قراءة كتاب Mou-Sets The Orphans' Pilgimage - A Story of Trust in God
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Mou-Sets The Orphans' Pilgimage - A Story of Trust in God
and buried his head in his hands.
Something seemed to tell the black man that the desire of his eyes was coming to him; that his life-work was bearing at last its fruit. So sure was he of this that he forgot to pray. He only said several times, “Tank de Lord; tank de Lord berry much.”
Then he followed his companions to the quays. How often had he gone there in vain! How often had he gazed at face after face, looking and longing for the forms of those he loved! They had never greeted him.
Now his step was elastic, his face bright.
Two hours after he had left the church he entered it again, leading by the hand a very old man and a bowed and aged woman.
“My fader and moder,” he explained very simply to the bystanders. He put the old couple in the most comfortable pew, and sat down by them. They both seemed half dead. The woman lay nearly lifeless. Mou-Setsé took her limp and withered hand and began to rub it softly.
“How do you know them?” asked some interested bystanders who knew Mou-Setsé’s story.
“De ole woman hab de smile,” he said; “I neber forgot my moder’s smile. She looked at me on de quay, and she smiled, and my heart leaped, and I said, ‘Tank de Lord, glory be to God.’ I tole ye de Lord would help me.”
Just then the man stretched himself, opened his eyes, fixed them on Mou-Setsé, and began to mutter.
Mou-Setsé bent his head to listen.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet. “Oh praise the Lord!” he exclaimed again. “I said as de Lord would help me. Listen to de ole man, he is talking in de tongue of the Akus, in the country of Yarriba. He was de brave warrior, my fader was.”
Yes, Mou-Setsé was right. The fruit of long patience was at last yielding to him its precious store, and the old warrior of the beautiful African valley had come back through nobody knew what hardships, with his aged wife, to be nursed, cherished, and cared for by a long-lost son.
As soon as they were sufficiently revived Mou-Setsé took them to the comfortable home he had been so long getting ready for them. Here they told him of their slavery, of the terrors they had undergone, of the bitterness of knowing nothing of his fate, of the lonely days when they had belonged to different masters; then of their release from slavery, and how, as free man and woman, they had met again. But their hardships had been great, for though they had so-called liberty, every privilege belonging to a white man seemed to be denied them.
They resolved to fly with their brethren. Selling all they had, they managed to scrape together enough money to pay for their passage in the river steamer.
Penniless, famished, half dead, they arrived at St. Louis.
“It is a good land you hab come to,” said Mou-Setsé when his mother had finished her narrative, “a land flowing wid milk and honey. Yes, it is a good land; and I am like Joseph, only better dan Joseph was, for I hab got back my fader and moder too, praise de Lord.”
“I am Jacob,” said the old warrior slowly, “and you are, indeed, my son Joseph. It is enough. Praise de Lord.”
“De Lord is berry good. I tole ye so,” exclaimed the aged wife and mother.
Story 2--Chapter I.
The Orphans’ Pilgrimage—A Story of Trust in God.
In one of the small towns in the north of Austria there once lived a humble pair, as far as earthly goods and position go, but who were rich in what was far better—love to God and simple trust in His Fatherly care.
The woman was a Tyrolese, the daughter of an old harper, who still resided in one of the small villages among the mountains. As a motherless girl she had been his only companion, and many a time her sweet pure voice would be heard accompanying her father in the simple melodies of her native land, as he wandered from place to place to earn a livelihood.
The time came when the harper’s daughter left her hills for a home in town, but was more than repaid by the tender love of her husband, who, though he could earn but a scanty subsistence, was good and kind to her. Their fare was frugal, but, happy in each other’s affection, they were content and thankful, and, contrasting their lot with that of the Saviour, would say, “Can we, the servants, expect to fare better than our Lord and Master?”
As years passed by, three little children were sent to them by their Father in heaven, to whom they gave the names of Toni, Hans, and Nanny; very precious gifts, and they showed their gratitude by training them early in the right way, teaching them from His word to know the good God, to love and trust Him, to try to please Him, and to love their neighbour as themselves. They were unselfish little children, and would at any time share their scanty meals with others in distress. “Little children, love one another,” was a text often repeated, and also practised, by them.
The two boys were very fond of each other, and both were united in love for the little sister whom they felt bound to protect. Great was their delight when she first tottered alone across the room, where they stood, one at each end, with outstretched arms to receive her; and when her little voice was heard crying for the first time “Father,” “Mother,” they shouted for joy.
On the opposite side of the street lived an artist, who took great pleasure in this little family, and painted a picture in which he introduced the children, not intending it for sale, but as a gift to their parents, in token of the esteem he felt for them. A very pretty picture it was—little Nanny, lightly draped, showing her fat dimpled shoulders and bare feet, her golden hair floating in the wind, was in a meadow chasing a butterfly; while her brothers stood by, as guardian angels, with hands extended ready to catch her if she stumbled. It might have fetched a high price, but the man was not in needy circumstances, and would not sell it.
When Nanny was about four years old it happened that the cholera—that fearful scourge which has from time to time been so fatal in many parts—broke out in this town, and both father and mother were smitten and lay ill with it at the same time. I need not say how, in the midst of pain and weakness, many an anxious thought was turned to the future of their little ones; but, as faith had been strong in the time of health and prosperity, it did not fail them in their hour of need, and they trusted simply to the promise, “Leave thy fatherless children; I will preserve them alive.”
In a very short time the children were left; orphans, and (the eldest not being more than eight years old) quite unable to do anything for their own support. What was to be done? The neighbours were kind and good to them, but, having families of their own, had enough to do without adding to their cares. It was at length arranged that a letter should be written to an uncle who lived in Vienna, and was doing well as manager of a small theatrical company in that town. Not a very good school, you will say, for these children who had been trained so carefully.
No sooner did the man
