LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2367, 3 November 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

ANNIE'3 SONG. j ' Eight yeara old to-day ! And I can't ] sfford to buy the smallest plaything for my j poor little darling! Ah! how happy we j were a year ago, and now—' Annio Dean's eyea wore filling fast, but she brushed the tears away with a resolute hand. No, she could not afford even to ciy a litt!e, and oaso her over-burdened heart. The piece of fine work she was busy over must be carried to the lady who had ordered it th»t very afternoon. Perhaps she would pay for it promptly—if not, Annie and her little slater must go snpperless that night, for there was not a morsel left for them to eat. ~ . ~ A year ago their father was living; they weie in a happy home, surrounded by every luxury. But a sudden reverse had come, sweeping away their property, as in one night. Never a strong ma-, the shook had proved too great for Andrew Dean, and in les3 than three months he was laid to rest in the churchyard, beside the beloved wife who had been carried there three years before. , ... , Poor Annie ! She was only eighteen when all this trouble came upon them. They had no near relatives, and the fashionable circle in which they tad moved previous to the time of their trouble seemed disposed to utterly ignore them now. Shortly after her father's death, Annie hired a room at the very top of a crowded tenement-house, whither she moved with her little sister. The lodgings they had left were poor enough, but too expensive for Annie's puree. It took nearly all her earnings to pay for the rent of their little room ; and she had barely enough left for food and fuel. The poor child had thought at first of procuring some' music scholars, and had called on some of their former friends to ask their assistance. But somehow they never seemed able to see her—the answer was always ' Not at home,'or 'Very muoh engaged,'and at last she gave up the attempt in despair. | : he could do nothing of this kind alone, and finally, in desperation, she bethought herself of her skill in fancy work and embroidery, ) After many fruitless attempts, she succeeded in obtaining work of a few ladies. But alas! they proved to be selfish and overreaching as she was young and Inexperienced, and the poor girl tolled early and late for wages that scarcely kept her and her little sister in the necessaries of life. Annlo was naturally a brave, uncomplaining little Bpirit—she bore her troubles without a murmur, but her heart sank when she thought of Lily. Poor little Lily ! She had been a cripple from her babyhood, when every comfort and luxury wealth could give had been showered upon her she could not escape many weary hours of suffering and pain. And now day by day she grew weaker ; the thin cheek waited more and mor3, and her very sweetness arjd patience filled Annie's tender heart with alarm. 'Of such is the kingdom of Heaven,' she often thought, but oh ! how could she bear to lose her Lily, the precious flower she had oherished on her heart bo long ! The little one was waking now from a brief slumber, she called Annie, and the girl hastened to her side. 'Water, dear? Here it is, and I hopeto bring you home some b-ead and milk with the money I shall get for this work.' ' Poor Annie! You have to sew so hard all day,' said Lily, lifting her large blue eyes sorrowfully to her sister. The dark eyes bent on her so lovingly filled np with tears, but Annie was not crying for herself. ' Oh, don't worry about me, darling—l'm well enough,' she said, turning away that the bright drops might not be seen. ' Come now, I'll sing to you while I finish this work.'

Annie's voice had been well traireJ, and was clear and sweet as a bell, f-be Bang the simple hymns and ballads Lily loved, till at last soothed by the music, she fell into a gentle slumber. And all the while Annie's needle never flagged. It was a troublesome piece of work, and when at last the girl started to carry it home, it was past eight o'olock, and the lamps were all lighted. She hastened on, thinking nothing of the snow that lay ankle-deep upon the pavement, and was soaking her thin, rapged shoes_ through and through. Before her was a vision of a pale little face upon a pillow, of a pair of patient bine eyes tryihg to smile at her through a mist of tears. •Oh ! what shall I do ! My poor little darling! How can Igo back to you so ! Oh! you cruel woman, to go and leave no money to buy bread for my darling. O Father 1 have you forsaken your poor children ? ' Muttering these words in a wild, incoherent way, Annie hurried along the Btreet. Suddenly she paused before a large house, brilliantly lighted. Some entertainment was evidently going on within, for carriages were driving up every minute, and guests alighting, who ascended the broad steps that led to the door.

Annie stood motionless a few minutes, gazing with her pale, wan face up at the windows. Through the lace curtains she could seed the figures of the guests moving to and fro, or gathered together in group*. A few belated snowtiakes came straying down, and one touched her cheek with its soft, chilly caress. She brushed it away with a shiver and took a step forward, for a sudden bitter resolution had come to her.

'Yes, I'll do it,' she murmured, 'for Lily's sake!'

Pcor child! Bather than ask alms for herself, she would have died of hunger. But the thought of Lily, that fading flower, took away her pride, and she hastened towards the steps. But even as she went, another thought flashed across her mind. It seemed a wild idea, but what would she not have ventured for Lily's sake ! She dared not knock at the lower door, for fear of being rej lotod. Close behind the next group of guests followed the little trembling figure, in its shabby gray dress and faded shawl. The waiter was stopping her unceremoniously, but Annie, reading pity in the eyes of a lovely young girl, who paused near her, said in pleading tones : ' Oh, young lady, do ask if I may sing for them ! I don't wish to beg, but I have a little sister at home who is very sick, and oho's had nothing to eat since noon, and— Her voice faltered. Tears sprang to the young girl's eyes, but her brother who stood close by, looked rather sceptical. He was a good-heaited fellow, however, and his hand was stealing involunta ily towards bis vest pocket, when another glance at Annie's pale, beautiful face made him pause, and ask, with growing interest, • Did you ask if you might sing for them ?'

■ If they will let me,' said Annie, timidly" ' Walt a moment, then, and I will speak to the lady of the house,' He went into the parlor, leaving his sister with Annie. Neither spoke now, for they were listening with anxiety for what the hostess might say, but the girl took Annie's hand gently in her's. Tears sprang to the poor child's eyes as she looked gratefully at this kind young stranger. There was a sadden lull in the gay buzz of conversation while Arthur Selwyn delivered his message, then a light ripple of laughter, followed by the confused murmur of voices.

' Do let her —just for the curiosity of the thing 1' cried several, and in a moment more Arthur reappeared. 'Yes, she has given'her permission,'he said ; ' don't be afraid, but do your best,' for he felt no email Interest and curiosity as to the result.

Annie followed him timidly to the door, but paused there, glanoing down at her shoes. The look of amused expectancy on the faoes of the guests nearest her changed to mingled pity and admiration. Her beautiful, pallid face, bo childlike in its innccenoe, yet so old in its look of suffering, appealed to their compassion. And to see her so thinly clad—on this winter's evening, too! ■Stand here, my good girl,' said the hostess, in a graciously condescending voice, shoving a rug dexterously forward as she spokp. ' Are you sure you can sing ?' ' Yes, ma'am,' said Annie, in her clear, gentle voice, as she took the plaoe assigned her. A faint color rose in her cheek, as glanoing upward, she saw all eyes fixed up en her, « ' Eing your best, then, child,' sata the lady, encouragingly, 'don't be frightened.' But Annie needed no encouragement. A timid, shrinking girl, she ussd to find it a positive torture when required to sing before her father's guests. Bat now the image of Lily rose before her, driving away all thoughts of self. Her momentory tremor vanished, and Annie sang as she bad never sung before—

* Oh, mother, it's coldwind Bighing 1 I tremble, I faint, with the hunger and pain ; God listens, yon Bay, to the little birds crying, Oh, how can He bear it when children complain ? Ah me ! can it coma from the hand of a Father, ThiH rain falling on na so bitter and chill?' «Fear not! 'neath His wings He will tenderly gather His poor, trembling children —so trust in Him still!'

•hear the winter-

• Ah! mothor, the sun shines so warmly in Heaven, They hear not the wind sighing cold o'er the moor, And God and the angels are happy forever ' — 'Child! think how thy Saviour was homeless and poor 1 Ah I darling ! alone on the mountain he WAndsrcd The cold ground his pillow, the dew falling chill, He thinks of it now as he watches from heaven His poor homeless children, so trust in Him still! *

The sweet voice trembled into silence. Annie could scarcely sing the last line, and tears were falling over the cheeks. She was not the only one weeping, but she noticed little that weDt on around her. Her thoughts were far away.

There was a moment's silence, then several voices were heard, pleading for ' more.' Arthur would have interposed, but Annie began another song immediately a lighter, gayer air, for she dared not trust herself to sing as she had before. A third song followed, but when for the fourth time they pleaded for ' just one more/ she burst into tears. *My little sister has had nothing to eat all this time,' she sobbed out. ■ Please give me enough to buy her some food, and I will come back again if you like.' * Yes, yes, poor girl, we have been very thoughtless,' said Mrs Reynold, this time in a real motherly voice, and wiping away the tears from her own eyes. * Arthur 1 Oh, that's right,' for he was passing around a hat, and soon brought it to Annie, nearly halffull. She threw up her hands with a bewildered, half frightened look. ' No, no, I've not earned all that !' ' You have earned it, you foolish child, more than earaed it,' said Arthur, in a kind though peremptory voice. * Take it for your little sister's sake, if not for your own ? '

Annie could only sob, while he did up the money for her in a handkerchief he took from his pocket. Meanwhile, Dr. Beynolds, husband of the hostess, had been giviDg directions to a servant, and the man now appeared with a large basket. ' I am going with yon, my ohild,' said the old gentleman i indly. 'lam a doctor, and can perhaps do something to relieve yonr little sister.'

' You are very, very kind, sir,' said Annie, tearfully. 'But I don't like to take you from your friends'— ' Ob, pooh I they're used to seeing me called off at any moment!' said the doctor, in his brusque, bnt good-natured way. ' Shan't be gone but half an hour!' Mary Selwyn passed to his side. 'Oh, may I go too ?' ' No, Miss, couldn't be thought of,' said the doctor, decidedly, but looking down at her with a kindly twinkle in his eye, ' You're in a pretty rig to go and see sick folks!'

' I will come to-morrow, then, may I?' said Mary, pressing Annie's hand, affectionately ; ' will you tell me where you live ?'

Annie told her, a smile breaking through her tears. Was It only an hour ago she was saying bitterly to herself that there seemed no love, no sympathy left in the world for the poor and distressed ! God was kinder, and human hearts were kinder than she had dared to think.

' Come, child,' said the doctor, 'my sleigh is waiting outside. Wrap this around you,' he added, throwing over her shoulders the warm shawl his wife had hastily sent for; ' you look as if you needtd nursing yourself.' He was leading her away, but Annie oonld not leave them thus. Yet her heart was almost too full for words.

* (*od bless you all !' she sobbed out at last, and went out, biding her face in the fold of the shawl.

Three years had passed away, bringing many changes with them. The sweetest voice in the old ■■■ church is Annie's. And her gentle, affectionate nature endears her to all who know her.

Little she dreamed of this on that bleak winter night, when trembling and shrinking, she entered Dr. Beynolds' doorway. That year of sorrow is almost forgotten now—when remembered, it is with tearful gratitude to God, and the kind friends who have helped him. One of her dearest friends is Mpry Selwyn. Sbe loves her like a sister, and Mary thinks no one can be quite so good and lovely as Annie. Some hint that Arthur is of his sister's way of thinking, but as yet this is only a matter of conjecture. Lily will be a cripple as long as she lives. But her life is a happy one, for all around her love her, and cherish her, as they would a tender flower. And though she suffers much at times, she is always patient and sweet, and her own happy, contented spirit makes an atmosphere of sunshine about her.