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A YOUNG SOLDIER

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Mountain View, California · Jul 19, 1905

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 31, No. 29.

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A YOUNG SOLDIER.

HAROLD had finished his breakfast and was listening to what his father was saying to his mother. "Randall has asked me to keep a lookout on matters down at the lighthouse. Old Jacobs has been ailing for a few days, and they are looking for a substitute. He is trying to brave it through, and begs to be let alone as long as he can keep up. Randall has agreed to let him hold on if he can. Toward evening every day Jacobs is to run up a flag as a signal if he is able to attend to the lights. But Randall is out of range of the place, so he has asked me to watch for it as I come out from the city. In case it is not flying I am to let him know at once. Now, what I want to get at is this—I'm not coming out until the later train, and I wish you would look for it, and in case it fails to appear send a quick message to Randall. You could send John Garvey. Not a minute must be lost after six o'clock. But as the old man has stood it out so long, I think he will pull through."
"I will remember," said mother.
"Harold," she said later in the day, "I am going over to see Mrs. Brand this afternoon. Can I depend on you to look at the lighthouse as you come home?"
"Yes, without fail," said Harold.
The family was spending the summer in a cottage by the sea, and Harold was going for a day along the shore in company with some friends. It was a day long to be remembered, with its delights in the way of fishing, bathing, and the sailing of small boats.
As the sun was sinking low the others took leave of Harold, their home lying some distance farther down the shore than his own. Crossing from the beach to the rising ground, he would have a view of the lighthouse. As he rounded some rocks on the coast and came within view of the lighthouse, he saw with one glance that the safety signal was not flying, and the gravity of the situation forced itself upon him. With a swift run he made his way to the lighthouse.
The poor old keeper, unknown to himself, or to any one else, had been fighting against a threatened course of fever. With the sturdy obstinacy of many of his class, he had resisted all suggestions of a doctor. As Harold now entered the little house he saw that there was no doubt of the old man being seriously ill. He lay on a lounge, his eyes glowing with fever, and began motioning eagerly to Harold with swift, incoherent speech.
Harold was alarmed with the wild gesturing, and could only make out the words "carbon" and "lights" from the indistinct muttering. But he needed no words.
"I know!" he cried, trying to reassure the old man. "I'll go and send some one."
With swift steps he was out of the house and speeding across the sand.
"Where's John?" he asked, as he breathlessly entered the barn in which John worked. His answer was a dismal groan.
"I'm here," at length came a voice from a pile of hay in one corner. "Somebody left a pitchfork in the hay, and it ran into my foot."
"O John! Old Jacobs is sick and there is no one to fix the light! and I came over to get you to go over to Mr. Randall's on Ripstaver."
"Somebody's got to go." John spoke with energy as he tried to rise, but fell back as his injured foot touched the floor.
"I must go," said Harold. "Rip will not be long going."
"You never could ride him."
"But I must." With eager hands Harold began reaching up to a nail for the bridle. John gazed at the boy, not knowing what to do. Then, seeing the determined light in his eyes, he made his best effort to assist him, with all the while a running fire of protest.
"You may have your head, now, Rip," said Harold, laying a firm grasp on the reins.
On sped Ripstaver, his hoofs seeming to spurn the ground. His rider felt almost dizzy as the trees and fences flew by. A part of his way lay over a bridle path through a strip of woods, and here he had to lean his head down on the horse's neck and grasp his mane. But Ripstaver never failed to obey the guidance of the small hands, and but little valuable time had been spent before Harold drew him up at Mr. Randall's door and told his story.
"And twilight already setting in! Well, my boy, you've done a good work coming here on that horse. Now you can keep it up by letting me have him to go to the lighthouse. If I cut straight to the beach, I can make it pretty quickly."
Harold had thought of that. He had anticipated a good deal of pleasure in riding Ripstaver home, now that he felt more at home on his back. But it was not that which made his heart sink. Three miles to walk home, but neither was that the trouble. His way lay through those woods, deep and lonely, and darkness coming on. Only to one person, the one who never laughed at his fears, would Harold ever have owned his shrinking dread of going through the heavy shadows.
"I'll be back by ten and take you home, if you'll wait," Mr. Randall called back.
But then his mother would be anxious because of his absence. No one at home knew where he was.
With a firm step he struck in the quiet way.
"You are a brave boy," his mother said, as he told his story. "You will probably never know, for our Lord has ordered that the result of much that we try to do should be hidden from us until the Great Day; but it may be that you have saved lives by your quick, brave action."
"But, mother," Harold gazed at her with a troubled look, "you're mistaken about me. You think I'm brave, but I'm not. I was afraid you wouldn't believe it of me, mother, but I was afraid—yes, most of all—of going through the woods."
"My little hero," mother put a very tender arm around him, "don't you know that the bravest men are those who see a danger and yet never turn back from it? And just so a boy is brave who casts his fear behind him, and does his duty in spite of it."—Exchange.