Wichita Eagle

"LITTLE ONE."

It suited him somehow, the name-Little One.
In all his brief life he had not known or answered to any other. It seemed to be part and parcel with himself, and it had tenaciously clung to him from the hour he had been thrown a friendless waif upon our mercy until the present, when at 10 years of age he was no larger than are most children of 4 and 5.

We were a childless couple-my husband and I. Our luxurious home had never resounded to the pattering of baby footsteps nor the music of baby voices, and so when on that bitter winter's night we had found him lying in mute helplessness upon the threshold, we thanked God, and at once adopted him into home and heart. And in home and heart he had reigned triumphant ever since!

Who he was-from whence extracted-we had never thought to question. It mattered little if honor or shame was his heritage. He had come to us in a time of sore need; he was helpless and innocent and fair to look upon, and so we had straightway enthroned the tiny stranger.

From the very first he was possessed of a touching, appealing sort of beauty, and of most endearing baby ways; and as day by day discovered some new charm in mind or body, we grew to love him with a love that was akin to idolatry. Oh how we loved our Little One! And now, when I stand beside the mound that covers his ashes, how the hot tears gush to my eyes and how throbs my heart-in keenest anguish, as I recall the winsomeness that so endeared him!

Had we been gifted with a prophet's vision we would have foreseen that the jewel had been lent us for a season only, and the blow had not then fallen so suddenly as to find us unprepared.

The many veined transparent temples-the large, melancholy blue eyes ever bent upon the unseen, as it were-the gentle tones-the spiritlike tread-told a story all their own; but love had blinded us and we could not read "between the lines!"

For him the future was to be one unending dream of delight; for him we built castles in Spain, and planned and hoarded, so that when manhood should come to him he would take his place among the proudest in the land. Could we but have known that this frail life so dear to us, was fast receding from our grasp-that the tender feet were even now approaching the shores of the Mystic sea, think ye we would have so dreamed and planned? True, there were moments, even in our blindness, when a vague fear would send a pang sharper than sword-thrust to the heart, as we caught his rapt, far away gaze, or marked an unusual languor in his movements. But all such fears were dismissed as quickly as they came, and we would go on planning and dreaming, as before.

Always a quiet child, he grew more and more so as time sped on until now none ever saw him engage in romp and play like others of his age, nor heard his voice raised in boyish laugh or shout. This was unnatural and should have caused us timely alarm so that we might have tried the efficacy of more vigorous measures. But we were blind and could not see what was best for the child. For hours and hours he would amuse himself in his own subdued fashion with his books and toys while I sat sewing near him. And I, who loved him better than life, was content to have it thus.

But when the twilight shadows filled the room it was his habit to throw his playthings aside, climb my knee, and nestling his golden head in my bosom, beg me to tell him the dear old Bible stories, and of the angels with their harps and crowns-stories to which he had listened from infancy, but of which he never wearied.

Then when bed time came and I had robed him in his snowy nightdress, he would kneel at my feet, reverently fold his waxen hands and pray with an earnestness that was almost uncanny in so young a child, after which he would coax to be taken in my arms to be rocked and sung to sleep. It was a baby trick of his which he had never outgrown, and one in which I delighted to indulge him. It all comes back to me--the tiny white robed form, the crooning lullabies, the saint like prayer, the confiding, golden head, the touch of clinging arms around my neck-and a great wave of agony breaks over my soul at the retrospect.

We had made for our Little One a downy nest; we had sheltered and hedged him about with tenderest care: but alas! no earthly love, however tender, could screen him from the Destroyer! Scarlet fever of a most virulent type broke out in the village, and in spite of all human precaution our "one ewe lamb" was an early victim. How we battled with our fierce despair as we hovered in breathless suspense above his pillow. How alternately elated we were by hope, or depressed by foreboding, as we watched the crimson cheek, or noted the fitful pulse, let those tell only who have thus endured: One by one love's tendrils were being wrenched from their hold on the heart-one by one our hopes were going out with the sands of a life, and we were forced to bow to the inscrutable!

It was a glorious evening in early June. The sun had gone down in more than usual pomp, leaving an afterglow of liquid radiance, which in turn had given place to the solemn stars and a full orbed moon. "Little One" had been lying for hours in a sort of conscious stupor, from which we had feared to arouse him, when suddenly the plaintive voice piped:

"Mamma, are you there?"

"Yes, my precious, mamma is here, and she does not intend to leave you either."

"And is my papa here, too?"

"Yes, dear, your papa is here, too."

"Then I want you both to come and sit where I can feel you near me; for, oh mamma, I can't see you at all! I somehow seem to be slipping-slipping-away from everybody, and your poor little boy is so cold!"

In tearful silence we obeyed his request, when, clasping a hand of each, he again sank into partial stupor, the while there crept through all his blessed little frame an icy chill, which gathered in pearly dews upon his forehead!

A long, long silence ensued, and then was heard another feeble fluttering:

"Mamma."

"What is it now, my pet?"

"Draw the curtain aside, please. I can see once more and I want to look out upon the pretty bright stars and the lady moon. They make me think of the angels you've so often told me about. And, mamma, did you know that your Little One was going to be one of 'em to-night? You always said that when good little boys and girls died they would be made like these lovely angels who wear the white dresses and beautiful golden crowns. I've been a very good little boy, mamma, out I feel something drawing me up-up-up -to the blue sky, and I am not a bit afraid, for a Shining One holds my hand."

"Oh, my darling! my darling! you will break my heart if you talk that way!"

"Poor mamma!" fondly stroking my face with his wasted hand, "my own, poor, dear mamma! don't cry any more. Your tears hurt me so bad and keep me from going where I'll be well and happy always and always. Let me go now, please. I'll come back to see you lots and lots of times, for I'll just tell the dear Saviour that papa and mamma haven't got any other little boy to comfort 'em, and then he will let me come. Now, kiss me good night like you always do and don't cry any more. Little One is going to be an angel, you know, and up in that beautiful home he'll wait for papa and you."

And thus, with a smile of ineffable happiness irradiating his countenance and the seal of a divine peace upon his brow, died our precious Little One.

Many eventful years have come and gone since he faded from sight. But in our hearts his memory is ever fresh and green; and today, as we sit by our desolate hearth, we stretch forth our arms in impotent yearning to enfold the fragile form of him who was wont to fill them so completely. But we shall see and know him again-some day. He will not change beyond our recognition, and the eye of unerring love shall single him out from among the myriad hosts thronging the celestial courts, for in heaven, as on earth, he will be, forever and aye, only-our Little One.-Kris Kyle in Detroit Free Press.