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The Beautiful Gate
by
“Labour till I die!” exclaimed Tiny aloud, with flashing eyes.
“But for what, Poet, wilt thou labour?”
“FOR THE POOR WORLD THAT NEEDS ME,” bravely cried he with a mighty voice.
“Ah,” whispered something faintly in his ear, with a taunting voice that pierced his heart like a sharp sword–“Ah, you said that once before; and fine work you made of it!”
Tiny made no answer to this taunt, with words, but with all the strength of his great poet mind he cried again, “For the poor world that needs me!” and the vow was registered in Heaven, and angels were sent to strengthen him in that determination–him who was to sing the New Song to the Lord.
A long way further Grace and Tiny walked together on their journey; they walked in silence, thinking so fast that, without knowing it, they were almost on a run in the attempt their feet were making to keep pace with their thoughts. At length Grace broke the silence with a sudden cry–
“Oh, Tiny! what is this?”
Tiny looked up at the sound of her voice, and then he stood stock still as if he were turned to stone.
“Oh, Tiny! can you see?” again exclaimed Grace, who was watching her companion’s face in a great wonder; it became so changed all at once. “Oh, Tiny, Tiny, can you see?” she cried again, in terror, for he did not answer her, but grew paler and paler, swaying to and fro like a reed in the wind, until he fell like one dead upon the ground, saying–“My home! my home! and the Beautiful Gate is here!”
Just then an old man came slowly from the forest, near to which they had come in their journey. His head was bent, he moved slowly like one in troubled thought, and as he walked he said to himself, “Long have I toiled, bringing these forest trees into this shape; and people know what I have done–of their own free will they call it a Beautiful Gate. But oh, if I could only find the blind one lying before it, ready to be carried through it to his mother! then, indeed, it would be beautiful to me. Oh Tiny! oh my child, when wilt thou return from thy long wanderings?”
“Please, sir,” said a child’s voice–it was the voice of our little Grace, you know–“please, sir, will you come and help me?” and she ran back to the place where Tiny lay.
Swiftly as a bird on wing went Josiah with the child. Without a word he lifted up the senseless Poet and the Broken Harp; and with the precious burden passed on through the Beautiful Gate of the Forest, into the Cottage Home–Grace following him!
Once more the Broken Harp hung on the kitchen wall–no longer broken. Once more the swallows and the poet slept side by side, in their comfortable nests. Once more old Kitty’s eyes grew bright. Once more Josiah smiled. Again a singing voice went echoing through the world, working miracles of good. Rich men heard it and opened their purses. Proud men heard it and grew humble. Angry voices heard it and grew soft. Wicked spirits heard it and grew beautiful in charities. The sick, and sad, and desolate heard it and were at peace. Mourners heard it and rejoiced. The songs that voice sang, echoed through the churches, through the streets; and by ten thousand thousand firesides they were sung again and yet again. But all the while the great heart, the mighty, loving human heart from which they came, was nestled in that little nest of home on the border of the forest, far away from all the world’s temptations, in the safe shelter of a household’s love.