Read Ebook: Blind Tim and other Christmas stories written for children by Solberg Charles O Charles Orrin

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Ebook has 361 lines and 20126 words, and 8 pages

Clang, clang, clang!

Loud were the cries of warning. Jerk! Back the horses leaped, almost upon their haunches, as the driver sought frantically to avoid a smash-up. Frantically the motor-man jerked at the brake. Under the sudden restraint the car jumped the rails, and ran down along the smooth pavement. There were wild shouts, shrieks, and groans. Then perfect silence, as motor-man and conductor jumped down and ran forward, and the people in the car hurried off. The car had sped along until it struck the very horseblock on which little Tim was seated.

There was a rush of people as the crowd gathered about the senseless, bleeding figure. The motor-man and many willing helpers lifted the car, while the conductor picked up the injured boy. But he was scarcely able to find room to lay down the burden. Someone brought a blanket to put under him on the cold ground. All were elbowing and pushing and talking, when a burly policeman pushed his way in.

"Back, back, please!" were his orders. "Whose boy is it?"

"I know, I know," were the answers. Some gave his name, some the name of his father, and his business, and others told about the boy. Some volunteered to run for his father. But while the hurly-burly of talk was going on, Alex had already run for help, and in a moment Mr. Rudiger pushed his way into the crowd.

Many stood in silence and watched as Mr. Rudiger carried the injured and still unconscious boy across the street and stepped in at the door. The policeman helped him, and soon they were upstairs in the doctor's office. The attention of the crowd was then given to the work of the street-car men as they prepared to get the car back on the rails, in which they finally succeeded. There was much talk and speculation. This work was not yet done, when Mr. Rudiger came out of the street door, together with the policeman and the doctor, and set out for home, carrying Tim in his arms. The boy had not yet come to. From all appearances he seemed to be very seriously hurt. The news went up and down the street that little Tim Rudiger was killed. All sorts of rumors went about. And it was as tho the sunlight had left the street, for all were saddened by the misfortune of the blind cripple boy.

In the days that followed, the shades were drawn low in the pleasant cottage home that had sheltered little Tim all his days. One of the dogs, which was inclined to be noisy, and even the parrot, were taken away. On the sidewalks between the houses, the neighbors walked on tiptoe. Indeed, all the people round about felt deeply for the little cripple. On the avenue people stepped in to ask his papa about him. And from the windows of houses neighboring to his home many eyes looked out to see how long the doctor stopped each day.

At first Tim's mama had been almost overcome. She had come home on that sad day with several packages of presents. Especially she had had delivered a very pretty cart with a very good seat, blue box and red wheels, and plush cushion, a gift for Tim, so that Louise could take him out riding. And for some days it stood beside his bed. They did not wait for Christmas, but held it up to him that he might feel of it.

"You must get well, Tim, so that you can ride in it," they said. But he answered nothing. No, Tim would not be able to use it,--no, not for Christmas at any rate. It was too bad. Everything was done that money could provide and that love could imagine in order to comfort and encourage the little sick cripple. Tim had always been pale and thin. Now he was much more so. His eyes glistened at times, not with animation but with fever-light. His cheeks were pink too, but it was not a natural glow. All his pains he bore very patiently.

Already it was getting dark. The lights twinkled along the streets. In the quiet of the Sunday afternoon Mrs. Rudiger had sat by Tim's bedside. She was almost dozing in the stillness. Suddenly there was a rap. Three sturdy little strangers stood at the door, big-eyed, one of them carrying a bouquet.

"Does Tim what was hurt live here, ma'am?"

"Why, yes."

"We bring'd some flowers, ma'am, from the Sunday school. Tim's in our class. Yes'm, teacher sent us." The little fellows waddled in, very dignified, each cap in hand. For some minutes they stood by the bed. Not a word was said. Soon they whispered and beckoned. How it was done no one could tell, but they understood that they were to leave.

"Please, ma'am, tell Tim we was here. Pale, ain't he?" said the biggest, who had carried the flowers and so felt himself leader and spokesman. It was interesting to watch the three little figures as they walked along down the street. Serious little men!

One day as Tim opened his eyes from a nap he heard some one speaking softly with his mother. Over his face there passed a sweet smile of welcome. It was his teacher. She had called, and had been talking with his mother for some time.

"Awful glad to see you." He tried to smile and to reach out his hand for her to take.

"Yes, Tim," said she. After a few words he began to ask about the Sunday School and his class.

"Yes, Tim, they were all there except you. The flowers? Yes, they wanted to send them to you. Little Henry brought them. He was always good to you, you know. Bennie and Oscar were with him. The lesson? Oh, yes. It was about the three Kings. You know there were three wise men, kings, in the East. They saw a star, and somehow God told them that they should follow it. They followed it over deserts and mountains a long way until they came to Jerusalem. There they went to Herod and asked: 'Where is He that should be born king of the Jews?'"

"A star? Way up in the sky?"

"Yes, indeed. And when they found out that Jesus was to be born in Bethlehem, they set out to go there, and lo, the star went on before them and brought them right to the place.

"Yes, Tim, that's why we put stars on Christmas trees. Indeed, we'll have a beautiful one on the very tip-top of the tree."

Tim lay thinking long about this story and about the star after Miss Merton was gone.

One night Tim seemed very feverish and restless. He tossed about as far as his soreness and stiffness would allow. He was getting very sore now from lying in bed so long.

"I'm awful sorry I can't go to church to the Christmas tree, Papa," he said.

"It's too bad, Tim. You must try to be quiet and sleep now."

"Christ was born on Christmas night," said Tim earnestly. "I was to speak a verse. They won't have that verse now, will they?"

"Oh, they'll find some way," said his papa.

"The tree will be lovely, teacher said. Popcorn--and oranges--and things that shine--and angels--and stars."

"And see"--he reached out and felt around. Yes, he found and held up a pretty angel figure. It was of paper and very light, but too heavy for Tim. "Angels like this, too." He laid it down with a sigh.

"Wish I could be there." A look of wistful sorrow passed over his face. He whispered almost rather than spoke. His papa, sitting by the bed, had to lean over in order to hear him.

"But Tim, you couldn't see it anyway. Why should you be there?"

"Couldn't see?" The lad moved quickly as he exclaimed, "I ought to hear them. Why shouldn't I? Jesus came as a little child. He loved me. And when He came they put Him in a stable. And when He grew big, He went out and preached salvation, and they crucified Him. He died for me. And when I die, I shall go to heaven. Cause I ought to be there. All the little children should. If I was in church I could show Jesus how I love Him. He wants me to be glad on Christmas." Tim fell back exhausted and was quiet.

The excitement seemed to have been good for the sick boy, for as he quieted down he fell asleep. Far into the night they sat by his bed, for the doctor had told them that Tim was very sick. Louise and Alex, Mama and Papa were there. Tim had mourned that he could not be in church for Christmas and show Jesus his love and joy. But that night the doors of a better church and a better home swung open for him. And with the little thin paper angel lying by him on the bed, the blind cripple slept away and went to keep holiday in heaven above. On that night, I think, he could see for the first time, and something better than a Christmas tree at that.

We might tell more of this story; of how Tim's class in Sunday School walked by the coffin for the last time to see his face; of his sad burial on that cold winter day; of how sympathetic people said that it was better for the blind cripple to die than to live. We might say that his mama learned the way to church; that Mr. Rudiger became a better man; that Alex grew up to be a good boy; that Louise was one of the most faithful girls in that Sunday School. If we could, we should also be able to say that Tim had not lived in vain. Let us hope so.

And why does God so early take away from this world to Himself little boys and girls? Let us see. The farmer takes from the bin a handful of kernels. "Fine wheat," says he, as he blows away part of the grain so as to take a better look at what is left. It is the lightest kernels that flee, and as he looks intently upon the few that yet lie in his palm, he observes that one is plump and fair and another shriveled. Yet the shriveled kernel might happen to yield the finest growth and bear the amplest fruit. So perhaps it was with the little blind cripple of No. 316 Blank Street.

The End.

"Rags" was not present. The boys did not miss him much, to be sure. Mr. Benson, their good old, gray-haired teacher, had brought the lad to the Sunday School about six months before, and until lately he had been present almost every Sunday. But Bob Jerrold had found not one friend among the members of his class.

He had gotten his nickname at the district school. The first time he came he had been dressed in queer old clothes, mostly notable because they were very ragged; and his garments had remained in the same condition until the children fixed upon the word "Rags" as his most appropriate name.

Not all boys begin life with an equally happy lot. Bob Jerrold was among the unfortunate. His father was a drunken good-for-naught, and his mother was a careless slattern and a boy is very apt to take after his parents. Moreover, his parents had long been despised by all the community as the very worst and lowest of people, a disgrace to the neighborhood. Nobody looked for any good in Bob. So it happened that Bob had to fight his way amid insult and abuse that his parents had earned for him.

One day a company of school children came by the tumble-down old place that the Jerrolds called home. Catching sight of Bob out by the barn on a hay-stack, someone threw a snowball. There was a loud laugh.

"Rags, Rags, Rags!" yelled the whole company.

"Want to fight?" yelled one of the rougher boys.

"He dassen't. He might tear his clothes," answered another.

Bob dropped his fork and began to dodge and throw back. He had recognized some of the members of his Sunday School class among the company.

At this moment there was a jingle of bells, and Mr. Benson drove up with his sleigh. The youngsters all piled in gleefully, and were soon riding merrily down the road.

When Bob failed to appear in his place in the class next Sunday morning, and that for the second time, his teacher became anxious. He pitied the boy in his unhappy surroundings. He had been trying hard to keep the lad in Sunday School, but he knew how hard the struggle was for Bob. The good work now seemed at an end. Bob might be poor and ragged, and might fight his way in school, but on Sunday it was different. He could bear rags and shame and insult. But even he had some pride, and he refused to sit in a class together with boys who did not want him. After much effort, however, Mr. Benson persuaded him to be present at the Christmas entertainment and speak the piece that had been assigned him.

Christmas night came. The church was packed with happy people. Two beautiful evergreen trees were the center of attraction. Between them was an arch, on which were the words "Peace on earth, good will among men." The exercises passed off cheerily, and even Bob, as he sat beside his teacher, dressed in a suit that some friend had given him, could not but catch the spirit of joy and good cheer that shone from the happy faces of the boys and girls about him. For every lad and lassie will agree when we say that there is no happiness like the glad anticipations of Christmas.

And nothing is so catching, you know, as the happy heart.

To Bob all this was a dream. Suddenly the minister, who had gone before the audience, called his name. At first he shrank back, frightened; but a smile from Mr. Benson reassured him, and he stepped upon the platform. The glitter of the lights dazzled his eyes, and the stare of the many people made him tremble. But he raised his head defiantly and began:

The dead silence that followed as Bob returned to his seat was followed by a hum of surprise. Who was that? That Bob Jerrold? Was it possible? The change in the lad when properly dressed was itself surprising. But the full tone and clear voice of the boy, the deep feeling with which he said each word, all contributed to draw sympathy about him.

The program was soon over, and the merry bells were jingling on the starlit Christmas night as Bob trudged homeward. In his hands he bore some gifts, too, a thing rather new to him. Altogether his heart was filled with gladness.

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