HIGH up in an old
house, full of poor people, lived Lizzie, with her mother and baby Billy. The
street was a narrow, noisy place, where carts rumbled and dirty children
played; where the sun seldom shone, the fresh wind seldom blew, and the white
snow of winter was turned at once to black mud. One bare room was Lizzie's
home, and out of it she seldom went, for she was a prisoner. We all pity the
poor princesses who were shut up in towers by bad fairies, the men and women in
jails, and the little birds in cages, but Lizzie was a sadder prisoner than any
of these.
The prince always comes
to the captive princess, the jail doors open in time, and the birds find some
kind hand to set them free; but there seemed no hope of escape for this poor
child. Only nine years old, and condemned to life-long helplessness,
loneliness, and darkness -- for she was blind.
She could dimly
remember the blue sky, green earth, and beautiful sun; for the light went out
when she was six, and the cruel fever left her a pale little shadow to haunt
that room ever since. The father was dead, the mother worked hard for daily
bread, they had no friends, and the good fairies seemed to have forgotten them.
Still, like the larks one sees in Brittany, the eyes of which cruel boys put
out, that they may sing the sweeter, Lizzie made music in her cage, singing to
baby; and when he slept, she sat by the window listening to the noise below for
company, crooning to herself till she, too, fell asleep and forgot the long,
long days that had no play, no school, no change for her such as other children
know.
Every morning Mother
gave them their porridge, locked the door, and went away to work, leaving
something for the children's dinner, and Lizzie to take care of herself and
Billy till night. There was no other way, for both were too helpless to be
trusted elsewhere, and there was no one to look after them. But Lizzie knew her
way about the room, and could find the bed, the window, and the table where the
bread and milk stood. There was seldom any fire in the stove, and the window
was barred, so the little prisoners were safe, and day after day they lived
together a sad, solitary, unchildlike life that makes one's heart ache to think
of.
Lizzie watched over
Billy like a faithful little mother, and Billy did his best to bear his trials,
and comfort sister, like a man. He was not a rosy, rollicking fellow, like most
year-old boys, but pale and thin and quiet, with a pathetic look in his big
blue eyes, as if he said, "Something is wrong; will some one kindly put it
right for us?" But he seldom complained unless in pain, and would lie for
hours on the old bed, watching the flies, which were his only other playmates,
stretching out his little hands to the few rays of sunshine that crept in now
and then, as if longing for them, like a flower in a cellar. When Lizzie sung,
he hummed softly; and when he was hungry, cold, or tired, he called "Lib!
Lib!" meaning "Lizzie," and nestled up to her, forgetting all
his baby woes in her tender arms.
Seeing her so fond and
faithful, the poor neighbors loved as well as pitied her, and did what they
could for the afflicted child. The busy women would pause at the locked door to
ask if all was right; the dirty children brought her dandelions from the park,
and the rough workmen of the factory opposite, with a kind word would toss an
apple or a cake through the open window. They had learned to look for the
little wistful face behind the bars, and loved to listen to the childish voice
which caught and imitated the songs they sung and whistled, like a sweet echo.
They called her "the blind lark," and, though she never knew it, many
were the better for the pity they gave her.
Baby slept a great
deal, for life offered him few pleasures, and, like a small philosopher, he
wisely tried to forget the troubles which he could not cure; so Lizzie had
nothing to do but sing, and try to imagine how the world looked. She had no one
to tell her, and the few memories grew dimmer and dimmer each year. She did not
know how to work or to play, never having been taught, and Mother was too tired
at night to do anything but get supper and go to bed.
"The child will be
an idiot soon, if she does not die," people said; and it seemed as if this
would be the fate of the poor little girl, since no one came to save her during
those three weary years. She often said, "I'm of some use. I take care of
Billy, and I couldn't live without him."
But even this duty and
delight was taken from her, for that cold spring nipped the poor little flower,
and one day Billy shut his blue eyes with a patient sigh and left her all
alone.
Then Lizzie's heart
seemed broken, and people thought she would soon follow him, now that her one
care and comfort was gone. All day she laid with her cheek on Billy's pillow,
holding the battered tin cup and a little worn-out shoe, and it was pitiful to
hear her sing the old lullabies as if baby still could hear them.
"It will be a
mercy if the poor thing doesn't live; blind folks are no use and a sight of
trouble," said one woman to another as they gossiped in the hall after
calling on the child during her mother's absence, for the door was left
unlocked since she was ill.
"Yes, Mrs. Davis
would get on nicely if she hadn't such a burden. Thank Heaven, my children
aren't blind," answered the other, hugging her baby closer as she went
away.
Lizzie heard them, and
hoped with all her sad little soul that death would set her free, since she was
of no use in the world. To go and be with Billy was all her desire now, and she
was on her way to him, growing daily weaker and more content to be dreaming of
dear baby well and happy, waiting for her somewhere in a lovely place called
Heaven.
The summer vacation
came, and hundreds of eager children were hurrying away to the mountains and
seashore for two months of healthful pleasure. Even the dirty children in the
lane felt the approach of berry-time, and rejoiced in their freedom from cold
as they swarmed like flies about the corner grocery where over-ripe fruit was
thrown out for them to scramble over.
Lizzie heard about good
times when some of these young neighbors were chosen to go on the poor
children's picnics, and came back with big sandwiches buttoned up in their
jackets; pickles, peanuts, and buns in their pockets; hands full of faded
flowers, and hearts brimming over with childish delight at a day in the woods.
She listened with a faint smile, enjoyed the "woodsy" smell of the
green things, and wondered if they had nice picnics in Heaven, being sorry that
Billy had missed them here. But she did not seem to care much, or hope for any
pleasure for herself except to see baby again.
I think there were few
sadder sights in that great city than this innocent prisoner waiting so
patiently to be set free. Would it be by the gentle angel of death, or one of
the human angels who keep these little sparrows from falling to the ground?
One hot August day,
when not a breath came into the room, and the dust and noise and evil smells
were almost unendurable, poor Lizzie lay on her bed singing feebly to herself
about "the beautiful blue sea." She was trying to get to sleep that
she might dream of a cool place, and her voice was growing fainter and fainter,
when suddenly it seemed as if the dream had come, for a sweet odor was near,
something damp and fresh touched her feverish cheek, and a kind voice said in
her ear:
"Here is the
little bird I've been following. Will you have some flowers, dear?"
"Is it Heaven?
Where's Billy?" murmured Lizzie, groping about her, half awake.
"Not yet. I'm not
Billy, but a friend who carries flowers to little children who can not go and
get them. Don't be afraid, but let me sit and tell you about it," answered
the voice, as a gentle hand took hers.
"I thought, may
be, I'd died, and I was glad, for I do want to see Billy so much. He's baby,
you know." And the clinging hands held the kind one fast till it filled
them with a great bunch of roses that seemed to bring all summer into the
close, hot room with their sweetness.
"Oh, how nice! how
nice! I never had such a lot. They're bigger 'n' better 'n dandelions, aren't
they? What a good lady you must be to go 'round giving folks posies like
these!" cried Lizzie, trying to realize the astonishing fact.
Then, while the new
friend fanned her, she lay luxuriating in her roses, and listening to the sweet
story of the Flower Mission which, like many other pleasant things, she knew
nothing of in her prison. Presently she told her own little tale, never
guessing how pathetic it was, till, lifting her hand to touch the new face, she
found it wet with tears.
"Are you sorry for
me?" she asked. "Folks are very kind, but I'm a burden, you know, and
I'd better die and go to Billy; I was some use to him, but I never can be to
any one else. I heard 'em say so, and poor [illustration omitted] Mother would
do better if I wasn't here."
"My child, I know
a little blind girl who is no burden but a great help to her mother, and a
happy, useful creature, as you might be if you were taught and helped as she
was," went on the voice, sounding more than ever like a good fairy's as it
told fresh wonders till Lizzie was sure it must be all a dream.
"Who taught her?
Could I do it? Where's the place?" she asked, sitting erect in her
eagerness, like a bird that hears a hand at the door of its cage.
Then, with the
comfortable arm around her, the roses stirring with the flutter of her heart,
and the sightless eyes looking up as if they could see the face of the
deliverer, Lizzie heard the wonderful story of the House Beautiful standing
white and spacious on the hill, with the blue sea before it, the fresh wind
always blowing, the green gardens and parks all about, and, inside, music, happy
voices, shining faces, busy hands, and year after year the patient teaching by
those who dedicate themselves to this noble and tender task.
"It must be better
'n Heaven!" cried Lizzie, as she heard of work and play, health and
happiness, love and companionship,usefulness and independence, -- all the dear
rights and simple joys young creatures hunger for, and perish, soul and body,
without.
It was too much for her
little mind to grasp at once, and she lay as if in a blissful dream long after
the kind visitor had gone, promising to come again and to find some way for
Lizzie to enter into that lovely place where darkness is changed to light.
That visit was like
magic medicine, and the child grew better at once, for hope was born in her
heart. The heavy gloom seemed to lift, discomforts were easier to bear, and
solitude was peopled now with troops of happy children living in that wonderful
place where blindness was not a burden. She told it all to her mother, and the
poor woman tried to believe it, but said, sadly:
"Don't set your
heart on it, child. It's easy to promise and to forget. Rich folks don't
trouble themselves about poor folks if they can help it."
But Lizzie's faith
never wavered, though the roses faded as day after day went by and no one came.
The mere thought that it was possible to teach blind people to work and study
and play seemed to give her strength and courage. She got up and sat at the
window again, singing to herself as she watched and waited, with the dead
flowers carefully arranged in Billy's mug, and a hopeful smile on the little
white face behind the bars.
Every one was glad she
was better, and nodded to one another as they heard the soft crooning, like a
dove's coo, in the pauses of the harsher noises that filled the street. The
workmen tossed her sweeties and whistled their gayest airs, the children
brought their dilapidated toys to amuse her, and one woman came every day to
put her baby in Lizzie's lap, it was such a pleasure to her to feel the soft
little body in the loving arms that longed for Billy.
Poor Mother went to her
work in better spirits, and the long, hot days were less oppressive as she
thought, while she scrubbed, of Lizzie up again; for she loved her helpless
burden, heavy though she found it.
When Saturday came
around, it rained hard, and no one expected "the flower lady." Even
Lizzie said, with a patient sigh and a hopeful smile:
"I don't believe
she'll come; but, may be, it will clear up, and then I guess she will."
It did not clear up,
but the flower lady came, and as the child sat listening to the welcome sound
of her steps, her quick ear caught the tread of two pairs of feet, the whisper
of two voices, and presently two persons came in to fill her hands with
midsummer flowers.
"This is Minna,
the little girl I told you of. She wanted to see you very much, so we paddled
away like a pair of ducks, and here we are," said Miss Grace gayly; and as
she spoke Lizzie felt soft fingers glide over her face, and a pair of childish
lips find and kiss her own. The groping touch, the hearty kiss, made the blind
children friends at once, and, dropping her flowers, Lizzie hugged the
new-comer, trembling with excitement and delight. Then they talked, and how the
tongues went as one asked questions and the other answered them, while Miss
Grace sat by enjoying the happiness of those who do not forget the poor, but
seek them out to save and bless.
Minna had been for a
year a pupil in the happy school, where she was taught to see with her hands,
as one might say; and the tales she told of the good times there made Lizzie
cry eagerly:
"Can I go? Oh, can
I go?"
"Alas, no, not
yet," answered Miss Grace sadly, "I find that children under ten can
not be taken, and there is no place for the little ones unless kind people care
for them."
Lizzie gave a wail, and
hid her face in the pillow, feeling as if she could not bear the dreadful
disappointment.
Minna comforted her,
and Miss Grace went on to say that generous people were trying to get another
school for the small children, that all the blind children were working hard to
help on the plan, that money was coming in, and soon they hoped to have a
pleasant place for every child who needed help.
Lizzie's tears stopped
falling as she listened, for hope was not quite gone.
"I'll not be ten
till next June, and I don't see how I can wait 'most a year. Will the little
school be ready 'fore then?" she asked.
"I fear not, dear,
but I will see that the long waiting is made as easy as possible, and perhaps
you can help us in some way," answered Miss Grace, anxious to atone for
her mistake in speaking about the school before she had made sure that Lizzie
could go.
"Oh, I'd love to
help; only I can't do anything," sighed the child.
"You can sing, and
that is a lovely way to help. I heard of 'the blind lark,' as they call you,
and when I came to find her, your little voice led me straight to the door of
the cage. That door I mean to open and let you hop out into the sunshine; then,
when you are well and strong, I hope you will help us get the home for other
little children who else must wait years before they find the light. Will
you?"
As Miss Grace spoke, it
was beautiful to see the clouds lift from Lizzie's wondering face, till it
shone with the sweetest beauty any face can wear, the happiness of helping
others. She forgot her own disappointment in the new hope that came, and held
on to the bed-post as if the splendid plan were almost too much for her.
"Could I help that
way?" she cried. "Would anybody care to hear me sing? Oh, how I'd
love to do anything for the poor little ones who will have to wait."
"You shall. I'm
sure the hardest heart would be touched by your singing, if you look as you do
now. We need something new for our fair and concert, and by that time you will
be ready," said Miss Grace, almost afraid she had said too much; for the
child looked so frail, it seemed as if even joy would hurt her.
Fortunately her mother
came in just then, and, while the lady talked to her, Minna's childish chatter
soothed Lizzie so well that when they left she stood at the window smiling down
at them and singing like the happiest bobolink that ever tilted on a willow
branch in spring-time.
All the promises were
kept, and soon a new life began for Lizzie. A better room and well-paid work
were found for Mrs. Davis. Minna came as often as she could to cheer up her
little friend, and, best of all, Miss Grace taught her to sing, that by and by
the little voice might plead with its pathetic music for others less blest than
she. So the winter months went by, and Lizzie grew like mayflowers underneath
the snow, getting ready to look up, sweet and rosy, when spring set her free
and called her to be glad. She counted the months and weeks, and when the time
dwindled to days, she could hardly sleep or eat for thinking of the happy hour
when she could go to be a pupil in the school where miracles were worked.
Her birthday was in
June, and, thanks to Miss Grace, her coming was celebrated by one of the pretty
festivals of the school, called Daisy Day. Lizzie knew nothing of this
surprise, and when her friends led her up the long flight of steps she looked
like a happy little soul climbing to the gates of Heaven.
Mr. Constantine, the
ruler of this small kingdom, was a man whose fatherly heart had room for every
suffering child in the world, and it rejoiced over every one who came, though
the great house was overflowing and many waited as Lizzie had done.
He welcomed her so
kindly that the strange place seemed like home at once, and Minna led her away
to the little mates who proudly showed her their small possessions and filled
her hands with the treasures children love, while pouring into her ears
delightful tales of the study, work, and play that made their lives so happy.
Lizzie was bewildered,
and held fast to Minna, whose motherly care of her was sweet to see. Kind
teachers explained rules and duties with the patience that soothes fear and
wins love, and soon Lizzie began to feel that she was a "truly pupil"
in this wonderful school where the blind could read, sew, study, sing, run, and
play. Boys raced along the galleries and up and down the stairs as boldly as if
all had eyes. Girls swept and dusted like tidy housewives; little fellows
hammered and sawed in the workshop and never hurt themselves; small girls sewed
on pretty work as busy as bees, and in the schoolroom lessons went on as if
both teachers and pupils were blessed with eyes.
Lizzie could not
understand it, and was content to sit and listen wherever she was placed, while
her little fingers fumbled at the new objects near her, and her hungry mind
opened like a flower to the sun. She had no tasks that day, and in the
afternoon was led away with a flock of children, all chattering like magpies,
on the grand expedition. Every year, when the fields were white with daisies,
these poor little souls were let loose among them to enjoy the holy day of this
child's flower. Ah, but wasn't it a pretty sight to see the meeting between
them, when the meadows were reached and the children scattered far and wide
with cries of joy as they ran and rolled in the white sea, or filled their
eager hands, or softly felt for the dear daisies and kissed them like old
friends! The flowers seemed to enjoy it, too, as they danced and nodded, while
the wind rippled the long grass like waves of a green sea, and the sun smiled
as if he said:
"Here's the sort
of thing I like to see. Why don't I find more of it?"
Lizzie's face looked
like a daisy, it was so full of light as she stood looking up with the wide
brim of her new hat like the white petals all round it. She did not run nor
shout, but went slowly wading through the grass, feeling the flowers touch her
hands, yet picking none, for it was happiness enough to know that they were there.
Presently she sat down and let them tap her cheeks and rustle about her ears as
though telling secrets that made her smile. Then, as if weary with so much
happiness, she lay back and let the daisies hide her with their pretty
coverlet.
Miss Grace was watching
over her, but left her alone, and by and by, like a lark from its nest in the
grass, the blind girl sent up her little voice, singing so sweetly that the
children gathered around to hear, while they made chains and tied up their
nosegays.
This was Lizzie's first
concert, and no little prima donna was ever more pelted with flowers than she;
for when she had sung all her songs, new and old, a daisy crown was put upon
her head, a tall flower for a scepter in her hand, and all the boys and girls danced
around her as if she had been Queen of the May.
A little feast came out
of the baskets, that they might be empty for the harvest to be carried home,
and, while they ate, stories were told and shouts of laughter filled the air,
for all were as merry as if there was no darkness, pain, or want in the world.
Then they had games, and Lizzie was taught to play, for till now she never knew
what a good romp meant. Her cheeks grew rosy, her sad little face waked up, she
ran and tumbled with the rest, and actually screamed, to Minna's great delight.
Two or three of the
children could see a little, and these were very helpful in taking care of the
little ones. Miss Grace found them playing some game with Lizzie, and observed
that all but she were blindfolded. When she asked why, one whispered, "We
thought we should play fairer if we were all alike." And another added,
"It seems somehow as if we were proud if we see better than the
rest."
Lizzie was much touched
by this sweet spirit, and a little later showed that she had already learned
one lesson in the school, when she gathered about her some who had never seen,
and told them what she could remember of green fields and daisy-balls before
the light went out forever.
"Surely my little
lark was worth saving, if only for this one happy day," thought Miss
Grace, as she watched the awakened look in the blind faces, all leaning toward
the speaker, whose childish story pleased them well.
In all her long and
useful life, Lizzie never forgot that Daisy Day, for it seemed as if she were
born anew, and, like a butterfly, had left the dark chrysalis all behind her
then. It was the first page of the beautiful book just opening before the eyes
of her little mind, -- a lovely page, illustrated with flowers, kind faces,
sunshine, and happy hopes. The new life was so full, so free, she soon fell
into her place and enjoyed it all. People worked there so heartily, so
helpfully, it was no wonder things went as if by magic, and the poor little
creatures who came in so afflicted went out in some years independent people,
ready to help themselves and often to benefit others.
There is no need to
tell all Lizzie learned and enjoyed that summer, nor how proud her mother was
when she heard her read in the curious books, making eyes of the little fingers
that felt their way along so fast, when she saw the neat stitches she set, the
pretty clay things she modeled, the tidy way she washed dishes, swept and
dusted, and helped keep her room in order. But the poor woman's heart was too
full for words when she heard the child sing, -- not as before, in the dreary
room, sad, soft lullabies to Billy, -- but beautiful, gay songs, with flutes
and violins to lift and carry the little voice along on waves of music.
Lizzie really had a
great gift, but she was never happier than when they all sang together, or when
she sat quietly listening to the band as they practiced for the autumn concert.
She was to have a part in it, and the thought that she could help to earn money
for the Kindergarten made the shy child bold and glad to do her part. Many
people knew her now, for she was very pretty, with the healthful roses in her
cheeks, curly yellow hair, and great blue eyes that seemed to see. Her mates
and teachers were proud of her, for, though she was not as quick as some of the
pupils, her sweet temper, grateful heart, and friendly little ways made her
very dear to all, aside from the musical talent she possessed.
Every one was busy over
the fair and the concert; and fingers flew, tongues chattered, feet trotted,
and hearts beat fast with hope and fear as the time drew near, for all were
eager to secure a home for the poor children still waiting in darkness. It was
a charity which appealed to all hearts when it was known; but, in this busy
world of ours, people have so many cares of their own that they are apt to
forget the wants of others unless something brings these needs very clearly
before their eyes. Much money was needed, and many ways had been tried to add
to the growing fund, that all might be well done.
"We wish to
interest children in this charity for children, so that they may gladly give a
part of their abundance to these poor little souls who have nothing. I think
Lizzie will sing some of the pennies out of their pockets, which would
otherwise go for bonbons. Let us try; so make her neat and pretty, and we'll
have a special song for her."
Mr. Constantine said
this, and Miss Grace carried out his wish so well that, when the time came, the
little prima donna did her part better even than they had hoped.
The sun shone
splendidly on the opening day of the fair, and cars and carriages came rolling
out from the city, full of friendly people with plump purses and the
sympathetic interest we all take in such things when we take time to see,
admire, and reproach ourselves that we do so little for them.
There were many
children, and when they had bought the pretty handiwork of the blind
needle-women, eaten cake and ices, wondered at the strange maps and books,
twirled the big globe in the hall, and tried to understand how so many blind
people could be so busy and so happy, they all were seated at last to hear the
music, full of expectation, for "the pretty little girl was going to
sing."
It was a charming
concert, and every one enjoyed it, though many eyes grew dim as they wandered
from the tall youths blowing the horns so sweetly, to the small ones chirping
away like so many sparrows, for the blind faces made the sight pathetic, and
such music touched the hearts as no other music can.
"Now she's
coming!" whispered the eager children, as a little girl climbed up the
steps and stood before them, waiting to begin.
A slender little
creature, in a blue gown, with sunshine falling on her pretty hair, a pleading
look in the soft eyes that had no sign of blindness but their steadfastness,
and a smile on the lips that trembled at first, for Lizzie's heart beat fast,
and only the thought, "I'm helping the poor little ones," gave her
courage for her task.
But, when the flutes
and violins began to play like a whispering wind, she forgot the crowd before
her, and, lifting up her face, sang in clear sweet tones
WE are sitting in the
shadow
Of a long and lonely night, Waiting
till some gentle angel
Comes to lead us to the light. For
we know there is a magic
That can give eyes to the blind. Oh,
well-filled hands, be generous!
Oh, pitying hearts, be kind! Help
stumbling feet that wander,
To find the upward way; Teach
hands that now lie idle
The joys of work and play. Let
pity, love, and patience
Our tender teachers be, That,
though the eyes be blinded,
The little souls may see. Your
world is large and beautiful,
Our prison dim and small; We
stand and wait, imploring --
"Is there not room for all? Give
us our children's garden,
Where we may safely bloom, Forgetting
in God's sunshine
Our lot of grief and gloom." A
little voice comes singing,
Oh, listen to its song! A little
child is pleading
For those who suffer wrong. Grant
them the patient magic
That gives eyes to the blind! Oh,
well-filled hands, be generous!
Oh, pitying hearts, be kind! It
was a very simple little song, but it proved wonderfully effective, for Lizzie
was so carried away by her own feeling that as she sang the last lines she
stretched out her hands imploringly, and two great tears rolled down her
cheeks. For a minute many hands were too busy fumbling for handkerchiefs to
clap, but the children were quick to answer that gesture and those tears, and
one impetuous little lad tossed a small purse containing his last ten cents at
Lizzie's feet, the first contribution won by her innocent appeal. Then there
was great applause, and many of the flowers just bought were thrown to the
little Lark, who was obliged to come back and sing again and again, smiling brightly
as she dropped pretty curtsies, and sang song after song with all the added
sweetness of a grateful heart.
Hidden behind the
organ, Miss Grace and Mr. Constantine shook hands joyfully, for this was the
sort of interest they wanted, and they knew that while the children clapped and
threw flowers, the wet-eyed mothers were thinking, self-reproachfully, "I must
help this lovely charity," and the stout old gentlemen who pounded with
their canes were resolving to go home and write some generous checks, which
would be money invested in God's savings-bank.
It was a very happy
time for all, and made strangers friends in the sweet way which teaches heart
to speak to heart. When the concert was over, Lizzie felt many hands press hers
and leave something there, many childish lips kiss her own, with promises to
"help about the Kindergarten," and her ears were full of kind voices
thanking and praising her for doing her part so well. Still later, when all
were gone, she proudly put the rolls of bills into Mr. Constantine's hand, and,
throwing her arms about Miss Grace's neck, said, trembling with earnestness,
"I'm not a burden any more, and I can truly help! How can I ever thank you
both for making me so happy?"
One can fancy what
their answer was and how Lizzie helped; for, long after the Kindergarten was
filled with pale little flowers blooming slowly as she had done, the Blind Lark
went on singing pennies out of pockets, and sweetly reminding people not to
forget this noble charity.