The Youth's Companion Part 10

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For the Companion

THE BOY I LOVE.

My boy, do you know the boy I love?

I fancy I see him now; His forehead bare in the sweet spring air, With the wind of hope in his waving hair, The sunrise on his brow.

He is something near your height, may be; And just about your years; Timid as you; but his will is strong, And his love of right and his hate of wrong Are mightier than his fears.

He has the courage of simple truth.

The trial that he must bear, The peril, the ghost that frights him most, He faces boldly, and like a ghost It vanishes in air.

As wildfowl take, by river and lake, The suns.h.i.+ne and the rain.

With cheerful, constant hardihood He meets the bad luck and the good, The pleasure and the pain.

Come friends in need? With heart and deed He gives himself to them.

He has the grace which reverence lends,-- Reverence, the crowning flower that bends The upright lily-stem.

Though deep end strong his sense of wrong, Fiery his blood and young, His spirit is gentle, his heart is great, He is swift to pardon and slow to hate; And master of his tongue.

Fond of his sports? No merrier lad's Sweet laughter ever rang!

But he is so generous and so frank, His wildest wit or his maddest prank Can never cause a pang.

His own sweet ease, all things that please, He loves, like any boy; But fosters a prudent fort.i.tude; Nor will he squander a future good To buy a fleeting joy.

Face brown or fair? I little care, Whatever the hue may be, Or whether his eyes are dark or light; If his tongue be true and his honor bright, He is still the boy for me.

Where does he dwell? I cannot tell; Nor do I know his name.

Or poor, or rich? I don't mind which; Or learning Latin, or digging ditch; I love him all the same.

With high, brave heart perform your part, Be n.o.ble and kind as he, Then, some fair morning, when you pa.s.s, Fresh from glad dreams, before your gla.s.s, His likeness you may see.

You are puzzled? What! you think there is not A boy like him,--surmise That he is only a bright ideal?

But you have power to make him real, And clothe him to our eyes.

You have rightly guessed: in each pure breast Is his abiding-place.

Then let your own true life portray His beauty, and blossom day by day With something of his grace.

J. T. Trowbridge.

For the Companion.

A TRUE STORY.

A few years ago a couple of good women living together near one of our great cities took two or three orphan children into their home.

As time pa.s.sed, other helpless, friendless little ones came to them, until they had thirty under their care. Their own means they gave to the last dollar, and for the rest they trusted G.o.d, living from week to week on the contributions of the charitable, but making it a rule to ask help of n.o.body but Him who has promised to be a father to the fatherless.

Last winter one of their friends published a short account of this little home, and happening to meet that day a gentleman well known as a financier all over the country, handed it to him.

"This Home is but a mile or two from your house, Mr. C------," he said.

"Yes," said Mr. C------, carelessly; "I have heard of it. Kept up by prayer and faith, eh?"

"Yes. A bad capital for business, I fancy."

Mr. C------ thrust the paper in his pocket, and thought no more about it. That night at about eleven o'clock he was sitting toasting his feet before going to bed, when there was a tap at his door, and his daughter came in with the paper in her hand and her cheeks burning with excitement.

"Father, I've been reading about this Orphan Home. We never have done anything for it"---

"And you wish to help the orphans, do you? Very well, we will look into the matter to-morrow."

She hesitated. "Father, I want to do it to-night."

It was a bitter night in December; the snow lay upon the ground. "The horses and coachman are asleep long ago. Nonsense, my dear; wait until morning."