HE was a merry, winning little fellow. His blue eyes were brimful of fun, and his laugh was a pleasure to hear; indeed, no one could hear Bobbie Barnes’s laugh without wishing to join in it. Bobbie’s everyday attire was a little red flannel gown, and he lay in his crib all day, as well as night; for he was a cripple.
When Bobbie was a very wee fellow, he had an attack of fever, which left him very weak, and as there was no one to look after him properly, the bones of his little legs became so twisted and deformed that they utterly refused to bear his weight, and, to use Bobbie’s own expression, it seemed as if he had “nae banes” in his body.
Under these circumstances, Bobbie was left to battle with the world as best he might, and a sore battle he had for many a long day. His mother was out charing most days, and his father, alas, took to drinking. However, he was kind to Bobbie, who was his only child, and would sit and read to him scraps out of the newspapers, or sometimes a hymn, or a piece out of the Bible. These were gala days for Bobbie, but too often they were succeeded by darkness and misery, angry words being exchanged between father and mother, reproaches, threats, and sometimes blows.
Bobbie pondered on these things. He tried, poor little fellow, to make the best of it, and to keep father sober. His father loved him dearly, for he was not hopelessly intemperate and hardened. Undoubtedly Bobbie was the soft place in his parents’ hearts, and for him they made many a sacrifice.
Bobbie was seven years old when he was brought to the Cottage Home for Infirm Children, and there he and I first became acquainted. His laugh at once attracted me— such a pleasant tinkle, among the little invalids and sufferers. Then I was amused to see how he hopped in and out of his bed; now to fetch something from the adjoining dormitory for one of the other boys, or again, as it seemed, merely for the pleasure of exercising his little crooked limbs by walking round the room, holding on by the cribs, as he went, for support.
Everything at the Home was novel to Bobbie; he seemed at first not to know very well whether he was sleeping or waking. The nice, large, airy room, the cheery fire burning in the grate, the walls hung round with pictures and texts, and the pretty toys, made him look around him wonderingly, from the room itself to the little occupants of the cribs. These, one and all, had experienced the same sense of bewilderment when first they had been brought into the Home, and a look of sympathy passed between them and Bobbie.
He had learned to read a little, and his Bible and hymn book were laid out upon the bed, and you might hear him crooning over to himself his latest hymn, or, with his finger carefully pressed against the line, spelling out a verse in the Bible.
Bobbie was very happy in the Home; there was only one thing that troubled him, and it was this; every fortnight, on Saturday afternoons, his father and mother came to visit him. Surely this would be a joyous day for Bobbie, you say. Not altogether: for there was the parting again, and that was very hard.
Bobbie made great preparations on the day when he expected his father and mother. Sometimes they brought him a little painted toy, or some unwholesome looking sweets, or a picture book, and then Bobbie would read his verse, and sing his hymn in his little shrill, piping voice―the father and mother pleased the while that their boy was getting “learning.” And Bobbie was getting “learning” ―the best learning, for he was learning to know the love of the Lord Jesus. Often on those Saturday afternoons, he would speak in his simple childlike way to his father and mother of his new-found joy―Jesus and His love; and tears would start to their eyes and course down their cheeks as they heard him.
But when the time to say “good-bye” came, it was then Bobbie broke down. He sobbed as if his heart would break, and for many a month the fortnightly visits were invariably concluded in tears.
Two years have passed away, and Bobbie is yet in the Home. His father and mother still come to see him, and he does not now cry at the “good-byes.” Not that he loves his parents less―indeed, the bonds between them have been knit much closer than ever before, during these two years. There is a talk, too, of Bobbie going back with them to his own home soon, as he is so much stronger and better every way. He has learned to read, and write, and count, and indeed is talking of beginning to learn a trade, where legs are not part of the business, for a cripple Bobbie will always be.
We shall miss his cheery little face and voice, and bright merry ways when he goes, but his crib will not remain empty for a single day. If each crib could hold three instead of one, they might still be kept full.
Do you know someone who has been ill a great deal, and who is often weak? You think it is very hard―do you not? Perhaps it is your mother. You wonder often, perhaps, when she is in such pain, that she should yet be so bright and gentle and patient. Dear children, we do not wish to suffer, for we do not like to be ill and to bear pain. It is one of those things which we cannot understand until it comes to ourselves, until we ourselves experience it.
Many of the little children, of whom I have been telling you, have sad pain and suffering; but when God has once spoken the words, “Peace be still,” in their hearts, then all they have to bear just acts on their hearts, like the are on the gold, and they become vessels, meet for the Master’s use.” J. S. M.