For My Little Babe’s Sake

' For My Little Babe's Sake By Henry Nicol Adamson "Hush, my baby! hush! No one will refuse us shelter tonight —for it is Christmas Eve! The night that brought a dear little Babe to the world — a Babe whose coming taught people to be pitiful to little babies, and to the women who bear them!" "For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord!" The woman repeated the beautiful old words as she gathered her shawl more closely round her year-old child, and struggled on — the snow — blinding her the cold wind chilling her through, and making — her arms quite numb. They comforted her bringing back girl- — — hood's days not long past in time but divided from now by suffering which cannot be judged by the ordinary minutes, hours, and days. It was past now, and she was traveling as far as she — could from the scene of it to start afresh. The journey had proven longer than she had expected for no one seemed to want ; a woman with a baby. They had slept where they could under — — sheltering hedges, in friendly barns. But tonight tonight was — Christmas eve -when the world's heart was warm and open. And — such a Christmas eve with the snow making itself into wreath < in the lanes, and against every wall! At last the woman's weary feet had reached the English village street. The very first house she came to, there was a sound of children's joyous voices singing a carol: "Peace on earth, good will toward men From heaven's all-gracious King! The earth in solemn stillness lay, To hear the angels sing!" The woman listened — leaning against the gate of the little villa garden. Tears rose in her tired eyes. Once she had been a little girl at home. She, too, had sung that sweet old carol, and had felt her heart grow soft and glad on this night of the year. As she went slowly up the path, she could see the happy group — about the piano through the laths of the Venetian blind. "Mum! Mum!" her little one whimpered sleepily. And she drew her shawl more closely about the babe, and laid her lips to the soft cheek. "Yes, mother's baby! Yes! For you I will be even as the — Eastern beggars and plead for 'alms in the name of Allah!' She rang the bell, and heard the message go thrilling

" FOR MY LITTLE BABE'S SAKE 163 through the house. And presently a woman in great over-all — came hustling from the kitchen flour on her hands and wrists. "Good gracious! Only a horrid tramp! Really the impertinence of the creatures! And me in the midst of making the pastry for tomorrow!" And oppressed with her Martha-like cares, she turned the key in the door without giving the woman time to say a word, and returned to her work in the cheerful kitchen. As the woman went slowly down the path again, the clear voices of the children followed her: "Peace on earth, good will toward men!" She would not be down-hearted. There were plenty of other houses; and the cold would be too much for her little child tonight. She walked a little, looking wistfully at the houses, which seemed full of light tonight. At last she summoned courage to enter another gateway. She would go to the back this time. She tapped timidly and leaned against the brick-work, trembling, while she waited. She rapped again, and then, made bold by despair, and by the child's restless whimpering, she turned the handle and ventured inside the back door. At that moment a woman servant came busily from the kitchen on her way to the larder, and gave a loud shriek. "Missis! Missis!" she shouted. "If there ain't one of — those tramps right inside the house and in another moment, dear only knows if we mightn't have been killed, and it's Christmas eve and all!" "Oh, Pearl! Put him out! Put him out! He must have known my husband is from home!" A little, trembling woman appeared in the kitchen door. "It's a woman, missis," the servant answered grimly. "They're the worst. The man will be somewhere outside, you be sure. Out you go ! Quick about it !And tell your tribe that there's a bulldog that's let loose at nights, and if it wasn't Christinas eve I'd hand you over to the authorities of the law!" "Oh! for my little babe's sake!" the woman began tremu- — lously "For Christ's sake — "She's swearing, missis!" the servant said, in genuine horror. "Out you go! And be ashamed of yourself!" So the woman found herself in the niglit again. Strength and spirit were beginning to fail her. She seated herself on the step of a gate, and looked about her dreamily. There were no stars tonight, the air seemed black with snow. It was as though a black pall hung between God and the world. Could God see her, pity her, sitting there with her babe? She arose wearily, the very thought of her babe rousing her. For herself she would have been glad to let the snow cover her.

164 IMPROVEMENT ERA "I will try again!" she whispered to herself. There was no show of Christmas in the house at whose door she rapped. No sound of merriment. And in at the unscreened window she had seen the walls bare of holly or ivy. The door was opened by a tall, stiff-looking lady, in severe black dress. "Come into the corridor!" she said, and gratefully the woman went and sank upon a chair there. It was not a warm or cheerful corridor, but it was better than outside.* The lady asked many and searching questions about her past, — to some of which the woman seemed loth to reply — then recommended her to the poor-house in the town, three miles ahead. The woman looked at her piteously, and pleaded for — shelter for that one night for the sake of her babe. But immediately the lady was in haste to get rid of her. And when the woman stood in the path once more with her babe, she heard the lady, who was locking the door, chiding her mistress. "I've told you, missis, that your goodness to tramps would get us annihilated in our beds one of these days!" Down the path the woman went. She could scarcely walk. Bursts of merriment greeted her ears from different houses as she passed. But she approached no more doors. Then, slightly apart from this European village, with snow-covered ivy clinging lovingly about it, she came upon the church, and a great longing seized her. If that door was open, surely she and her babe would be received there. She tried the door. It yielded, and she passed inside. Warmth met her there. The church had — been heated for the decorators whose work was done now. Slowly she went up the aisle, as if drawn to where the light swung at the altar. Bright holly berries gleamed on every side. The altar itself was a bank of snowy chrysanthemums. But the woman's eyes were fixed on a picture of the Christ. The gentle, pitiful gaze seemed bent upon her. "You will not turn us out!" she whispered, as she sank down on the softly-carpeted step. Next morning the tall, grave-faced clergyman came early through the snow to his little church. He liked to be there before the very earliest of his flock. With his own key he unlocked the door and passed within. And right below the Christ he found the woman lying, the babe still clasped to her breast. Stepping close he saw that it was a face that he had met before. "Mary!" he murmured, as in his strong arms he lifted both her and her babe, and carried them to the rectory. An hour later thewoman sat in his great arm-chair before the brilliant told him her pitiful tale. fire, and And the clergyman's fine face grew troubled as he listened. Then he administered to her tenderly, "But you have come home, Mary, home at last!" he said, almost solemnly.

— — FOR MY LITTLE BABE'S SAKE 165 When the clergyman got up that day to give his little Christmas address, the people somehow held their breath. It was usually just one or two cheery words, that suited well with the holly-decked church; today they felt that it was to be different there was a deep gravity in the eyes that scanned them. "My people!" he said, and there was a strange solemnity in his deep voice, "I believe that last night the Christ-child came — knocking at certain of your doors begging humbly for shelter, — and you refused; a woman and a child just as that other woman and child might have done— and you would not. You know the words, 'Inasmuch as you did it not to the least of these little ones, you did it not unto me!' You turned the Christ-child from your doors last night!" One or two in the congregation moved uncomfortably. "The woman found refuge with her babe here. The Christ — did not refuse her she lay there, at His feet!" He waved his hand to the pictured Christ, and tears rose in his eyes. "The woman is called Mary," he added, gravely and simply, "and God has brought her to this place of refuge." Into the vestry, after, three women came. "We did not know!" they pleaded almost tearfully. — "I was so busy and flustered I really scarcely saw her!" the one who had been making pastry murmured. "Oh, Martha! Martha!" the minister said reproachfully, "We will remember the Christ-child another time," the timid woman said, gravely. — "We we just did not think." When the" Graves Give up Their Dead Walking along the street one evening, I noticed the doors of the saloons go swinging in and out. My fancy likened these places to the grave. I thought, "Oh, what a pity that so many young men are every day being enticed into these graves where character, honor, and self-respect lie buried, with many a broken heart." I thought, as the grave claims the body forever, so do these places claim the soul forever. Then the merry chimes of the town clock told me it was the hour of midnight. As if the judgment call had sounded, and the graves gave up their dead, I saw these places empty and saw the keeper lock the door on the outside. Then I knew that neither these places nor the grave claim their victims forever, but a? sure as these people came out of the saloon at midnight drunken and gloating, blind to their folly, so will they stand at the day of reckoning before the judgment seat of God. Henry N, Anderson.