“GRANDPAPA,” said Sam, as the two walked home together, “isn’t it too bad about Billy?”

“It certainly is,” replied Grandpapa.

“Something must be done about it,” said Sam; then he walked silently for a while, thinking very hard. At last he said,—

“Grandpapa, God made me. Did the same man make you?”

“Yes,” replied Grandpapa, “I suppose he did.”

“Don’t you know for certain?” asked Sam, for Grandpapa’s eyes were smiling hard.

“Oh, yes,” replied Grandpapa, “of course I do.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking it over,” said Sam, “and I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to pray to God every night to make Billy see.”

“It will be a very good plan,” replied Grandpapa.

“You see I always pray for what I want most at Christmas time,” said Sam.

“And it comes, doesn’t it?” asked Grandpapa.

“Yes,” replied Sam, “it always comes. I prayed real hard for a pony last Christmas, and I got one, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Grandpapa, his eyes still smiling as he watched the earnest face of his grandson.

“I asked for a black pony with a star on his forehead, and it came just exactly right. So, you see,” continued Sam, “that if I ask God every night to make Billy see, He will be sure to do it.”

“I hope so,” said Grandpapa.

“Why, it wouldn’t be half so hard as it was to hustle around to find just the kind of pony I asked for.”

“So I should think,” replied Grandpapa. “Black ponies with white stars on their foreheads are not so easy to find.”

“No,” said Sam, thoughtfully, “I know it. How long will it be before Christmas comes, Grandpapa?”

“Only a very short time,—about two weeks.”

“Well, I shall just tell God that He needn’t bother about that dog-cart,” said Sam, with his determined nod. “I shall tell Him that I would rather He would make Billy see.”

“That is a good idea, Sam,” said Grandpapa. “I know you would enjoy having poor Billy see as you do, much more than you would to have your dog-cart.”

“Yes,” replied Sam with a little sigh, for he had been looking forward for a long time to the pleasure of driving his pony in a dog-cart. “I can ride him just as well as not.”

By this time they had reached home, and Sam hurried up the steps, he was so eager to tell Grandmamma about Billy. Sam’s papa and mamma were travelling in Europe, with his little sister Anne, and he was staying with his grandparents. He was so fond of them that he was not at all lonely.

“I miss Anne very much, and I should like to see Papa and Mamma,” he had remarked to his nurse Mary one day; “but grandpapas and grandmammas let you do a great many more things than papas and mammas do.”

“Oh, you mustn’t say that,” Mary had replied.

“Mary,” Sam had said very earnestly, “how would you like to be spanked with a hair-brush?”

Mary had made no reply to this argument; and Sam, in response to her silence, had said with the positive air of one who has had experience,—

“Well, then!”

On this day Sam found his grandmamma seated in her sunny sewing-room, and he was in such a hurry to tell her all about Billy that he gave her a very confused idea of the matter. The fire and Jack and the little blind boy became so mixed up in his story that it was some time before she understood the case.

Now Sam’s grandmamma was just exactly as nice for a grandmamma as his grandpapa was for a grandpapa, and Sam loved one just as well as the other. “The only difference is that Grandmamma was never a little boy like me, same as Grandpapa was,” Sam used to say.

“We must see what can be done for the poor child,” said Grandmamma when Sam had finished his story.

Then Sam told his plan about asking God to make Billy see, and Grandmamma thought it an excellent plan, only that perhaps it couldn’t be brought about by Christmas, because the time was very near.

“But don’t you see, Grandmamma,” said Sam, “that if God doesn’t have to hunt around for the dog-cart, it will be a great deal easier to make Billy see?”

So, when Sam went to bed that night, he said his simple prayer in this way,—

“Oh, dear God, you needn’t bother about that dog-cart, if you will only make poor Billy see as I do; and please take care of Papa and Mamma, and don’t let the ship tip over; and take care of Grandpapa and Grandmamma too, and make Sam a good boy.”

“You haven’t prayed for your little sister,” said Grandmamma, as Sam’s prayer came to a sudden end.

“Oh, Anne sleeps with Nora, she’s all right,” replied Sam, confidently.

The next day Sam said to his grandpapa,—

“Can’t I go to the park to-day to feed the birds and squirrels?”

“I think you can,” replied Grandpapa, “and how should you like to take Billy too?”

“Why, he can’t see, you know, so it wouldn’t be any fun for him,” said Sam.

“But you can see,” said Grandpapa, “and you can lend him your eyes.”

Sam looked so puzzled at this that his grandpapa explained: “You can tell him what you see, and he can imagine how everything looks. He will see the picture with his mind instead of with his eyes. That is imagination.”

“It is a very strange thing,” said Sam, thoughtfully.

“You see that blind people think so much about what they cannot see, that they make a great many pictures in their minds. If they were not able to do that, they would be very lonely.”

Then Sam hurried down to ask Cook to give him some bread for the birds, and to fill a basket with nuts for the squirrels. He also took some canary and hemp seeds in a little package. By the time this was done, the sleigh had driven up to the door, and Sam and his grandpapa started on their expedition, Sam throwing kisses to his grandmamma at the window so long as the house was in sight. Then they turned the corner and soon reached the engine-house.

Billy’s pale face grew quite rosy when he was told of the sleigh-ride he was to have, and in a moment his warm coat and cap were on and he was led to the sleigh by Sam, who took great care of him for fear he should make a misstep. The Fire-Dog followed closely at his heels, and watched him put into the big sleigh and securely tucked in with the warm fur robe.

“Can’t Jack go too?” asked Sam, as he saw the wistful expression in the faithful dog’s eyes.

“Certainly, if he will,” replied Grandpapa.

Jack, however, was not the dog to neglect his duties, and in spite of Sam’s and Billy’s alluring calls, he gently but firmly wagged his tail, to express his regret at being obliged to refuse their invitation. As they drove off, he looked mournfully after them so long as the sleigh was in sight, then he gave a sigh of disappointment and lay down in front of the engine-house, where he could enjoy the passing, and occasionally pass the time of day with some dog friend, or make the acquaintance of some stranger passing through the city, for Jack was a social dog. Here, too, he was within hearing of the gong.

Meanwhile the sleigh continued on its way to the park, the faces of the two little boys beaming with pleasure,—Billy’s at the unusual treat of a sleigh-ride, and Sam’s from watching the happiness of the little blind boy.

Sam was so eager to point out to Billy everything of interest to him, that he was kept busy describing the objects of interest they passed. The grandpapa’s face reflected the happiness in the two boys’ faces, and his pleasant smile grew very tender as he saw the delight of the blind boy in the scenes his poor blind eyes could not see.

When, as they passed a group of merry, shouting boys building a snow fort which Sam reported faithfully to his little friend, and Billy, quite excited at Sam’s description had wistfully asked, “Are they all seeing children, Sam?” Sam, greatly distressed at the question, had replied, “There is one fellow that looks kind of blind,—he’s having an awfully good time, though;” then Grandpapa’s smile grew more tender still, and he told the two boys about the schools where those who could not see were taught to do whatever those who could see did.

“Can they play the way the seeing children do?” asked Billy, eagerly.

“Yes,” replied Grandpapa, “and we will send you to one of them.”

Billy was silent, and seemed to be thinking about something.

“Should you not like to go, Billy?” asked Sam’s grandpapa. “The children are very happy there.”

“I would rather find my mother,” replied Billy, with a quiver of the lips.

“We will find her, never fear,” replied kind-hearted Mr. Ledwell, who could never bear to see anybody unhappy; and he began a story so interesting that Billy was soon listening intently and had forgotten for the time about the dear mother whom he wanted so much to see. By the time the story was ended, the houses were farther and farther apart, then snow-covered fields were passed, and Sam was kept busy in describing the frozen ponds where boys and girls were skating and playing, and the hillsides down which they were coasting. Then woods with real forest trees appeared, and Sam explained that they were now in the park. Here and there a gray squirrel’s bright eyes peeped down upon the sleigh, and Sam reported just how they whisked their bushy tails and ran from bough to bough, occasionally stopping to take a peep.

As they went farther into the park, a colony of sparrows would now and then fly up from a clump of bushes, and hurry away as if the sleigh contained a party of ferocious hunters, instead of two kind little boys bringing them food. They took care to keep the sleigh in sight, for Sam and his basket were old friends, and they knew the feast in store for them. So they followed at a distance, for sparrows like to consider themselves martyrs, and to act as if they were a persecuted set. This is not to be wondered at, when we remember the way they have been treated. Their nests have been torn down, they have been driven from one place to another, and they have been made to feel that they are not wanted anywhere.

Suddenly there arose on the still, frosty air discordant cries, and Sam exclaimed,—

“There come the blue jays, Billy! Oh, you don’t know how handsome they are, with their tufts standing straight up on their heads, and their beautiful blue and white bodies and wings!”

“Are they as big as the pigeons?” asked Billy, for he had held the little black and white lame pigeon in his arms and knew just what size they were.

“Not quite so large as a pigeon,” replied Sam, “but fully as large as a robin. They are awfully quarrelsome fellows, though; just hear how hard they are scolding now.”

“Will they come and eat the crumbs?” asked Billy.

“Yes, and get the biggest share of them too,” replied Sam.

“We had better stop here,” said Mr. Ledwell, as they came to an open, sunny spot.

So the sleigh stopped, and Sam and his grandpapa got out and helped Billy out, who looked as happy and eager as Sam did. He did not look about him, though, as Sam did, and see that the sparrows had stationed themselves on neighboring trees, all ready to begin their feast so soon as the crumbs were scattered. Neither did he see the bright flashes of blue as the jays alighted on the trees near by, nor the tame and nimble squirrels who came closer than the birds, hopping over the snow to Sam’s very feet. All these things Sam explained, however, and Billy understood.

Billy, too, threw the crumbs, and held nuts in his hand for the squirrels, laughing with delight as he felt the trusting little creatures eat from his fingers.

All at once arose a blithe song of “Chickadee-dee-dee-dee;” and a flock of little chickadees came flying up, quite out of breath with their hurry.

“Chickadee-dee-dee-dee,” they all cried together, as they bustled about to pick up what crumbs they could; and their song said as plainly as words could have done,—

“Are we too late? I do hope you have left some for us.”

They were so sweet-tempered about it, not even losing temper when the greedy sparrows darted in and seized crumbs from under their very beaks, that it was impossible not to love them.

“Such dear little black caps as they have!” said Sam. “Here, you great greedy jay, you let that little fellow’s crumbs alone!”

A blue jay had snatched a crumb away from one of the little chickadees, but the chickadee only replied blithely, “Chickadee-dee-dee-dee!” which in bird language meant: “No matter! Plenty more to be had! A little thing like that does not matter.”

This both the little boys understood the chickadee to say, for those who love animals learn to understand much of their language.

Then arose a hoarse cry of “Caw! caw! caw!” and several coal-black crows flew down at a distance. They did not come boldly into the midst of the group of feeding birds, because they preferred always to conduct their business with great secrecy. One would occasionally walk on the outskirts of the party with an air of great indifference, pretending not to see what was going on; then suddenly he would dart in their midst and seize upon a particularly large crumb, and, hurrying off with it, stand with his back to the others, eating it in the slyest manner, as if he expected at any moment to have it taken away from him.

There was one bird that even Sam’s bright eyes did not see. He had a timid look, as if he could not make friends so easily as the social chickadees. He crept along a large tree that grew near the spot where the birds and squirrels were feeding, and creeping in the same cautious manner on the under side of a large bough that stretched out toward the spot, hung head downward, watching intently what went on beneath him. None of the birds took the slightest notice of him, but his quick eyes glanced at them all, and finally rested on the face of the blind boy, who patiently listened to the explanations of the kind friend who loaned him the use of his eyes.

This shy little bird who watched the two boys so narrowly, was the nuthatch. As soon as the sleigh had driven away, the nuthatch came down from the tree, creeping along the trunk, head downward, and seized upon the fine kernel of a nut a squirrel was eating.

The chickadees were loudly singing the praises of the visitors who had brought them such a delicious treat. Even the blue jays, who were usually very chary of their praise, had a pleasant word for their friend Sam, who so often brought them food.

“There was a strange boy with him,” cawed an old crow. “Who knows anything about him?”

“He was not a seeing child,” chirped the nuthatch. “He could not see the blue sky, nor the trees, nor any of us. Who can he be?”

“We know all about him,” twittered the sparrows. “It is the blind boy who lives in the engine-house. Fire-Jack saved his life; we see him very often.”

Then an incessant twittering arose from the sparrows, who were in such a hurry to tell all they knew that they all talked at once.