I thy little lamb would be,
Jesus, I would follow thee;
Samuel was thy child of old,
Take me now within thy fold."
The old man wakens--she has disturbed him. Shall he stop her?--no; he
loves that little one, and he has not the heart to bid her be silent.
One after another she pours forth her sweet melodies, till at last her
voice grows fainter and fainter, and soon she and her grandfather are
both lying again in unbroken repose. The morning comes. The old man
calls to him the petted one, and says: "Lucy, why did you sing last
night when you should have been asleep? What were you singing?" Stopping
her play she looks up and says brightly--"I was singing to Jesus,
grandpa, and you ought to sing to him, too."
Why does he start and tremble, that stern, gray-headed man? He has lived
more than sixty years an unbeliever--a despiser of the lowly Savior. No
thought of repentance or remorse has afflicted him--no desire has he
ever had to hear the words of eternal life. He has trained up his family
in ignorance of God, and only in _his memory_ has the blessed Sabbath
had a name since he went to his distant western home.
Not long ago a benevolent man passing through the town, gathered some of
the ragged and forsaken little ones into a Sabbath-school, and bestowed
on them the inestimable gift of a few small books. The little Lucy
heard from her young companions the wonderful story, and begged to go.
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