The age-herald. [volume] (Birmingham, Ala.) 1897-1902, 1899-02-05
THE MURMUR
OF THE WORLD

Last night saw in the street litt1s
boy whose face was fashioned in the smoke
from my pipe all though the silent watches,
and shall remain with me after many an
other face is forgot. He was a sturdy little
lad, and I looked at him because he was
looking down at his own feet. Instantly I
read in all its little greatness that fleeing
moment in his life. He wore top-boots
perfectly new-perhaps the first he had ever
worn. 1 paused under the street light and
waited his coming. He had made me a lit
tie boy again, and L wished to salute him.
He would look down at his boots, and
then up al the passers-by in the crowded
street. AS he approached near enough for
me to touch him, he looked up and saw
my face and in it something of sympathy
and comradeship. He greeted me with the
broadcast smile possible on his CHEEKY face,
and 1 called to him, Hello my little mas
terri He held out his left hand--his right
carried his WORKOUT shoes DO you see
my new boots?" he asked in a voice that
sounded infinitely soft and sweet. That
led to more talk, and he and 1 went into
executive session at soda fountain and
had something refreshing. 1t came out that
at the very moment when he had been
forced to the conclusion that he must go
barefooted "a kind gentleman" had given
him the new boots that he wore. He was
poor, and earned his few pennies by selling
newspapers and running errands. His
clothes were very shabby, though he was
clean; but l was not concerned in his raj
ment. Yet he seemed to me to be a little
prince wearing the nodding plumes of
kingly race.
So much for the marvellous power 6f
childish joy-of mere human exultation!
That little son of want with his new boots
trudging along the busy street, was as
proud and joyous as any little heir to a
throne whom announcing heralds ever pro-
claimed to an eager world. One simple act
of kindness had filled his pinched life with
light, and he in turn had given out JOY in
the street. All his life may be a life of
want, but all the years cannot rob the lad
of last nights hour of rejoicing. His name
1 did not discover 1t was of no consequence.
His glad face and his high beating heart
were regal beyond the power of the Tsar.
and royal In dominions beyond the sway Of
any earthly sceptre. Once heard hun
bred thousand armed men speaking as one
man give cry to the proud obiuration of
the Russians-"God and the Tsar!' 1t
thrilled me-swayed my reason as no other
human cry I ever heard-but 1t did not
reach my heart like the soft voice of the
ragged boy with the new boots. 1t is a
far cry from TsarlSoe Seo to Birmingham,
but it is in truth no more than the span
of human heart.
Yesternight there was pre-nuptial feast
far beyond the widest flight of imagination
on the part of my Master Boots of the
Other Half. Love was there and beauty,
music and wit, soft laughter and dreamy
eyes, infinite longing and tender signs gen.
tie as the wood doves murmur. Beautiful
women robed in beautiful gowns smiled
upon men as gallant and courtly as any
knight of the old centuries Softly shaded
lights struggled with the nameless bloom on
maidenhood's wondrous face. The occasion
was a triumph of civilization, which found
there chief exponent in the fair young
hostess, graceful and gracious and cease
lessly alert in Her exquisite task of dis
pensing most gracious hospitality. She
bore herself like a princess in an old-world
tale.
The bride to be was there, likewise the
bridegroom, and about them gathered some
few of those privileged to love them. Her
eyes were filed with that love light
that may not be named in a. word
1t was the conservation and the poets
dream. There was a suggestion of that
bright tear that forever brims on the sharp
line that lies between maid and wife.
Proud, conscious almost defiant, yet rely
ing upon another, she stood upon the verge
of one life, seeking to penetrate the sweet
mysteries of that other life that begins
at the foot of the altar and ends at the
foot of. the cross,
There is another life l long to meet
Without which my life is incomplete
She has met the other life and the world
is glorious. 1t is not given to the gods To
bless a sweeter nobler trner soul; one more
worthy to wear the orange blossom coronet
of joy. She appeals to all that which is
best in every whom she exalts by be-
ing pleased to know.
Higher tribute could not be paid to any
man than to say of him who has won this
woman that he is worthy of her. Those
friends of the Two who love both of them
most are happiest that love has found the
way; and that way is rose-carpeted and
leads to the house of God.
There is striking contrast, my beloved,
between my poor little Master OF the
Boots, my guest at the soda water foun-
tain, and that prenuptial feast in the en-
lightened home of luxury and ease. There
is a bridge which Boots may not cross, but
human JOY spans the wide space and his
low cry of gratitude reaches the throne of
Truth just as quickly as the soft prayer
of the radiant bride. Poor little Boots--no-
bly, proud and beautiful bride. Each in
widely separated spheres gives joy to hui
man hearts. Each is an exponent of the
eternal verities, and each pliers from our
store of unhappiness. 1t is all of it a lesson