and striving, with en
ticing words, to lure the baby to him?
The child held out his little hands; the king lifted him over the
cold, still body, and held him in his arms.
The child eagerly drank the milk, for it was long since he had
been fed; he drained the cup to its last drop.
Then, with an angelic smile, he threw his arms around the king’s
neck, and gave him a warm, loving kiss.
With a new, strange feeling of joy, as if some long-lost treasure
had been recovered, the king pressed the child close and closer to
him.
For, surely the spirit of his angel brother was in the little clinging
form! Better, a thousand times better was it, than the painted pic
ture he had lost. He would have and keep the living child forever!
But —why does the frozen heart give a quick, exultant bound?
What strange, warm thrill is this which rushes through his chilled
frame, causing every nerve and muscle to tingle joyously? Can it
be? Is it possible that ?
The Dove has fluttered through the doorway and is hovering over
them. She is trembling with happiness. She meets Rupert’s eager
eyes and answers his unspoken query.
“Yes, my King, your frozen heart is melting, For the pur
est thing on earth —a baby’s kiss —has touched your lips at last!”
♦ * • * * * * *
Great was the rejoicing all over the kingdom when it was known
that the now much loved king was cured.
The orphan babe was taken to live in the palace; to the king he
was always the angel brother, sent from Heaven to seal and crown
Rupert’s forgiveness.
Whenever it was possible, the child went with the king, the joy
and inspiration of his life.
Dear to the heart of Rupert was the lonely moor where he had met
his salvation. The hut was torn down, and in its place the king
built a small but beautiful chapel,where strangers might stop to pray,
and especially where thanks were to be given for any great mercy or
happiness.
While it was being built, he would often ride out to oversee it;
sometimes, on pleasant days, the child went with him, and together
they would laugh and play amid the tall green grasses that grew on
the moor.
The chapel was nearly finished; Rupert and the boy were watch
ing the workmen as they fitted in the carved doors.
“Your Majesty,’’said a messenger, who came up with a silver cas
ket in his hand, “will you tell us what to do with this gold dust?”
“What do you mean, Bertrand?”
“Your Majesty, your commands about the Iron Hall, (which you
have not entered lately) have been obeyed. It has been cleared and
swept; windows and doors have been cut in it; the sunshine can now
enter freely; and it is only waiting for your orders, to be fitted up as a
play room for little children,
“But a small remnant of the golden pillar is left. A handful of
shining dust was swept up, and I have brought it to you in this cas
ket. What shall we do with it?”
Thoughtfully the king uncovered the casket, and again the golden
dust, which once had been his idol, glistened before his eyes.
The child saw it, too. “Pretty, pretty!” he cried; and bounding
forward to grasp it, he upset the casket.
For a moment a shining cloud floated around them; then the tall
grass at their feet was changed into blades of glistening gold.
“Oh, the child has lost the gold!” cried the messenger in alarm.
“Not so,” answered the king, gently; “it is not lost. See how it
sparkles in the sunshine. What a beautiful entrance this golden
grass will make to our chapel! Thank you, my little brother, for
planting it here. ’ ’
***** * * *
The golden grass grew and flourished, and spread all over the
moor. It was held in great reverence by the people; but every pil
grim who knelt in the chapel to give thanks for some sin forgiven, or
some great grief cured, was allowed to take home a root. So after
awhile, the “King’s Golden Rod,” as it was called, was scattered far
and wide.
********
“So that is where the Golden Rod came from,” said Minna, after a
pause.
“Yes,” answered the Butterfly.
“And so, whenever we see any golden rod, we ought to be thank
ful so everything,” said Carl.
“I think so.”
“But, Butterfly,” said Carl, “there is one thing I do not under
stand: why did the king want the golden pillar? What good could
jt do him?”
*‘oh, I was afraid you would ask that question.”
WOMAN’S WORK.
“Afraid!”
“Yes, because I cannot answer it. Ido not know. I have never
heard 1 never could find out what good it did to have a golden
pillar. But, if you really want to know, you can go ask the men
who build them.”
“The men who build them?” cried both the children, with wide
open eyes.
“Yes. There are a great many Ruperts in the world yet. The
big cities are full of them; men who spend their lives building golden
pillars and freezing their hearts at the same time. They are the ones
who ought to know why they do it, if any one does. ” Nobody else
knows why; nobody else can ever find out. So go and ask them,
little folks; go and ask them why they do it?”
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