Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Children, listen to the story I will try my best to tell,
Of a hero brave as any that in battle nobly fell;
It was not in long-past ages, nor in country far away,
But the scene was Bristol city, and it was the other day;
And the hero of my story was a boy but six years old,
Yet I think his name is worthy to be written up in gold.

Johnnie Carr and Willie Stephens went out playing in the street,
Willie was two years the younger, and his face was pale and sweet;
Little Willie! pretty Willie! many a stranger passing by
Turned and smiled at little Willie with his wide blue wondering eye.

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Johnnie Carr was strong and rosy, curly haired, and hazel eyed,
Bright and merry—who can wonder Johnnie was his mother's pride?
Yet there was a spark of mischief lurking in those dimpled cheeks,
Though you never could be angry at his little thoughtless freaks.

Willie's hoop, see, he has taken, running laughing on before;
Little Willie tries to catch him, till he scarce can follow more:
Then the tears come, yet he follows with his little weary feet,
Follows to the fields and hedges far beyond the busy street;
Then he sits beside the pathway, crying in his childish woe,
Weeping sadly for his mother, asking home again to go.
Chilly is the autumn evening, quickly falls the deepening shade;
Johnnie takes the little hand and bids him not to be afraid.
So a little while they wander, but they miss the homeward track,
And the wind is blowing colder, and the night comes drear and black.

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‘Oh, I am so tired, Johnnie!’ little Willie sadly cries;
‘And I'm cold and hungry, Johnnie!’ Tears are now in Johnnie's eyes:
He has teased the little fellow, and he's full of sad remorse,
‘Get up, Willie,’ he is saying; ‘get up; I will be your horse.’
Then upon his back he took him, staggering on beneath his load,
Staggering just a little distance on the dark and friendless road;
But the burden was too heavy, and he set poor Willie down:—
Sorely puzzled now was Johnnie how to get to Bristol town.
‘Don't be frightened, Willie,’ said he; ‘we will stop out here to-night,
‘And we'll find our way directly when there comes the morning light.’
On a gate they sat a little, then said Johnnie, ‘Let us look,
‘P'rhaps within the field behind us we may find a sheltered nook.’
So into the field they clambered, and a sheltered nook they found,
Where the little tired fellows laid them down upon the ground.

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But the sodden earth was chilly, and they shivered lying there,
Little Willie, cold and hungry, sobbing for his mother's care.

Then got up our little hero—he was only six years old,
Yet he could not bear that Willie should be crying with the cold.
In his brave love all unconscious, just in simple childish guise,
Never thinking he is sharing in a mightier Sacrifice,
Johnnie took his little jacket, laid it down to make a bed,
And his other clothing simply over little Willie spread:
Then himself laid down uncovered (save his little socks and shirt),
Thinking, ‘I am strong, but Willie's very small and shan't be hurt.’

With a start there came to Johnnie sudden thought of One who cares
For His children, and he whispered, ‘Willie, we forgot our prayers.’
There they knelt, the little fellows, side by side upon the sod,

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With their simply lisped ‘Our Father’ casting all their care on God.
Then once more they lay enfolded in each other's arms so fast,
And the night wind bleak and cruel froze them with its chilling blast.

See those fathers, half distracted, friends and neighbours pressing near,
Into every nook and corner how with eager haste they peer!
See those mothers, broken-hearted for their darlings, how they gaze
Wheresoe'er the friendly lanterns high uplifted cast their rays!
Aye, but chiefly, as the tide falls, longing much yet dreading more,
Hollow-eyed the oozy mud-banks of the river they explore.
Hour by hour of chill and darkness (oh, how slow the morning light!)
In their hopeless search they wander all that long and dreadful night.

It is morning: they have found them. Lo! a labourer on his way
Came upon them as still folded in each other's arms they lay.

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They are breathing, barely breathing, all unconscious, cold as stone:
Noble Johnnie! pretty Willie! yes, the life has not quite flown.
And they take them to a cottage, and they chafe each frozen limb;
Little Willie has been covered, there is better hope for him,
And the mothers stand there watching, and their tears are falling fast.
Little Willie's eyelids tremble; yes, there's hope for him at last!
See the warm milk he has swallowed! See, he sighs a little sigh!
Then he smiles, as on his mother he uplifts his large blue eye.
But the little hero, Johnnie—ah! they chafe his limbs in vain!
Never shall his merry laughter echo through the house again.
Faint and fainter comes his breathing, marble white that open brow;
Who will dare to speak of comfort to those stricken watchers now?
‘O my Johnnie! O my Johnnie! speak to me one little word!’
Sobbed the mother, but I know not whether Johnnie ever heard.

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Yet at once, as one awaking, with his eyelids open wide,
Just one word he whispered faintly—it was, ‘Willie!’— then he died.

In the churchyard Johnnie's sleeping underneath the grassy mould:
No one puts a stone upon it lettered with the tale in gold:—
‘'Neath this stone a little hero, Johnnie Carr of Bristol, lies,
‘Who to save his little playmate gave his life a sacrifice.’

Children! think how, when the nations gather round the mighty throne,
He who gave His life for others will claim Johnnie for His own.
Think how full of strange sweet wonder will the gracious tidings be,
‘What thou didst to little Willie, that I count as done to Me.’