page 42

Little Mender of Dreams

(By Olive Scandlyn.)

It was a gloriously golden day, and the willows, down by the cool-running river, never had seemed so fair or so daintily beautiful. Silver-grey poplars had entwined their branches with those of the willows, and on one part of the bank, a hawthorn had set its slender feet.

A fragrant scent from the clusters of snowy blossoms filled the warm air with sweetness, while in amongst the tender, bushy leaves, almost hidden by the star-like flower petals, a little brown bird chirped incessantly.

Peter lived in the big house with the beautiful garden, that sloped away down to the very banks of the river, and Peter had lived in that big house all his four short years.

He loved it so, too, although he was too young yet to know all the precious love and dear thoughts that had gone into the making of that lovely home. So Peter saw only the prettiness of the soft hangings, the polished wood, and the careful arrangement of pictures and books, china and flowers.

And how Peter did love the dainty blossoms in the big garden, for many a happy hour had he spent there with his fairies. When you are only four, and so have not yet known the scorn the great world holds for such childish things, you believe in all the little folk—the fairies, elves and sprites.

But on this golden day, Peter had forsaken his fairies, and brought a childish sorrow to the fragrant hawthorn that grew amidst the willows and poplars by the cool-running stream.

For to-morrow was Mother's birthday, and Daddy, before he went to talk with God had always brought his “dear” a present. And this was the first birthday since Daddy had gone away.

“And y'know,” Peter sobbed to the scented blossoms while the little brown bird hushed for awhile its chirping. “Mine Daddy will feel so mis'rubble, ‘cause Mummie says you tant buy things in Heaven. Oh, mine poor Daddy!” and the tear-filled blue eyes were lifted to the cloudless sky where Daddy talked with God.

A golden-brown collie, lured down to the river by the cool drinking water, came upon the huddled up child and stopped to sniff at him. Then, with bushy tail a-wag, he thrust his cold nose into Peter's damp, little hand.

Startled, the child rolled over on to his back, brushing away the bright tear drops and choked back a big sob which made his throat ache and ache.

But the golden-brown collie dog sat back on his haunches and grinned as only a dog can grin, while his liquid eyes looked into Peter's as much as to say “Fancy crying on such a lovely day!”

And Peter blinking away some more tears, smiled too, and patted the silken head. He knew where the big dog lived, and had seen the tall stern man and his pretty wife. But when Peter had asked Mother if he might go and say “hullo” to them she had smiled sadly and drawn her little boy close to her.

“The poor lady is naughty. Peter must ask God to make her better.”

One day Peter had heard Daddy say, although the little boy understood only part of it:

“Mrs. Haslett has applied for a separation. She will be leaving soon. Poor John—and he loves her so. She is so clever, too, and could make so many dreams come true.”

page 43

But Peter had crept away then, for Mother said it was very wrong to listen when you were not supposed to.

Now, as he sat beneath the hawthorn tree. Daddy's words came back to him, and he said them aloud in his baby way, while the big colliedog gravely listened.

“Mine Daddy said the pwitty lady will make dweams come true. And I dweamed last night mine Daddy dwopped some f'owers down to Mummie, for her ‘day. Do you fink—do you fink,” tumbling the words out in his eagerness, “she would make mine dweam come true?”

The big collie-dog rubbed his head against the child's shoulder and grinned, then trotted off in the direction of his home.

“Waiton Waiton! I'm tuming!” and the little boy started off in pursuit.

The iron gates were open, so Peter hurried inside them, and stood still for a moment to regain his breath. His heart was going pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, so he placed his hand tightly against his chest and started to walk slowly up the garden path, to the low bungalow.

Mrs. Haslett saw the small figure approaching, and went out onto the lawn to meet the child.

Peter's face was rosy and the breeze had ruffled his bright curls into beautiful disorder, but the blue eyes were very steadfast as he raised them.

“Well, little boy! Have you come to see me?” she asked in her curiously sweet voice, and she smiled rather wistfully as Peter's eyes searched her face.

“Yes. I did follow him,” pointing to the big dog who had placed himself at Mrs. Haslett's feet. “I comed—oh I comed to ask—will you make mine dweams come twue?”

“Your dream, dear? I am afraid I do not understand.”

A shadow dimmed the bright eyes.

“You tan! You tan! Mine Daddy said you would make dweams come twue.”

Mrs. Haslett drew him with her into the shade of the rose covered porch, and sitting down on a low chair, took Peter on her knee.

“Now tell me all about it.”

Peter twisted himself around to face her, and then, in his baby way, with many stumblings over the awkward words, told his story.

“And mine Daddy said you would make dweams come twue. Oh, would you—p'ease make mine dweam come twue? I'll div you mine teddy, and mine twain, and all mine pennies!”

In his eagerness he had thrown his arms tightly round her neck.

With a strange little cry she buried her face in his sunny curls.

“Yes, dear, I'll make your dreams come true. Daddy won't cry to-morrow.”

Peter's rapturous cry of joy almost startled her.

“Oh you're dood! Peter loves you!” and he rewarded her with a hearty kiss.

Mrs. Haslett still held him on her knee, and presently, tired out with all the happenings of that day, he fell asleep, with his head resting on her breast.

A big, hot tear fell suddenly. Another and then another splashed down on the sleeping page 44 child and presently the dark head rested close to the golden curls.

The touch of a baby can wreck the proudest and the hardest heart in the world; but the heart of Mrs. Haslett was neither proud nor hard, but just one of a butterfly—in its careless, carefree, reckless throbbing.

Her husband, coming slowly round the corner of the bungalow, found the two there and stopped still. Then with a twitching face went across to his wife.

She heard him approach and started to her feet, clasping the child closer to her. Her tearstained face was wonderfully beautiful in its sadness. Silently they looked at each other, till suddenly John knelt at her feet.

“Sylvia, don't go away! I love you so!” came the passionate cry from a man's breaking heart.

Tenderly Mrs. Haslett placed the slumbering child on the low chair, and kneeling down, too, drew her husband's head against her breast, where a moment ago Peter's golden curls had rested.

“Ah John, I have been so miserable! Will you forgive me? John I love you too—oh, so much. The pure love of a child has driven the foolishness from my heart.”

So a little later the three of them went down the garden path together and crossed the wide road that led from the river, to Peter's mother.

And Mother glancing from John's face to Sylvia's understood and took Mrs. Haslett into a warm embrace.

Peter, now widely awake and perched high on John's shoulder, smiled radiantly and blew a kiss to Mother.

“Mummie, mine dweam is tuming twue! Daddy won't cry to-morrow.”

Mother was puzzled, so it all had to be explained, and when the recital was ended, Peter slipped down from John's shoulder.

“Is you glad mine dweam is coming twue?”

“Yes, sonny boy.” Mother whispered and held him tightly as she watched the two whose dreams had been mended by a little child, walk away together, loving arms about each other.

“Little mender of dreams. Mother is ever so glad.”

So Peter smiled happily, and ran away to bid “goodnight” to his dear flower fairies, before the golden day faded into soft twilight.