  NOW to the missionary’s home there came one autumn day, A girl, borne in the arms of one so haggard, worn, and gray. “White man,” he said, “the fever burns my little sunbeam up, Naught ask I for myself, not bread nor water from a cup, But give to her some healing thing, I leave her in your care, Deal kindly with her, one harsh touch will bring revenge—beware!” Ere they could answer yea or nay, the old chief he had gone, Had vanished in the gloom of night which came so swiftly on. They could not stay the hand of death, its touch was on her brow, O, bearer of the message true, here’s one to listen now! The Indian maiden heard it all, and looked with wondering eyes, How sweet to her the story of the life beyond the skies! Her eager throbbing heart drank in each precious promise given, An Indian girl, a child of God, heir to a throne in heaven? The joyful tears crept to her eyes, and down her dusky cheeks, And all aglow with love and joy, in her soft tongue she speaks, “Now I will tell my father, now I will tell him all That I have heard of Jesus, who hears us when we call, He does not know of Heaven, how happy we will be, When, by and by, the Brother kind will bring him home to me. “When he sits down beside me he looks so stern and lone, For I, his child, am dying, his last and only one.” At twilight of another day he came—erect and tall, As though he would not bow his head though heavy blows might fall, But soft the glance and tender, he threw upon his child, “Come closer, Oh my father,” the Indian maiden cried, “Come closer while I tell you of One who loved and died That we might live together, and never grieve in vain, Of One who suffered cruel blows to rescue us from pain.” Her fevered hands crept into his; his heart grew sick with fear, The hour of parting and of grief was surely drawing near, This child who shared his cup and couch—his “Sunbeam in the night” Would go, and never come again to gladden his dim sight. “No gold have I,” the old chief said, “but name the Friend so good, That I may prove an Indian brave forgets not gratitude.” There, in the silence of the night he heard the story old, And when the sun came creeping up all glorious to the eye, His haughty soul had learned to say, “It is not much to die.” It is but evening to a land whose shores are always green, Where never night comes darkly down, where tears are never seen, Where heartbreak may not even touch, where sorrow may not come, But where the weary rest and say, “’Tis good to be at home!” [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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