Green Mountain Freeman

The Seasons.
The Cheerful Heart

A STORY FOR NEW YEAR'S.

"I cannot choose but marvel at the way
In which our lives pass on, from day to day
Learning strange lessons in the human heart,
And yet like shadows letting them depart."
Miss Landon.

How wearily the little news-boy plodded
along the deserted streets on that New
Year's Eve! The cold rain was beating
fiercely upon him, and a few tattered gar-
ments served to protect him from its rage.
All day long had he been out amid the
storm, and was now returning, weary and
wet, to his humble home. The street
lamps were lighted, and as he passed by
you could see by the gleam that his
face was wan, as if something had already
begun to attenuate his features, and yet
give him that wan and desolate look which
can be given only by some great affliction.
some pinching want or overwhelming grief.
You could tell at a glance that a dark shad-
ow was resting upon his pathway—a shad-
ow out of which there seemed, just then,
but little hope of escape. Born amid pov-
erty and wretchedness, and left fatherless
while yet in his cradle, his life up to that
hour had been nothing but misery—and the
whole record of that life was written in his
pale face and tattered rags. Yet with all
this, as he passed along a close observer
might have noticed a strange light in his
clear, blue eye—an expression of kindly
cheerfulness, such as we may not often see
in this world of care and grief—for God's
blessing was upon him—the blessing of a
cheerful heart. The sorrow of his life,
however deep and abiding, the gloom upon
his pathway, however dark and fearful, dim-
med not the light that burned so quietly.
and yet so steadily within. Like the Vestal
fire of old, it grew not dim, but threw its
rays far out over the great gloom around
him—even now the cold storm beat upon
him unheeded. There are waking dreams
that come upon us sometimes when we least
expect them—bright dreams of love, and
home, and heaven—beautiful visions of fu-
ture, all glorious with its burden of song
and gladness!—and such a vision, of such
a future, now filled and crowded and bles-
sed the heart of that forsaken boy. He was
dreaming as he walked along of better days
to come—of the time poverty in his path-
way should depart, and the beautiful flow-
ers should spring up to bless him with their
presence—of a bright home far away from
that great city, upon whose cheerful hearth
the fire should not go out, and where hun-
ger should never haunt him more. And
then into that dream of a better life—into
that vision of a cheerful home far-off among
the green hills—came a pleasant face—the
face of his beloved mother. He could see
her as she sat by the lattice at the quiet
evening hour reading the sacred Bible. with
the last red rays resting like a glory upon
her brow. while the rose leaf trembled
window and the little violets folded
themselves to sleep. Very pleasant was the
picture there passing before the gaze of
that ragged child, very glorious the panorama
of green hills and bright flowers and
singing birds—very beautiful that humble
cottage, half covered by the clustering fol-
iage:—and his heart thrilled and heaved
with a strange rapture never known before,
such rapture, such joy as the stricken poor
can never know, save when some good an-
gel comes down from the blue Heaven and
beckons them away from the haunts of woe
and want in which they suffer, to the free
air and the blessed sunshine.

But the dream had passed—the sun had
set—the flowers faded—the cottage disap-
peared. Of all that beautiful vision, so
cheering and so glorious, no trace remained;
no vestige of leaf or tree or bird; no letter
of his mother's Bible—no love-light of his
mother's eye. The darkness came around
him, and he found himself there amid the
storm in the silent streets of that great and
sinful city. So gathering his garments
more closely about him, he hurried along to
his home with a prayer upon his lip and
God's sunlight in his heart. Turning into
an obscure street, a few steps brought him
to the door of a wretched dwelling, which
he entered. Follow now and behold a
scene of want and penury, such as may be
found sometimes in this world of ours—a
scene upon which men look with uncon-
cern, but on which, thank God! the angels
gaze with joy; a home where poverty strug-
gles with a brave heart and is conquered.
Before the fire sat a pale, sad woman, up-
on whose features the traces of great loveli-
ness were still visible, though sorrow had
sharpened them somewhat, and ghastly want
done much to dim their beauty. Upon her
high and queenly brow the blue veins were
clearly visible, as the blood coursed through
them with unwonted rapidity. Her large
dark eyes were dim with tears. Some new
sorrow had started afresh the sealed fouu-
tain of her grief—and now as she gazed si-
lently upon the red embers in all the utter
agony of despair, it might seem that hope
had forever and God forsaken her.
"Mother!" said the boy, as he entered
all dripping with rain, "I have come at last,
and I am tired and hungry."
"My son! my son!" replied the mother,
"there is no morsel of food in the house,"
and her lip quivered. "We must starve!
we must starve! God help us!" and her
tears broke forth afresh.
Thus had it been for many a weary
month. With scarcely food sufficient to
support life, that mother and her boy had
struggled, and suffered, and wept, and pray-
ed—and now that the cold winter was com-
ing on, no wonder that her heart shudder-
ed and her cheek grew pale at the hopeless
prospect ahead. How could they pass the
dreary days and long nights, the storm and
the terrible cold, without food and raiment,
and shelter? And then where could they
go when the heartless landlord should thrust
them from their present wretched dwelling,
as he had threatened to do on the morrow?
Verily the gloom and the despair were great
and fearful!
And yet even at that desolate hour an
eye looked down from Heaven upon that
friendless widow. There by the hearth-
stone—by the dying embers an angel hov-
ered—an angel hovered—an earthly angel,
even in the guise of that cheerful child. For

"Earth had its angels, though their forms are
moulded
But of such clay as fashions all:
Though harps are wanting and bright pinions
folded,
We know them by the love-light on their
brow."

"Mother," said he, "we will not starve.
God has not forsaken us. There are better
days to come, mother! I saw it in a dream,
and in it I beheld your own dear self, and
you were singing a pleasant song away in
that blessed home. Oh! mother, cheer up!
cheer up!"
When the little boy lay down upon his
wretched couch, that night, he was changed.
His mother's great despair had trans-
formed him from a suffering child into a
strong-hearted man—from a weak and help-
less dependent, into an earnest, thoughtful
worker; henceforth his path was one of du-
ty alone—and duty alone glittered forever a guiding star; and his in-
tense, absorbing gaze, neither the cares nor
the pleasures, nor the vanities of life could
for an instant divert. Existence had
for him but one object. and his utmost en-
ergies were taxed for its attainment.
Never did the sun rise in greater splen-
dor than on the New Year's morning fol-
lowing that night of hunger, gilding the
spires and domes of the city with its rays.
The streets were already rapidly filling with
the gay crowd seeking pleasure, and men
walked as though new life had been given
them by the general hilarity and the bracing air.
In the most crowded street was the news-
boy, but not the disconsolate wretched lad
who had plodded his way through the storm
the night before, to a desolate home and a
supperless bed. You would not have rec-
ognized him as he hurried along, eagerly
intent upon his avocation, and his face all
radiant with the great hope that struggled
at his heart.
That night joy visited the forsaken fire-
side. They had paid the landlord his rent,
and still had sufficient left wherewith to pur-
chase food. It was a merry New Year for
them.
Years came and went. Great changes
had taken place. The boy had grown to
manhood. High honors were conferred up-
on him. Wealth flowed into his coffers—
his praise was upon every tongue. And at
this very hour, upon the banks of the ma-
jestic Hudson, his mansion stands conspic-
uous among a thousand others for its taste
and elegance.
He has but one companion—his aged
mother—the lonely widow whom we saw
some years ago, gazing mournfully into the
fire, and watching its flickering light. His
influence was felt far and wide, and the
poor and wretched of every class and kind
come around him with their blessings.
Thank God! thank God! for every suf-
fering son of man, who thus comes up
from the deep shadow of despair into the bright
sunlight, and, turning, gives
cheer to the groping blind.
Thank God! that through
many a humble heart and home, men and
women, unto whom little of love, or hope
has come, pass along amid its trials without
a murmur, sustained, and
blessed by this alone—A Cheerful Heart.