Story-Tell Lib | Page 8

ways he couldn't stop lookin' at it. And
bimeby he shet hisself up there all alone, and spent his whole time jest
a-lookin' at that hard, stony face, and thinkin' who't was, and who'd
brought all his trouble on him. There was poor folks all 'round that
deestrict, but he never done nothin' to help 'em; let 'em be hungry or

thirsty or ailin', or shet up in jail, or anything, he never helped 'em or
done a thing for 'em, 'cause he was a-lookin' every single minute at that
head, and seein' how stony and hard it was, and bein' scaret of it and the
One he thought it looked like.
Folks that was in trouble come along and knocked at his door, and he
never opened it a mite, even to see who was there. Sheep and lambs
that had got lost come a-strayin' into his yard, but he never took 'em in,
nor showed 'em the way home. He wa'n't no good to nobody, not even
to hisself, for he was terr'ble unhappy and scaret and angry. So 't went
on, oh! I d'know how long, years and years, I guess likely, and there the
man was shet up all alone, lookin' and lookin', and scaret at lookin' at
that ha'sh, hard, stony face and head. But one day, as he was settin'
there by the winder lookin', he heerd a little sound. I d'know what made
him hear it jest then. There'd been sech sounds as that time and time
ag'in, and he never took no notice. 'Twas like a child a-cryin', and that's
common enough.
But this time it seemed diff'ent, and he couldn't help takin' notice. He
tried not to hear it, but he had to. 'T was a little child a-cryin' as if it had
lost its way and was scaret, and the man found he couldn't stand it
somehow. Mebbe the reason was he'd had a little boy of his own once,
and he lost him. Now I think on 't, that was one o' the things he blamed
on God, and thought about when he looked at the Stone Head. Anyway,
he couldn't stand this cryin' that time, and he started up, and, fust thing
he knowed, he'd opened the door and gone out. He hadn't been out in
the sunshine and the air for a long spell, and it made his head swimmy
at fust. But he heerd the little cryin' ag'in, and he run along on to find
the child. But he couldn't find it; every time he'd think he was close to
it, he'd hear the cryin' a little further off. And he'd go on and on,
a-stumblin' over stones and fallin' over logs and a-steppin' into holes,
but stickin' to it, and forgettin' everything only that little cryin' voice
ahead of him. Seems 's if he jest must find that little lost boy or girl, 's
if he'd be more 'n willin' to give up his own poor lonesome old life to
save that child. And, jest 's he come to thinkin' that, he see somethin'
ahead of him movin' and in a minute he knowed he'd found the lost
child.

'Fore he thought what he was a-doin', he got down on his knees jest's he
used to do 'fore he got angry at God, and was goin' to thank him for
helpin' him to save that child. Then he rec'lected. It come back to him
who God was, and how he'd seed his head, with the ha'sh stony face up
on the mountain, and that made him look up to see it ag'in.
And oh! what do you think he see? There was the same head up
there,--he couldn't make a mistake about that,--but the face, oh! the face
was so diff'ent. It wasn't ha'sh nor hard nor dark any more. There was
such a lovin', beautiful, kind sort o' look on it now. Some ways it made
the man think a mite of the way his father, that had died ever so long
ago, used to look at him when he was a boy, and had been bad, and
then was sorry and 'shamed. Oh, 't was the beautif'lest face you never
see! "Oh! what ever does it mean?" says the man out loud. "What's
changed that face so? Oh! what in the world's made it so diff'ent?" And
jest that minute a Angel come up close to him. 'T was a little young
Angel, and I guess mebbe 't was what he'd took for a lost child, and that
he'd been follerin' so fur. And the Angel says, "The face ain't changed a
mite. 'Twas jest like that all the time, only you're lookin' at it from a
diff'ent p'int." And 'twas so, and he see