THE LOST CHILD.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXX, Issue 48, 27 November 1902, Page 23

THE LOST CHILD.

On a wet November afternoon John Dwyer paced the headland of his six-acre potato-field, his hands in his pockets, his head bent to the rain-storxn. A whitehaired Irish terrier trotted patiently beside him, shivering and uncomfortable under the rain ; looking up now and again in her master's face with eyes that seemed to sympathise, as though she might be the recipient of all his troubles, while the man went on dogged and unheeding. And sure it was no wonder at all that he should have the gloom heavy on him to-day. This black year, a bad one for all the fanners, when the rainfall had been heavier than any year since '68, had weiehed doubly heavy on him. He had little capital at his command, and the tide of emigration, flowing steadily on for years, bleeding the country slowly but surely to death, had made labor scarce and dear. With John Dwyer, who could ill afford in these hard times to keep a couple of men, the work had since the spring lagged behind for want of helping hands. And now his fine field of potatoes, to which he had been looking forward in a great measure to pay this half year's rent, was stricken with the blight. He had not realised how bad the blitrht was until to-day ; for week after week had gone by and he was too busy with other things trying to get his hay safely ricked, his corn threshed and housed ; whilst tho land was so rainsoaked that ho could not hope to get tho potatoes cleanly out of the ground till a dry time should set in. And now, late in the fall of the year, the dry time had not yet come, and John Dwver looked askance at his blackened potato drills, doubting whether it would pay him, to take them out at all, even to feed the pigs. As ho stood there pondering, the dog, which had been so patient hitherto, began to whine and shiver, mid to jump up with her muddy paws on her master's knees, as if bbgging him to return . ' Ay, Sheila, old girl.' ho said, at last taking notice of her, and turning for home, ' we're getting the worst of it out here in the cowld and the rain, you and I. Sorra btit 'o good can we do here to-hay, and I suppose wo may as well go back the way we came, whether we are wanted at home or no ! ' he added, with a touch of bitterness . Sheila only blinked her eyes in answer to this- last remark, knowing better, perhaps, than to aqrree with it, and took the homeward wav cheerily enough. John Dwyer was a big black-looking fellow of about five-and-thirtv with a few little flecks of white beginning to show in his dark curly hair. His eyea we jo of a grey-blue color, flashing like steel under the thick black "brows which gave him such a tierce look at times Not that he was the least fierce in his normal state, for as Sheila could tell, were she able to talk, there was a not unkindly nature behind those dark e^es, although many a small child shrank close to its mother, m hiding, when it happened to encounter their ga/e. But as the neighbors often said, John l)w""" was 'a C|uare-humored sort of man betimes, and dark (i c. secrcti\e) more betoken.' Perhaps his mother had been to blame for this ; for ever since her husband died, leaving the little two-year-old boy behind him, the fond mother had spoiled and petted him, allowing him his own way in everything, whether for good or evil, till the neighbors shook their heads ominously, prophesying all sorts of evil to come of it. The wonder was, after all, that he had turned out so well, considering his upbringing. Nevei theless, the spoilt boy grew into a spoilt man. pettish, lealous, impatient of the slightest obstacle which came in the pathway of his desires. A little while before his mother died he had married a pietty, lair-haired gentic creature, who promised irom the start to outdo even his mother in tho spoiling of him Mollie Dwyer had not a thought in the world beyond her husband's happiness and comfort, daily denying herself some small delicacy that she might save it for him, who needed it loss. Jf he had a cold, a headache, or tho most trifling ailment she nursed and petted and coddled him, tell he began to fancy ten times worse than he really was. The first pullet's egg in the winter, when days were damp and cold and the hens refused to lay except in the most spasmodic fnshion was jealously laid by for him The fattest of Mollies chickens was killed for his dinner, or boiled down to make ehicken-jellv for him when his wife took it into her simple head that he ' wasn't lookin' too well at all.' The creamy top of the milk-jug always went first into his cup of tea. And .John, though not oricinally a selfish man, soon grew to look on all these little attentions as his natural right and only what was due to him. ; nor did it strike him (as anything to be especictllv thankful for that he should find all his wishes gratified even before he had had time to give expression to them. Seven years of happy married life passed by, brinpine: neither great sorrow nor great io" They had no children to make or mar their happiness, and neither John nor his wife had any near relatives to divide their affections or come between them. They seemed perfectly content with their loneliness. But one sunny summer morning, after an anxious night, when John Dwyer had paced up and clown his hay-yard from sunset until dawn, or stood listening,

with beating heart and a troubled face and footsteps of someone coming to look for him, a new li 4 ttle life came into theirs. He found himself at last in his wife's room, stealing on tip-toe to the bedside, hushed and awe-stricken at this new wonder, and thanking God that she was safe. For, after all. she, with her dear eyes shining with a new happiness and love, was the deadest thing on earth to him, and with a thankful heart he stooped down and kissed the pale sweet face. The little pink bundle lying beside her, which she gazed at so fondly, and so proudly called ' our son,' was a very secondary consideration with him, and at the present moment was more to him an object of alarm than anything else. In all the quiet years of his married life he had never felt the want of a child', and now that it had come he was not so certain that it gave him any pleasure, though, to be sure, he felt proud in an abstract sort of way to have a son to inherit the farm. But he thought he would rather have had a little daughter ; somehow he had looked forward to its being a girl, and now he, who had always been the spoiled darling of his womenkind, felt that this sturdy little member of his own sex might prove something of an interloper. Not that he felt this all at once. The feeling grew gradually on him, and became more troublesome as the little boy grew strong and insistent about his rights, taking up the greater part of his mother's time and attention, and leaving very little at the disposal of his hitherto all-important father. Certainly kind-hearted Molly never meant to neglect her husband in the least ; but try as she would she could not overtake everything, and naturally the baby was not the one to suffer. So now it sometimes happened that when John came in from his day's work in the fields, cold ' and hungry, ho found himself for the moment forgotten; no armchair drawn to the fire, no slippers put to warm in the fender for him as of old, no dry warm coat ready to replace the wet one. Perhaps sometimes, as to-night, ho would come in unawares, and find the baby lying on his blanket before the fire, his wife bending over it, talking foolish fond baby-talk,, in delight, catching hia tiny fingers in her curls and tugering at them. To-night poor Mollie jumped up with a guilty feeling, as she turned round suddenly and saw her husband with a frown on his face. She had not thought it was so late, or rather had not expected his return so early. No table set for his supper, nothing put in readiness for him, as if his existence were completely forgotten, and these two perfectly happy without him. Byo-and-bye when he should want to talk to her and tell her all his troubles as of old, he felt she would only give him half her attention. He knew now, no matter how much she sympathised with him or how patiently she heard him, that she had one ear listening all the time for the baby crying in his cot upstairs, and the knowledge irritated him. As he turned to put on a dry coat, he was filled with a deeper sense of injury when he found nearly all "the buttons were missing from it. He cast a reproachful glance at his wife, who was getting the supper ready, while the baby still rolled and kicked on the floor. Then ho went to the little wooden box in which Mollie kept her needles and thread, and proceeded to fiew on the buttons himself. ' Now, darling,' cried Mollie, seeing what he was after. ' can't you- wait a weeshy bit an' let me do that for you while ye 're atm your supper *> ' Don't you bother your head about me,' he answered in a sulky tone, which showed Molly the deep disgrace into which she had fallen ' It's about time I daresay, that I took to looking after myself. (I'm all right.' Thereupon he took the first needle that came to his hand, which happened to be a darning one, and after many vain efforts succeeded at last in filling It, to Mollies horror, with white thread. Next he unearthed a black button several sizes too small for his -urnose, and proceeded without the aid of a thimble to sew it laboriously on the coat. He put the thread through once, twice, a third time, but now he found that the holes were too small, or the needle too bi^ to draw it through any more, and his further efforts only resulted in the needle sticking half an inch or so into his middle finger He smothered am imprecation, and looked shaniefullv at his wife. ' Musha, ye poor foolish fellow,' cried Mollie, with a laugh which somehow sounded like a sob, as she camo and put her arms round him, and wiped awe- the big drop of blood which oozed from the pierced fin o'er I'm beginning to think lately that it's not one babby I Vun^ c, but two ! ' * Three more years had passed, and the Dwvers still hvrd on at tho little farm. Things had gone more prosperously with John Dwyer during those three years. His hay-crop last season had been a heavy one, and he had sold it well. Iteports of the failure of the wheat crop in Russia had sent the price of corn up with a rush and John Bwjer like a wise man had sent his wheat to market at once, getting the top price for it instead ot waiting like some of his neighbors untii prices should be still higher, as was prophesied, and then having to sell it at a reduction after all Tho three years had made very little difference in •Johns looks, though Mollie had lost her girlish air and had crown stouter and more matron!-- The little boy had thriven and flourished and was now a sturdy little man of four, with a head of tiny little golden curls, and eyes that were bluer than* the bluest forget-me-nots. Of course Mollie adored him. though she had grown wise enough now, and often trfed to hide at least

sorno of her affection for her son from her husband's jealoug eyes. He on his part was fond enouph of the child, too, and proud of him in his own undemonstrative way. Perhaps because he had been so spoilt himself, he didn't believe in spoiling his son. So that the youngster turned instinctively to his mother, as probably all little boys do, in his every trouble and want, and if his soft little child's heart longed sometimes for his father's attention and love, too,, he had learned after many lessons that father very often did not want him, and so he wasn't to bother or worry him. When little Owen was just four years old, there came a time when he felt very sad and lonely— the very loneliest little boy, he thought, that could bo in the' whole wide world. For his mamma was ill, very ill, he heeurd the people say, and lie niust not make a noise nor go near her room, for her head was very bad, and any noise would surely make it worse. His mother was indeed very ill. She had gone to the gates of death to bring another life into the world, only to have it flicker out after one short hour's feeble - glimmering. This time the baby was a girl, and John Dwyer's heart ached over this little dead baby as it had never yearned towards his boy. All the days that she lay fretting in that darkened room, the blinds drawn to keep out the hot August sun, he wandered restlessly to and fro, neglecting his work and forgetting to throw one kind look or word to poor Owny, who was banished from his mother's room. Poor Owny felt lost altogether thoso days, with his mother shut away from him, and his father so gloomy and cross ; and with no one to talk to except the woman, who had come in to keep house for them while mother was ill. She was an ugly old woman, and smoked a pipe when she thought no one was looking, and Uwney regarded her from a distance with curiosity and a childish awe. To-day he felt more desolate than ever. Jt was now many days since he had seen his mother, and his father, when he saw him, hardlyi noticed him, except to tell him not to make a noise. Even Sheila was no good to play with these days. She had three little puppies in a potato basket in the ■barn, sleek fat little brown things that isquealed all day, with eyes shut. Owny went very often to look at them, but Shelia was unaccountably cross these days, too, and growled when he ventured to put his hand near the puppies. So to-day he thought he'd go down the Cuckoo-mea-dow next the wheat field and look for birds' nests. It was long past the time for birds' nests, to be sure, but Owen didn't mind that, and even to find an empty nest would be better than nothing, lfe went clown the pathway to the Cuckoo-meadow, where the couple of cows were- grazing, and along the cart road at the side of it, where thie carts used to come up laden with hay. and sheaves of corn, or sacks of potatoes, and wheat iioshly threshed. There was a green grassy bank, with a thick, low hedge on top and along the bank there were quantities of blue corn-floweis growing thickly Such heaps of them ! and so blue, that Owen forgot about the birds' nosts, and began to gather a big bunch 01 thorn ll is mother loved flowers, and often they two together had come down hero to gather them, but ho had ne\er seen all those blue blossoms until to-day. He would gather a sreat big bunch for her now, and when he got back perhaps his father would let him go to her room to give them to her Owen's solemn 111 Lie1 1 1 Lie lace brightened and he lauehed gleefully at Hie thought So he gathered the corn-flowers, and with them the feathery sweet>sruelling cluster of tiny \ellow T blossoms which grew beside them, and which his mother called 'Our lady's bed-straw ' Then he pulled some moon daisies and brown grasses, and a big bunch of cow-pa rsle\ — mother called il ' Our lady's lace-handkerchief ! ' — then some St John's wort, with its shining lea\cs and yellow blossoms. He did not so much care for the look of this, and after some deliberation threw it contemptuously away This brought him as far as the w heat-field pa to, and after gazing wistfully for some tune through the bars at tho golcTen heads swaying gently in the summer wind, he crept under the gate and got in. He pulled two or three of the golden ears, and put them in his bouquet . then he gathered a few more, and sat down ami picked out the golden gram and tasted it. His eyes fell on a group of poppies farther in the corn, and he thoucht they would look very pretty in his bunch of (lowers lie made hia way down through the corn till he reached them Such lovely poppies, Owen thought, and the whole field hero was spread with them. He pulled one after another and looked down into the black heart of each and felt their soft silkjness caressingly with his chubby little fingers. They were just like the red satin ribbons daddy brought mammy home from the fair. Some foil to^ pieces as ho pulled thiem, but lie went on gathering till his little hands could hold no more. Then he began to find himself very hot. The noon-day August sun was shining pililessly overhead. Tho field of wheat, except where Owen stirred it, lav quite still now for want of a little breath of wind He thought he would go home now, for he felt tired, and this was the hour when, if mother were well, she would bo putting him to sleep for a while, in the little wooden cot beside her own big bed He tried to go back the way he caino, but he niado so many twists and turns whilst gathering- the poppies that he' could not find the way very easily And the wheat was so hitrh about his ears that ho could only catch a glimpse of -the distant hedges, and did not know at all where the gate was that he had come in by. After a long time he at last found himself at the hedge. But,

alas! this was not the hedge he knew at all, and he c tS n see that tir esome gat« anywhere ! iw iK^if Owe ?.. h ad any sense he would have kept on Sni^ 1 Spl tlU he found the gate at last, but being £,«& Uffil h y> + a ? d no l havjn S any more sense than ™t ™ yS - Sf fOUr ' he turned back into the wfa eat he nrP«s m H o q +i, Ckly ! to th ? other side - But th * farther he pi eased on the slower his progress became. The wheat seemed to grow thicker and taller every step he took ™IT7J ay hk ? a wall before Mm - His hands frl •<? U° S f-r^ back the stro »S" st alks ; ho could 1 yH? hl ? httl £ feet an y longer, so heavy did they seem. His straw hat, too, had got lost- he could not £TS* r W + here ;hG ° nly felt now ' so hot and sleepy tnat ?««, SA BB ° t a s tep further. So Owen lay down at hifnv^ri m q heat V C V rled one arm under his head, lav slSeuiSr t y h« n a ,fll y P at , the bWlg sun - a » d so ™ lay sieepmg the quiet, dreamless sleep of childhood. * That night there was sore trouble in John Dwyer's heart. For Owen had gone out in the forenoon, and no fathir a h a H ce tt n fl u r h £ ard of him si »<*. For some time hS Sulhi, ad u ta v e 5 hls easily, thinking that childlike he had wandered off with some of the neighbors children, and remained with them. But as the hours passed away and night began to fall without bringing a VJ ldl £es of kirn, cold fear took hold of John Dwye?s w£ ,r? 6 dared nOt sa 7 an ythiug to Molly about the boy s disappearance. Once or twice she had asked him th»t b b^ 3 aS "^t enough believing, indeed, attte tiJS ™? uE . W^' *?* now he went hurriedly from one voice tW h h« V°h a r th , er i aSkiDK in a bailee, hoarsl voice, that he tried hard to keep steady, if they had hls , son anywhere. And when nine S^clodc Wt Ms KS. nO W ° rd ° f him John began to He saddled a horse and rode to the village a mile thSJ' weS? ce t yy oo h tb P ft ing^ hat + he .- miffht haVe strged dSSS of h% 7™»ml fl6f 16 P ol ! ce station and told the servant ot his trouble, looked in at any of the shops that were SS n °Pc».P e ». questioned everyone he met to no purpose 22 H r f. + h u ast^y home again, half-believing that he would find the child safely there before him. nut, no ! the old woman and the couple of neighbors of him C JS£ nV^r and WpathlsS. hadnonew viiyT P sti^Ttl u it\^i e rZS c stable and wcnthea'ls it you darling ? ' she asked, wearily ' You've wThout vo g u '"h aWay ' d , it ' S ten lble lo»«ome Iw£ mv lTttlP hoy o %- y °" £ ad your sun Tier ? A »d how is bitterly upbraiding himself for his neglect of the child 3n3 n ! lth cornflowers by which Owen h^d^^d^that ho hcird nrrhi7J-rn r rhi7J-r ?e? c - Stop^ d and likened : he thought no ncaid a child s voice crying in the darkness T^nt iV iimmmmi rifio" e fa f co mtl MOIIi ° SiUinff UP in 1)Cd ' With a whit «' tert+/ f)h ' tnank (J orl you're back.' she * ried tremiilouslv MM'f '€-" is 1 r% n d r y i,,S3!:" .s§ o i hi i ] } V Slttm ff »P lik e that, .without n shawl o a thin? about your shoulders. T knew vou'ri l b« fiimul, so I came as quickjy as I could.' y b ° lh]im) i n I 1,0,01;I 1 , 0 , 01 ; ht tle Owen,' she said, shuddering as tho thunder rolled agam and again. ' Don't you think yoS

ought to bring him into me ? My poor lamb, he'll be terrified in there by himself.' John did not know what to sa-" ' Oh ! bring him in, bring him in ! ' she cried again, seeing his hesitation. 'It can't be bad for me tollhave him now, surely.' ' In the morning,' he repeated, with a fervent nrayer ' please God ' to himself, ' I'll bring him to you, and you can keep him as long as you like.' He sat by the bedside holding his wife's hand and talking to her as cheerily as his heavy heart would allow him, till at last the storm was over and the ram ceased, and the first faint flush of the summer dawn appeared in the sky. He btood up then and went wearily from the room, saying he must go and look at the sick beast again. As he went down the narrow stairs, he heard something beating and crying at the door below. ' Can it be the child ? ' he asked himself, with a catch at his heart, and hurried down to open the door, to meet with but another disappointment. For it was only Sheila, who had torn herself away at last from her puppies. She leapt at him, barking and yelping with noisy excitement. ' Down, Sheila, down ! ' he cried, irritably But the dog ran backwards and forwards, shivering and crying, as she jumped up again insistently, as though begging him to come with her. John Dwyer understood at last, and with a glimmer of hope he followed her. Out through the farm-yard, across the hnv-vard, down again along the rough cart-road he had traversed a few hours before, the dog went, still giving little short yelps of excitement, and wagging her tail erladly as she looked back at the man following. She jumped through the red bars of the wheat-field gate, and bounded into the midst of the wheat, leaping madly over the tall cornstalks, now drenched and broken and tossed by the storm. At last she stopped, and John Dwver, following close behind, knew by the quick wagging of her tail, alone visible above the sheafs, that she had found what she looked for. His eyes fell on something which filled him at once with a fearful joy and dread. Here was his Owen, his own little son, lying cold and drenched amidst the wheat — dead perhaps — a broken crushed little flower like one of the withered blossoms he still held tightly in his wee, cold hands. Dead ! Ah, no ! thank God ! The blue eves opened wearily, swollen and tear-stained, as Shelia's warm little tongue frantically licked the pale face. Not dead, thank God, as the father lifted him in his arms and folded him tenderly to his breast, whilst hot tears of love and joy, of shame and repentance, fell thickly on the little boy's face. John Dwyer thanked God again and atrain that his little son, this dear, precious gift for which he had never really thanked Him before, was spared to him. Not dead, but very ill poor Owen proved to be. God alone knows what terrors and torture the lost little child had suffered that day and night when the terrifying storm had come, and the wea-ry little feet and tired brain could no longer try to find the wav ! But when he came out of the fever, his mother's arms were around him, and her cool, soft '•heck iav by his. And his daddy's eyes looked down at him with a love and tenderness' that Owen had never seen in them before. From that day on there was no more lovinsr and devoted father in all the country round than John Dwver proved to be. And Owen, riding gaily on the seat of the mowing machine as his father reaped the corn, or swung high on his shoulder as ho went home from work in the evening, was the happiest child in the world. — ' Donahoe's Macrazme.'