University of Virginia Library

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7

The Milk-White Dove;

OR, LITTLE JACOB'S TEMPTATION.

Will you have a story, darling,
I know one very old,
For when I was a little child
I used to hear it told.
It is about a little boy,
And the pigeons which he sold.

My father had a pleasant voice—
When he came home to tea,
He used to say “Come here my child,
And sit upon my knee;
I'll sing a song, or tell a tale,
Which ever pleaseth thee.”

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I almost always chose a song;
At other times I said,
“To-night a story, father dear,”
And then I leaned my head
Against that loving father's breast,
Till it was time for bed.

He used to tell me fairy tales,
And stories strange and old;
Of ladies fair with silken hair,
And kings and chieftains bold.
I wish I could remember all
The wondrous things he told.

Of flying gardens which a king
Could call for anywhere,
Of birds that talked, and fish that walked,
And castles in the air.
With walls of gold, and silver spires,
And windows broad and fair.

Of camels, far in eastern lands,
Living in deserts wide;

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Of spotted tigers, who among
The pathless jungles hide.
And tropic birds whose feathers seem,
In rainbow colors dyed.

The songs he sung were mournful ones,
As solemn as a hymn;
But these he never sang for me,
Except at twilight dim.

I noticed it was always so,
And used to wonder why,
Until I found the darkness hid,
The tear-drops in his eye.

I cannot tell you how I loved,
This Father good and mild!
I lost him, darling, when I was
A very little child.

The story I shall tell you now,
He used to say was true;
It is about a little boy,
Not older much than you.

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His mother, she was very poor,
And kept a rich man's gate:
Until the carriages pass'd thro',
There Jacob had to wait.

Now Jacob was a patient lad,
A loving faithful son:
Of all the things the rich man had,
He wanted only one.

A pigeon—with a crested head,
And feathers soft as silk,
With crimson feet and crimson bill—
The rest as white as milk.

He had some pigeons of his own,
He loved them very well;
But then his mother was so poor,
He reared them all to sell.

He kept them in a little shed,
That sloped down from the roof;
Great trouble had he every spring,
To make it water-proof.

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He used to count them every day,
To see he had them all;
They knew his footstep when he came,
And answered to his call.

Now two were gray, and two were black,
And two were slaty brown—
(One had a ring around its neck,
And one a crested crown.)

And one—a chocolate-colored hen—
Was prettier than the rest,
Because there was a gloss like gold
All round its throat and breast.

Now, darling, if you count them all
How many does it make?
The gray—the black—the slaty brown—
Be sure there's no mistake.

You know the little birds in spring,
Build houses where they dwell,
And feed and rear their little ones,
And love each other well.

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So the black pigeons Jacob had,
Were mated with the gray;
And crested-crown and ring-neck, made
Their nest the first of May.

For God hath made each little bird
To love and need a mate;
And so, the little chocolate hen,
Was very desolate.

And Jacob thought if he could get
The rich man's milk-white dove,
And keep it—always—for his own!—
Now, listen to me, love.

He wanted that which was not his,
That which another had;
And so, a great temptation grew
Around the little lad.

The rich man had whole flocks of birds,
And Jacob reasoned so;
“If I should take this one white dove,
How can he ever know.

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“Among so many, can he miss,
The one which I shall take;
Among so many, many birds,
What difference can it make?”

But, darling, even while his heart
Throbbed, with these wishes strong,
A something always troubled him!
He knew that it was wrong.

So time passed on—he watched the dove,
How every day it came,
Nearer and nearer to the shed,
More gentle and more tame.

He watched it with a longing eye,
At last one summer day,
He saw it settle on the roof
As if it meant to stay.

It pruned its feathers in the sun,
And drest them all with care;
And with a soft and loving coo
Unfurled its pinions fair.

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The lonely little chocolate hen,
Seemed very happy too;
And answered always when she heard,
The milk-white pigeon coo.

Now Jacob was a happy boy—
Said he “It has a right
To choose the dwelling anywhere,
Most pleasant in its sight.”

And so he scattered grains of corn,
And crumbs of wheaten bread;
Because he thought the dove would stay,
Where it was kindly fed.

If ever little boy was glad,
Why Jacob was that one!
But, darling, from your little heart,
Say, what would you have done?

Would you have kept what was not yours,
Because you thought you might;
Without your mother's voice to say,
My child, it is not right?

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Well, time passed on—the milk-white dove,
Well pleased with Jacob's care,
Soon learned to know him like the rest,
And seemed right happy there.

One morning he had called them all,
Around him to be fed;
And on the ground he scattered corn,
And peas, and crumbs of bread.

When all at once he heard a man,
Outside the road-gate, call
“Boy, if these pigeons are for sale
I think I'll take them, all.”

All!—how it smote on Jacob's ear!
“I see there are but eight;
If you will take two dollars, down,
I'll pay you at that rate.”

Now, at that moment, all the birds
Were feeding in the sun,
But, Jacob, in his startled heart
Could think of only one.

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And never since the milk-white dove,
Had joined the chocolate hen,
Had he felt in his inmost heart,
As he was feeling then!

“Come—hurry, hurry!” said the man,
I have no time to lose;
Between the dollars, and the birds,
It can't be hard to choose.”

Poor Jacob, having once begun
To do what was not right;
Forgetting he was standing in
His heavenly Father's sight;

And knowing how his mother had,
A quarter's rent to pay;
Felt in his heart the sense of right,
Was melting fast away.

When, from the open cottage door,
There came a murmuring low—
It was his mother's morning hymn,
Solemn, and sweet, and slow.

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He listened—and a holy fear,
Was wakened in his heart,
And strength was given him that hour,
To choose the better part.

And turning to the stranger man
A frank untroubled eye,
He said, “But seven birds are mine,
But seven you can buy.”

“O,” said the man, “They go in pairs,
And will not suit me then;”
So Jacob sold him only six,
And kept the chocolate hen.

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And when the evening shadows came,
And dew was on the grass,
He watched outside the garden gate,
To see the rich man pass.

And in his hand the milk-white dove,
He held with gentle care;
And many a soft caress he laid,
Upon its feathers fair.

And when, at last, the rich man came,
Poor Jacob rendered bold
By feeling he was in the right,
His artless story told.

And after he had owned to all,
The wrong which he had done,
And the worse wrong he wished to do,
He lifted to the sun,

A happy, open, fearless face,
Which won the rich man's love;
And so he bade him always keep
For his, the milk-white dove.

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“I wish that boy were old enough,
My steward's place to take;
For such an honest little boy,
A worthy man will make.”

So thought the rich man, as he sought
His lordly hall, to dine;
So thought the rich man, as he sat,
And drank his costly wine.

And Jacob, once more good and true,
Stood in his mother's sight;
The struggle of temptation past,
The wrong all turned to right.

And tho', perhaps, she never knew
Her early morning hymn,
As God's own voice had reached her child,
And given strength to him;

Yet, peace was in her holy heart,
And faith and hope were strong;
She drew him gently to her breast,
And held him close and long.

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And Jacob with a heart at rest,
Laid down upon his bed;
And whiter wings than his white dove's
Were round his pillow spread.