The Seaboard Parish, Complete. George MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ redeem a vast region from that indifference which comes of judging the gospel of God by the church of Christ with its phylacteries and hems.”

      “There is one thing,” said Wynnie, after a pause, “that I have often thought about—why it was necessary for Jesus to come as a baby: he could not do anything for so long.”

      “First, I would answer, Wynnie, that if you would tell me why it is necessary for all of us to come as babies, it would be less necessary for me to tell you why he came so: whatever was human must be his. But I would say next, Are you sure that he could not do anything for so long? Does a baby do nothing? Ask mamma there. Is it for nothing that the mother lifts up such heartfuls of thanks to God for the baby on her knee? Is it nothing that the baby opens such fountains of love in almost all the hearts around? Ah! you do not think how much every baby has to do with the saving of the world—the saving of it from selfishness, and folly, and greed. And for Jesus, was he not going to establish the reign of love in the earth? How could he do better than begin from babyhood? He had to lay hold of the heart of the world. How could he do better than begin with his mother’s—the best one in it. Through his mother’s love first, he grew into the world. It was first by the door of all the holy relations of the family that he entered the human world, laying hold of mother, father, brothers, sisters, all his friends; then by the door of labour, for he took his share of his father’s work; then, when he was thirty years of age, by the door of teaching; by kind deeds, and sufferings, and through all by obedience unto the death. You must not think little of the grand thirty years wherein he got ready for the chief work to follow. You must not think that while he was thus preparing for his public ministrations, he was not all the time saving the world even by that which he was in the midst of it, ever laying hold of it more and more. These were things not so easy to tell. And you must remember that our records are very scanty. It is a small biography we have of a man who became—to say nothing more—the Man of the world—the Son of Man. No doubt it is enough, or God would have told us more; but surely we are not to suppose that there was nothing significant, nothing of saving power in that which we are not told.—Charlie, wouldn’t you have liked to see the little baby Jesus?”

      “Yes, that I would. I would have given him my white rabbit with the pink eyes.”

      “That is what the great painter Titian must have thought, Charlie; for he has painted him playing with a white rabbit—not such a pretty one as yours.”

      “I would have carried him about all day,” said Dora, “as little Henny Parsons does her baby-brother.”

      “Did he have any brother or sister to carry him about, papa?” asked Harry.

      “No, my boy; for he was the eldest. But you may be pretty sure he carried about his brothers and sisters that came after him.”

      “Wouldn’t he take care of them, just!” said Charlie.

      “I wish I had been one of them,” said Constance.

      “You are one of them, my Connie. Now he is so great and so strong that he can carry father and mother and all of us in his bosom.”

      Then we sung a child’s hymn in praise of the God of little children, and the little ones went to bed. Constance was tired now, and we left her with Wynnie. We too went early to bed.

      About midnight my wife and I awoke together—at least neither knew which waked the other. The wind was still raving about the house, with lulls between its charges.

      “There’s a child crying!” said my wife, starting up.

      I sat up too, and listened.

      “There is some creature,” I granted.

      “It is an infant,” insisted my wife. “It can’t be either of the boys.”

      I was out of bed in a moment, and my wife the same instant. We hurried on some of our clothes, going to the windows and listening as we did so. We seemed to hear the wailing through the loudest of the wind, and in the lulls were sure of it. But it grew fainter as we listened. The night was pitch dark. I got a lantern, and hurried out. I went round the house till I came under our bed-room windows, and there listened. I heard it, but not so clearly as before. I set out as well as I could judge in the direction of the sound. I could find nothing. My lantern lighted only a few yards around me, and the wind was so strong that it blew through every chink, and threatened momently to blow it out. My wife was by my side before I knew she was coming.

      “My dear!” I said, “it is not fit for you to be out.”

      “It is as fit for me as for a child, anyhow,” she said. “Do listen.”

      It was certainly no time for expostulation. All the mother was awake in Ethelwyn’s bosom. It would have been cruelty to make her go in, though she was indeed ill-fitted to encounter such a night-wind.

      Another wail reached us. It seemed to come from a thicket at one corner of the lawn. We hurried thither. Again a cry, and we knew we were much nearer to it. Searching and searching we went.

      “There it is!” Ethelwyn almost screamed, as the feeble light of the lantern fell on a dark bundle of something under a bush. She caught at it. It gave another pitiful wail—the poor baby of some tramp, rolled up in a dirty, ragged shawl, and tied round with a bit of string, as if it had been a parcel of clouts. She set off running with it to the house, and I followed, much fearing she would miss her way in the dark, and fall. I could hardly get up with her, so eager was she to save the child. She darted up to her own room, where the fire was not yet out.

      “Run to the kitchen, Harry, and get some hot water. Take the two jugs there—you can empty them in the sink: you won’t know where to find anything. There will be plenty in the boiler.”

      By the time I returned with the hot water, she had taken off the child’s covering, and was sitting with it, wrapped in a blanket, before the fire. The little thing was cold as a stone, and now silent and motionless. We had found it just in time. Ethelwyn ordered me about as if I had been a nursemaid. I poured the hot water into a footbath.

      “Some cold water, Harry. You would boil the child.”

      “You made me throw away the cold water,” I said, laughing.

      “There’s some in the bottles,” she returned. “Make haste.”

      I did try to make haste, but I could not be quick enough to satisfy Ethelwyn.

      “The child will be dead,” she cried, “before we get it in the water.”

      She had its rags off in a moment—there was very little to remove after the shawl. How white the little thing was, though dreadfully neglected! It was a girl—not more than a few weeks old, we agreed. Her little heart was still beating feebly; and as she was a well-made, apparently healthy infant, we had every hope of recovering her. And we were not disappointed. She began to move her little legs and arms with short, convulsive motions.

      “Do you know where the dairy is, Harry?” asked my wife, with no great compliment to my bumps of locality, which I had always flattered myself were beyond the average in development.

      “I think I do,” I answered.

      “Could you tell which was this night’s milk, now?”

      “There will be less cream on it,” I answered.

      “Bring СКАЧАТЬ