The Beautiful Gate
by
One morning, by break of day, old Josiah, who lived in the little cottage he had built, on the borders of the Great Forest, found his wife awake long before him–indeed she had scarcely closed her eyes that night; and she was ready to speak the moment his eyes opened; for she had promised their dear Tiny, their only child, that she would have a private talk with his father. So she said in a low, but distinct voice, as though she were talking to herself:
“I have nursed him, and watched over him year after year. He has been like the sun shining in my path, and precious as a flower. There is not another like him. I love him better than I do my eyes. If he were away I might as well be blind.”
“That puts me in mind of what I’ve been dreaming,” said the old man. “If I was only sure that he would come at last to the Beautiful Gate, I wouldn’t say another word. But who can tell? And it it actually happened that he lost his sight–poor Tiny!”
Josiah did not finish what he had begun to say, but hid his face in the bed-clothes, and then the good wife knew that he was weeping, and her own tears began to fall, and she could not say a word.
After breakfast, when Josiah had gone off into the woods, the mother told Tiny of this bit of a conversation, but of course she could not explain about the dream. She knew no more what the boy’s father had dreamed than you or I do, only she knew it was something curious and fanciful about the Beautiful Gate.
Tiny listened with great interest to his mother’s words, and he smiled as he kissed her when she had done speaking; and he said, “Wait till this evening, mother dear, and you shall see.”
And so she waited till the evening.
When they were gathered around the kitchen-fire at night, Tiny took down the harp that hung on the kitchen wall.
It had hung there ever since the day that Tiny was born. A poor old pilgrim gave it on that very day to Josiah in exchange for a loaf of bread. By that I do not mean that Josiah sold the loaf to the poor old hungry pilgrim. Josiah was too charitable to make a trade with a beggar. But the stranger said this strange thing to Josiah:–“I am near to death–I shall sing no more–I am going home. Keep my harp for me until a singer asks you for it, and promises you that he will sing unto the Lord a New Song. Give it to him; but be sure before you do so that he is worthy to sing the song unto the Lord.”
So Josiah had taken the harp home with him, and hung it on the wall, as I said, on the day that Tiny was born. And he waited for the coming of the poet who should have that wondrous song to sing.
The father, when he saw what it was the boy would do, made a little move as if he would prevent him; but the mother playfully caught the old man’s hand, and held it in hers, while she said aloud, “Only one song, Tiny. Your father’s rest was disturbed last night–so get through with it as quickly as you can.”
At these last words the old man looked well pleased, for he fancied that his wife agreed with him, because he would not yet allow himself to believe that it was for his boy Tiny that the old pilgrim left the harp.
And yet never was a sweeter voice than that of the young singer–old Josiah acknowledged that to himself, and old Josiah knew–he was a judge of such things, for all his life he had been singing songs in his heart.