Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Labyrinths and the
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[Illustration: THE GARDEN OF GOD.--See pp. 40, 41.]
[Illustration:
Rosy Diamond Story Books For Girls
Illustrated
THE ANGEL CHILDREN
BOSTON, LEE & SHEPARD.]
THE
ANGEL CHILDREN;
OR,
STORIES FROM CLOUD-LAND.
BY
CHARLOTTE M. HIGGINS.
BOSTON:
LEE AND SHEPARD.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
Stereotyped by
HOBART & ROBBINS,
New England Type and Stereotype Foundery
BOSTON.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
HEPSA AND GENEVIEVE, 5
THE GARDEN OF GOD; OR, THE BABY'S FIRST SMILE, 26
CYBELE, THE TAMBOURINE GIRL, 44
THE STORY OF MAGGIE'S JOURNEY, 63
THE OLD WOMAN AND THE ENCHANTED SONG, 84
THE OLD MAN'S STORY, 102
A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD, 118
VACATION STORY BOOKS.
6 volumes. Each volume handsomely illustrated. 80 cents.
WORTH NOT WEALTH.
COUNTRY LIFE.
THE CHARM.
KARL KEIGLER.
WALTER SEYTON.
HOLIDAYS AT CHESTNUT HILL.
ROSY DIAMOND STORY BOOKS.
6 volumes. Each volume handsomely illustrated. 80 cents.
THE GREAT ROSY DIAMOND.
DAISY; or, The Fairy Spectacles.
VIOLET: A Fairy Story.
MINNIE; or, The Little Woman.
THE ANGEL CHILDREN.
LITTLE BLOSSOM'S REWARD.
These volumes are finely and profusely illustrated from designs by
Hoppin and other eminent artists. They are elegantly bound, and neatly
packed in ornamental boxes. As gifts for holidays and birthdays, where a
uniform value and appearance is desired, they are excellent.
=LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.=
STORIES.
HEPSA AND GENEVIEVE.
Genevieve lived in a large, handsome house, which had beautiful gardens
all about it. She had no brother or sister, but she had a large
play-room, filled with the nicest toys, so that a good many children who
came to play in it thought she must be perfectly happy; but Genevieve
had often thought how willingly she would give the room and all its
playthings for a little brother of her own, whom she might take out in
the garden for a walk, and watch carefully, just as her mother watched
her.
One day, while she was walking in the garden, thinking of the little
brother she so much wanted, who she was sure would look like her dear
mother, with her blue eyes, and golden curls, what should she hear but
the noise of some one crying outside the garden fence. Now, as she
could not look through the fence,--for it was quite high and made of
thick boards,--she ran quickly to the gate, and then round to the place
where she had heard the crying. There she saw a little girl sitting upon
the side-walk, with bare feet and legs, which were none of the whitest,
wearing a dress of brown cloth with many tatters in it, and short black
hair hanging over her face and head. Genevieve looked at her in
amazement.
"Dear me!" she at last exclaimed, "where do you live?"
At this question the child stopped her crying, and pulling away her hair
with both of her hands from her face, disclosed a pair of large black
eyes, which, swollen with tears, regarded little Genevieve with sly,
sleepy wonder.
It was not wonderful she should be astonished to behold so neat and
pretty a child close by her side. Genevieve wore a blue frock and white
apron, neat stockings and slippers, and pantalettes with broad ruffles.
So she only gazed at Genevieve, without dreaming of answering her
question.
"What is your name?" asked Genevieve.
"What is yours?" demanded the child.
"Mine is Genevieve. Tell me what yours is?"
"Hepsa. Do you live in there?" and Hepsa nodded her head towards the
fence. Genevieve replied that she did.
"But tell me why you were crying?" she asked.
"Because Tom beat my black cat this morning and threw her into the pond,
and she was everything I had." Hepsa burst into tears again, and little
Genevieve's heart was so filled with compassion, that she sat down upon
the dirty ground, at the side of the afflicted child, without ever
thinking of the blue frock and clean pantalettes she was soiling.
"O, dear, dear!" she cried, shocked at Tom's cruelty. "How wicked he
was! What made him do so,--your brother, too?" Genevieve thought in her
heart that little brother, of whom she so often thought, never would
have done such a thing.
Hepsa looked up half angrily, as she replied:
"You needn't keep telling me he is my brother! I'm sure I don't want
him to be, and wish he wasn't. I don't love him a bit, he always plagues
me so much."
"O, Hepsa, don't say so; pray don't!" cried Genevieve, shocked at
Hepsa's passion. "If he is your brother, you ought to love him, you
know."
"I don't know any such thing, I tell you! You may love him yourself if
you want to; but I guess, when he kicks you, and beats you, and steals
your things, and knocks your mud-houses down, you won't love him. I'd
like to know why _I've_ got to love him?" Hepsa demanded this of
Genevieve in a very fierce manner.
"Because he is your brother I suppose, and because he ought to be good;
and perhaps he plagues you because you don't love him," answered
Genevieve, somewhat perplexed how she should answer the question,
thinking in her own heart Hepsa had a very wicked brother. "At any
rate," she continued, "God gave him to you; and I have read how he tells
us all to love each other."
"I never did," replied Hepsa; "and if God gave Tom to me, I wish he'd
take him back, for I don't want him."
"Why, Hepsa; how wicked you are! You shall not talk so!" almost shrieked
Genevieve. The tears came fast into her eyes, she was so grieved to hear
Hepsa talk in that way.
"But I'm not wicked!" retorted Hepsa indignantly. "I don't know who God
is. Why should I? He never comes to see me. I suppose he comes to see
you, and is some great person; while I am poor and live in a mean house,
and nobody comes to see me, of course." Hepsa looked away from
Genevieve's blue frock, and seemed to be searching for something away
down the street.
Genevieve could not sit still any longer, but, rising, she remonstrated
with Hepsa in this manner:
"God is not a man, Hepsa; and he goes into poor houses as often as into
rich ones."
Hepsa looked very sharply upon little Genevieve as she replied,
"Ha! Don't you be telling me stories; why don't I see him ever, I'd like
to know? Haven't I got eyes?"
"I don't know," said Genevieve, doubtfully. "Father was reading this
morning about people who had eyes, but could not see."
Hepsa looked at her a moment, and then nodded her head towards her, and
said, speaking low as to a third person, "She's cracked a little, I
think;" then, as she looked towards the fence, she remembered the garden
which was behind it, and asked Genevieve for some flowers. But Genevieve
only said "O, yes," and went on to say, "Of course you can't see God,
Hepsa! He lives in the skies."
"I shouldn't think he would come down here, then. I wouldn't!"
"But, Hepsa, God loves us; then, too, he is everywhere at once."
"Mercy!" said Hepsa to herself, in a low tone. "Worse and worse!"
"And he made everything you see, Hepsa, and a great deal more beside,"
continued Genevieve.
"There, there!" said Hepsa, impatiently; "don't talk any more; it sounds
odd." Genevieve looked at Hepsa, and the wild, petulant look of her
face grieved and shocked her so much, that she burst into tears.
"What is the matter?" said Hepsa. "I thought you were going to get me
the flowers."
"And so I will," said Genevieve, wiping up her tears as well as she
could; and she ran into the garden, and picked a large bunch of flowers.
There were the sweet mignonette and heliotrope, the pink verbena, and
the beautiful white scented verbena, the gay phlox, the pure candytuft,
bits of lemon blossoms, and the faithful pansies. It was such a
beautiful bunch as to melt poor Hepsa's heart to gratitude.
"I do think I should love to kiss you," she said to Genevieve, "if my
face were not so dirty, and you look _so_ clean."
"I don't care!" said Genevieve, and so she kissed Hepsa and said,
"Hepsa, I wish you would never again talk so about God, for I love him
very dearly, and so do my father and mother."
Hepsa began to think Genevieve was not crazy, and so she became more
serious.
"But did you never read about Him, Hepsa?" asked Genevieve.
"No, indeed; I can't read at all!" exclaimed Hepsa, astonished at
Genevieve's questions.
"Not read! Why, Hepsa, why don't you go to school?"
"I can't; mother keeps me at home to tend the baby while she goes to
washing."
A bright thought came into Genevieve's little head.
"Where do you live?" she asked.
"O, away down that lane, the other side of the village! I work nearly
all the time, some way or other."
"Have you any father?"
"Yes;" and Hepsa looked as though she did not love him better than she
loved Tom.
"May I teach you to read?" asked Genevieve, looking into Hepsa's eyes
entreatingly. The child turned away her head as she answered,
"I haven't any time. I have to stay at home."
"But," pursued Genevieve, "I'll come down to your house, and bring some
books, and help you tend the baby. O! don't you love the baby?"
"No! he is _too_ cross," was the crusty reply.
"But, he is a baby; he don't know any better."
"That don't make any difference."
"Yes it does, too; your big brother knew better than to kill your pretty
pussy, and that is why it was so naughty in him to do it." This was a
new kind of argument for Hepsa; but she thought over it a moment, and
then told her little teacher she thought she might be right. "I almost
wish you would come to teach me to read. I don't know but I might like
it; and then it would be rather good to see you. Now, are you sure there
is such a person as God?" said Hepsa, glancing at Genevieve from the
corners of her eyes.
"Of course I am, Hepsa; who do you think made the sky and the ground,
the trees and grass?"
"I don't know," replied Hepsa.
"And the sun and the moon, and the stars," continued Genevieve, with a
mysterious tone. Hepsa shook her head by way of saying no.
"And all the fathers and mothers and children?" at which question Hepsa
looked _so_ perplexed.
"I asked mother once," she said, musingly, "who made all these things;
but she told me I'd better be minding the cradle. I guess she didn't
know; but I've always had spells of wondering about it."
Genevieve looked very gravely at Hepsa as she said,
"It was God who made all these things."
"Well, I don't know but it was," replied Hepsa.
"But I _know_ it was; the Bible says so, and father and mother say so,
too; beside, I feel it in my heart, when I see the sun and the flowers,
and everything looks so pretty."
"Do you?" cried Hepsa, seeming to feel a new interest in her companion.
"I wonder if you ever hear pretty voices in the trees when the wind
blows, and in the night when it is warm, and you are looking up to the
moon, and see the light that comes down through the holes in the sky,
does something great seem to come close to you?"
"Why, yes, Hepsa, ever so many times, and I think it is God. And when
Katie leaves me to go to sleep, and it is all dark, I know God comes
then, for I feel him all around, and the room seems so big--bigger than
it ever did before, bigger than the garden, bigger than the fields,
bigger than the sky. I can't tell you how big."
"O, well--and--what did you say your name was?" asked Hepsa.
"Genevieve;" and she pronounced it very slowly.
"It is rather odd," said Hepsa, trying to repeat the name; "but I want
to know if you ever laid down on the ground when it rained, and
listened."
"No!"
"Well, it is real beautiful; in the grass, it sounds _like bells_--it
sounds better where the grass is tall."
"I wish I could hear it," said Genevieve, sadly; "but my mother wouldn't
like to have me lie on the ground when it rained."
"How would she know it," asked Hepsa, "if you didn't tell her?"
"Why, Hepsa, I shouldn't want to if she wouldn't like it--I shouldn't
want to at all."
"I suppose, then, she won't let you come to hear me read?"
"O, yes she will, I know! I'll ask her, and she will kiss me, and say
yes."
So Hepsa told her where she lived, and Genevieve went into the house,
and Hepsa went home, feeling very happy about the flowers, and thinking
of the things her new friend had told her.
"She says I must love Tom, and that is so queer; but if the God who gave
me Tom, is the One who comes so near to me sometimes, I'll try; and,
perhaps, if I hadn't called Tom such names this morning, he wouldn't
have killed my poor cat." So Genevieve's words had sunk into Hepsa's
heart already.
Genevieve went to her mother, and told her what a strange little girl
she had found that morning, and that she had promised to go and teach
her to read, that she might know about God.
[Illustration: GENEVIEVE READING THE BIBLE TO HEPSA.]
On the next day she took some of her books, and, with some of her
prettiest playthings for a present to Hepsa, she went in search of
the house down the lane, on the other side of the village.
She found a gentler pupil than on the day before; and Hepsa's hair was
laid smoothly upon her forehead, her face clean, and though there were
some tatters in her dress, Genevieve did not much mind them.
The baby was in his cradle, fast asleep, and Genevieve went and knelt
down by the side of it, and looked at it carefully, as though she was
afraid of awaking it, and then whispered to Hepsa her admiration of the
little hands, which lay cunningly upon the quilt, and said how much she
wanted to kiss him; would he wake, she wondered, if she just kissed his
cheek, and didn't make any noise? Hepsa told her no; so she kissed him;
and then, after looking at him to see how sweetly he slept,--now
frowning, and now smiling in his dreams,--she went away with Hepsa, and
they talked a great while together, telling each other what the other
didn't know. Genevieve was often shocked and grieved at Hepsa's
undutiful remarks about her father, mother and brother; and when she
felt they didn't love Hepsa, as her own dear father and mother loved
her, still she could not understand why Hepsa did not love them better.
She was often a good deal perplexed to know what she should say to the
strange child; but of one thing she felt always certain, that her new
companion needed to have her heart cleansed and purified before she
could be loved well. She felt a strong love for Hepsa, and longed to
teach her more of God, and show her how to read, that she might teach
herself.
Hepsa was amazed when her friend took out the playthings from the bag
and gave them to her; no one had before shown her such kindness; and
Genevieve thought in her heart she was just as happy giving those things
to Hepsa, as when they were given to her.
Poor Hepsa had never been to school, and so she didn't even know the
alphabet; but Genevieve sat down patiently to teach her, and found truly
that much patience was necessary to accomplish the work she had
undertaken. Hepsa would soon grow discouraged when she found so much to
learn, and saw her little teacher reading so readily; and her mother
would often scold when she saw Hepsa with a book in her hand, declaring
it was foolish nonsense; but, as time went on, and the first
difficulties were overcome, and her mother began to find Hepsa growing
very gentle, and Tom had less occasion to plague his sister, they all
felt that the books Hepsa had studied, and the little girl who came so
often to see her, were kind friends, and love began to bind them all
together. Hepsa no longer wore torn clothes; Genevieve's mother had
given her some neat dresses, and Genevieve had given her needles and
thread, and taught her to sew, and now many a rent was carefully mended,
and even Tom began to look neater than formerly. She was careful too to
keep the room nicely, and one day was amply rewarded for this, when Tom
came in before she had had time to do it, and complained of its being
dirty. "Tom begins to like a clean room," she said to herself with joy,
and received his few harsh words as though they had been those of love.
The baby too was always clean, for she knew Genevieve always depended
upon kissing him.
Hepsa's father was not a good man; he was unkind to his poor wife and
children; so it was no wonder Tom had gone on, following the example
constantly placed before him; but he was a child yet, and when he saw
how Hepsa began to love him, that she grieved without being angry when
he was unkind to her, it could not but touch his heart. He was half
ashamed, too, when she saved for him some of the good things Genevieve
had brought her. At first, 't is true, he thought little about it, but
when often, after he had been so ugly to her, she came just the same,
and offered him half of her orange, or a part of her nuts, he began to
feel that he was a naughty boy, and that Hepsa was better than she used
to be.
It was very natural he should ask her the reason of this, and very
natural, too, that she should answer in this way:
"Why, Tom, I have learned a great deal about God from Genevieve, and
then she has taught me to read, and I have learned a great deal that
way. Tom, where do you think Susan went when she died?"
Tom couldn't tell. Susan was an elder sister of theirs, whom they had
loved very dearly, and who had died some two years before.
"Well, Tom; there are angels who take all the children, as soon as they
die, and show them wonderful things, and teach them, so they can go into
a beautiful place called heaven, and live with God. Well, if you begin
to be good here, and love people, you will go into that heaven sooner,
when you die, than if you are naughty, and don't think about these
things while you are here. I want to go there very much, and so I try to
be good, though I don't always make out well." Tom looked thoughtful at
his sister's words, and then said:
"I think that little Genevieve will go very fast, when she dies. But I
don't think father will get there very soon, now I tell you!"
"O, but Tom," said Hepsa sadly, "we must not think who will not go, but
how _we_ may go."
"I wish I knew how to read," said Tom; "but I never can go to school,
father makes me saw so much wood."
Then Hepsa asked him to let her teach him; and, after a good deal of
hesitation, he told her he didn't care if she did.
Some time after this, Genevieve's father and mother went away from that
place, and she parted from Hepsa with many tears in her eyes, and much
grief in her heart. "If I never see you again," she said, "don't forget
we are both going into the gardens up there," and Hepsa always
remembered.
Genevieve was a very quiet girl, but she was always ready to do
something to please her dear mother, and at night brought her father's
slippers from the closet, and placed them ready by his chair. She did,
too, many little things for the servants, who all loved her very dearly;
so when, a few years afterwards, she fell sick, and nothing they could
do for her was able to make her any better, but the doctor said she must
die, they all wept very much, and no comfort or joy could come into
their hearts. But Genevieve gently kissed them, and told them a
beautiful peace had come into her heart, for that, in the night, Christ
often came to her, and told her how the angel was all ready to take her
into his beautiful garden, and teach her out of his great golden books.
At last, one morning she died, and they laid her away in the garden near
by the fountain; and they planted the mignonette and myrtle, that,
mingling with the moss, it might grow over her grave.
And her mother said in her heart, "Let her lie here, that, as often as I
come hither, I may be reminded of the more beautiful gardens of God, to
which she has flown. And when, in the cool night, the stars look down,
the soft fragrance of the mignonette shall tell them of her loveliness,
and the myrtle and the moss of the constant love twining together the
souls of the mother and the daughter."
It was as Christ had said; the angel stood ready, and when Genevieve
closed her eyes in death, he caught her in his arms, and placed her
before the Great Gate, which led into the gardens around the kingdom of
heaven. A great many men, women and children stood about it, waiting for
it to be opened, when suddenly a very bright angel, brighter than any
she had ever seen in her dreams, came among them, seated on glorious
clouds.
Then one by one did the crowd go before him, telling him what things
they had done on earth, in order to be admitted into the gardens, to be
prepared still more for the heavens. One said he had built a large
college, given it a large sum of money, and called it by his name, that
the world might see his works, and praise the Lord. Another told him how
he had toiled in heathen lands, and dwelt among savages, that they might
know and love God; another that he had prophesied; another that he had
built a hospital for the poor, and had sheltered them from the cold
winds; another still that he had delivered slaves from cruel masters,
and brought them to the light of freedom. O, there cannot be counted all
the men and women who came before the angel, and told of the things they
had accomplished! And, as the words came upon Genevieve, her heart
trembled for fear, and had it not been for the remembrance of those kind
tones of Christ, poor Genevieve would have shrieked aloud.
What should she do? Rapidly she recalled every act of her life; but
nowhere in it could she find one act worthy to be brought before the
great bright angel. Alas! she had neither founded colleges nor
hospitals; she had never toiled in heathen lands, nor prophesied, nor
delivered slaves from bondage. Alas! must she lose those gardens when
still so near?
The angel's glance fell upon Genevieve, and she drooped down in fear;
but what was her surprise when the angel came down from the cloud, and
raising her up, said, in tones of loving cadence,
"Look, little one, thy work was accepted long ago!" and, looking as he
bade her, she saw Hepsa at her side, to whom, so long ago, she had
spoken of heaven, when she had found her a dirty, ignorant girl.
"You have worked well," said the angel tenderly. "Go now into the
garden, and ere long I will come to put you into the Christ's arms."
So Hepsa and Genevieve together walked through the gates, and the angels
who would be their teachers went with them; but I cannot tell you of the
beauty and glory of those scenes. I only beg you too to work well, that
the angel may speak as lovingly to you.
THE GARDEN OF GOD;
OR,
THE BABY'S FIRST SMILE.
In a very lovely little cottage, around which grew sweet-briers and
rose-trees, and up whose windows climbed honeysuckles and jessamines,
lived a mother with her baby.
The mother was a young woman, with golden hair, kind blue eyes, and fair
white skin. There was always a look of love in her eye, and in the
gentle tones of her voice the most soothing tenderness. People said the
baby looked like her; but he cried so much that his face was continually
distorted, and so the resemblance was not of any use to him.
Now there was a great deal of discussion about the baby's looks, as to
which he most resembled, his father or mother; some decided in favor of
his father, who was a tall man, with black hair, and black eyes, and
large, sharp features. It was a difficult question to answer, inasmuch
as the baby had yet but a very few hairs on his head, and his features
were not easily distinguishable; and as each person's decision affected
only his own opinion, there was a great deal of discussion and comparing
of the poor baby's little face with those of his parents, and, through
dint of being often shown them, the father and mother began to find the
most remarkable resemblance to each other in their little child.
Well, one day he had been crying very hard, and his poor mother was
nearly worn sick with trying to quiet him. She had walked all over the
house, shown him everything on the tables, taken up books and shaken
them before his eyes, carried him to the windows and cried "See there!
see there!" with fresh tones of love and pity, without his seeming to be
in the least edified by it all. She tossed him before the looking-glass;
but he did not seem to be comforted by the glimpse of himself, done up
in a blanket, which he caught; until, at last, after putting everything
into every place in which it didn't belong, and trying to make him look
at things he didn't care to see, she resolutely put him in the cradle,
rocked him with his head moving now on this and now on that side of the
pillow, until he fell fast asleep.
He had no sooner closed his eyes to sleep than he left his baby's body
in the cradle, and ran straight off to the gardens of God in heaven,
towards that place where dwell the angel-children who are yet to go down
and live upon the earth. As he came near the tall flowers, whose golden
petals were spread, and in whose cups lay sweet dew, he clapped his
hands with joy, and a bright smile lay on his lips, which before had
been distorted with grief.
Not far from him there rose a bright fountain, which, falling, dashed
its water gently down into a broad, silvery basin beneath. In the midst
of the falling spray a large bird, with long, blue plumage, played, now
diving beneath the water, and now catching the drops as they fell from
the fountain. Then came other birds, some in gay scarlet plumage, with
white feathers about their necks and at the tips of their wings and
tails; they, too, played in the fountain, and chased each other over
the sparkling waters.
Then there were tall trees, of such a bright green as is seldom seen on
the earth, and on them were fruits which looked a little like those we
see here, but a thousand times more beautiful, for they shone like
precious stones. About everything was a glory which it is impossible to
describe.
At a little distance was a troop of fair children at play, and when they
had seen the little child from the earth they ran towards him, and would
have kissed him joyously, but that they saw the tears he had so recently
shed still standing upon his cheeks; at this, sorrow shone over their
faces, and tears like pearls entered their own eyes, as, in the
tenderest manner, they asked him the cause of his grief.
"Do not ask me, dear brothers and sisters," he entreated; "I wish only
to think how I am with you now for a little while, and I long to forget
the earth-scenes." Speaking thus he kissed them all, and led them away
off among the bright fields.
Very gayly they played a long time; they plucked the golden apples from
the trees, and threw them far up in the sky, and the apples bounded so
lightly that they still went on, till at last they dropped down to the
earth into some dark rooms where poor people lived, who, when they found
them, rejoiced exceedingly.
Then they went riding on the clouds, and the light of their faces gave a
brightness to the edge of the clouds, so that the people on the earth
loved to stand watching them, never fancying what a troop of
angel-children were frolicking on them.
At last they became weary of this sport, and bent their way quite
towards the earth. At this our earth-child saddened, and did not wing
his flight as quickly as the others did. Upon this they looked around
upon him and said:
"Why tarry you? Do you not know we go to the earth, to do there what our
dear Teacher bids us? You have played with us, and will you not now do
the work which you have so often done with us before?" So he sped on
with them, but his voice was silent and his heart wept.
They soon came to the earth, and then, unseen by any one, they made
their way towards a little, dingy house, in one room of which sat a
little boy upon a bench, driving pegs into the sole of a boot. On one
side lay all the boots in which he had driven pegs, and on the other a
great many more in which he must still drive them. He looked sad and
pale, and the sweat lay in large drops upon his forehead. By his side
sat a large, stout man, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, displaying
strong, brawny arms, while his face was red and stern. He was also at
work, but watched the boy well, and if he saw his arm rested for a
moment he would give him a little push, bidding him mind his work; and
so the poor boy had to drive the pegs into the soles of the boots, even
though he was weary and his face pale and sad.
Then the angel-children, seized with one feeling of love and pity (for
they could remember how the poor boy used to be one of them and play in
the garden of God), soared above him. One came down and wiped off the
drops of sweat from his brow; another passed his soft hands over the
boy's face, and rested him; and another put comforting thoughts into his
soul.
Then the master looked up, and when he saw how the boy seemed suddenly
refreshed, he told him it was good to work and silly to be tired; and
when the boy heard these hard words, tears came into his eyes, and he
thought of his mother who used so tenderly to care for him, but had now
been gone long to the home of the angels.
Then some of the angel-children wiped away the tears which had come into
the boy's eyes, and another shook his beautiful wings over his head, so
that at once a cool breeze fell over him and hopeful words entered his
soul. Some of the children moved his arm up and down as he drove the
pegs into the boot, and he wondered how easily he was able to work.
All this time our earth-child stood apart, nodding his head sadly, and
when the others asked him the cause, he answered, "O, you do not know
how hard it is to live on the earth! See this poor boy; how far
different was it with him when he played with us in the gardens up
there!"
The children were silent; they knew not how to comfort him. They
thought, too, of the time when they should live on the earth.
Then they flew along and came to a large city, in which lived many
homeless children, who were led about by unkind and evil spirits; and
passed constantly by men and women, who did not so much as give them one
kind word.
As the angel-children wandered among them they shuddered: such strange
words filled the air, and so dark and dingy looked the houses where they
went in and out. Could it be that these children, who talked together in
angry moods, who rather sought the opportunity to trouble each other,
had ever played in that fountain, and laughed together in the heavenly
fields? "O," they sighed, "could we but once drive the evil spirits from
one of them, and whisper in his ear of the kind love of God!"
Then their wings fluttered and folded themselves over the head of a
large boy, whose clothes were dirty and tattered, his hair matted and
disordered, his body thin and wan, while the expression of his face was
very old and vacant. A slight girl, holding a little pail in her hand,
came along near him, and made as if she would go by him; but the boy
would not suffer her to pass on, and, stopping her, said to her,
"Well, and what have you got?"
The child looked at him fearfully, and remained silent; but the boy did
not heed her half-imploring look, but proceeded to lay hold of her pail,
in which she had had hot corn to sell, and, opening it, discovered there
six pennies instead.
"Ah," he cried exultingly, "that is what I wanted! You have done well
with your corn; you may go on now;" and, despite the poor child's cries,
he took away the pennies, and, in resisting the little struggle the
child was able to make, he threw her down upon the pavement.
This was in a dark street, filled with people wicked like this boy, and
where was no one who cared to take the child's part.
But those angel-children were silent witnesses of this scene, and they
put out their hands, so the little girl was not much hurt in her fall.
Then they looked at each other in dismay; the pearly tears again came
into their bright eyes, and they asked each other what they might do for
this wretched boy. They remembered when the boy and girl played together
in the fair garden of God; and it was not possible for them to remember
that, and look unmoved upon this fearful change which had come over
him. "O, this is a sad earth-life!" murmured the baby's spirit; and he
nodded his head again in sorrow. "Why may not I, too, become like this
boy?"
"But _must_ the earth-life bring this change?" asked another of the
angel-children, who saw the anguish of his friend, but knew not how to
comfort him. "Do we not remember the poor boy who worked so hard, and
had no rest, yet he was patient and good, and kept bright, and hung the
cord which tied his soul to heaven with the tear-drops which fell for
his dear, dead mother? When tried, he gave back no hard words. He was
better than we, who are happy always and have no trials."
Not long after, they found the wicked boy asleep; he had thrown himself
down, in the corner of a dirty alley, on a little straw. The children
hovered over him, trying how they might approach him. They drove hence
the dark spirits, one by one, who hindered their approach, and then they
carried him off by the sea-shore in a dream; they made him sit upon the
sand and listen to the roaring of the waters; the large rocks stood
scattered on the beach, and the sea-mosses and shells were thrown up by
the waves. Afar off, upon the water, he saw a long line of bright
clouds, which seemed to climb up to heaven to meet the bright, twinkling
stars. The moonlight shone softly down upon him.
Then they laid him down upon the sand, and made him look up into the sky
to feel the rest and peace of it; still more came the moonlight upon
him, and the stars seemed to open and close their eyes for pity. The
wind came towards him and passed along his brow and over his heart. Then
came into his soul an indescribable longing, such as he had never felt
before--a longing which the noise of the sea, the beauty of the clouds,
the peace of the sky, and the tenderness of the wind, had aroused in
him.
He felt that something inexpressibly dear had been lost to him, and he
feared never again to regain it; the quiet moon and the pitying stars
made him fear. A deep grief entered his heart, and he wept as from an
everlasting sorrow. As he wept the angels rejoiced, and hovered over his
head in a halo of light; for they knew that these tears would bring him
into the path that led to heaven!
Not far off lived a man who cared for destitute and ignorant children;
the angel-band flew to bring him, and when the boy opened his eyes, in
which the tears of repentance still lay, the ocean and bright clouds had
disappeared; but there was bent upon him a pitying, benignant look,
which went to the boy's heart, and a kind voice lingered in his ear,
subduing him by its very strangeness. So he at once received the
proffered hand, and arose and went with him to his home.
After that, the angel-children went into a splendid mansion, where, in a
large, handsome chamber, lay a little girl suffering under severe pain.
Her little couch was hung in blue silk, and rich laces adorned her
pillows. On a little table by the side of her bed stood golden goblets,
to refresh her parched mouth with pleasant drinks. Yet, still the little
girl moaned in pain. Her eyelids were closed, and her weary hand lay
still upon the bed. At her side sat her nurse, watching her wants and
longing to relieve them. Costly toys lay uncared for on the rich, heavy
carpet. The flowers had lost their charm, the delicious fruit lay, full
and ripe, neglected on their dish.
Sleep would not come to the child; weary and in pain, she had laid there
a long, long time, her poor little body wasting slowly away towards the
grave.
"Let us give her rest and comfort," said the angel-children; and, waving
their wings over her, she fell to sleeping.
The nurse said, then, there might be hope. Listen and hear,--what bright
hope there was, indeed!
They whispered to her, that soon her pain should cease, and that, for
her trust and patience, she should go to God's beautiful garden. They
showed her the fountains and the birds; they told her how she should
again ride upon the clouds, and study from the great books of God. Then
in her sleep she smiled, and the nurse, who was watching her face, wept
for joy, and exclaimed,
"There is hope! there is hope!"
Yes, there was hope!
When the little girl awoke, there was a more heavenly patience still,
in her soul, and a longing to meet the loving glances of the
angel-children again.
As the children wended their flight back to the gardens, and sat down
beneath the green trees, and ate of their delicious fruit, they strove
in vain to bring back the brightness to the face of the earth-baby.
"Ah, it would be so beautiful to stay with you!" he said. "I would like
always to comfort these afflicted ones; but, alas! I shall need comfort
myself, and you will come to me, as we have been to others. When I am on
the earth there seems something gone and lost, and what is before me is
confused and dim. I find myself so weak and helpless, when here I am so
sprightly and strong! I cannot move myself at all, and when I remember
these gardens I have left, and you with whom I have played, I can but
cry all the time! It looks cold and bleak there, as it never does here.
Then, should I grow up to be wicked, like those children we have seen,
and so go far away from heaven, how wretched should I become,--how much
better that I never had left these gardens!"
Thus he complained, and the other children were silent, for they knew
how they, too, at some time, must go down and try their fortunes upon
the earth; and, too, they sorrowed to lose their companion, for they
knew that soon he could not come to them any more;--and while they told
him, very eagerly, how they would come to watch over him, a soft tread
fell on their ears, and their dear teacher approached them.
Her hair floated in long curls upon the cool air, and her eyes were bent
down in sorrow upon the earth-child.
"Have you so soon forgotten the lessons you have learned from the book
of God?" she asked; and the tones of her voice were like the soft
harmonies of heaven. She held in her hand a book, along whose pages the
letters sparkled in the brightness of gold and silver. At the sight of
her, the earth-child threw himself at her feet, and besought her thus:
"Keep me with you, dear teacher, and teach me from your book! Why
should I go to the earth-home again?"
Tenderly did the angel-teacher embrace and uplift the imploring child.
She pointed to a distant part of the garden, towards a grate of
lattice-work, in gold, silver and pearls, whence issued a glorious
light. Beyond this they saw angels walking, in their hands bearing still
more glorious books than the one she held.
"When I taught you, long ago, how beautiful was the life there, how
_pure_ the love, did you not long to go thither? And when I told you
that the way thither was only through the earth,--that it was long and
difficult and narrow,--that many troubles must make you strong to walk
in it,--did you not long to go, promising not to complain? Do you so
soon falter? Have I not told you that the book you carry in your hands
there must first be formed on the earth?--that there you shall pick up
one by one the shining letters which compose it? Why do you
complain?--have you forgotten that your home is better than those
miserable ones which have been given to those who were your beloved
playmates here? This is your last visit to the garden of God. The
angel-children shall come and whisper to you in your dreams; and, when
they in their turns go down to live upon the earth, hold your arms out
to them, and, when their steps are weak, help them along. And when you
see children with tattered clothes, in poor cottages, look not proudly
on your own, but remember that here, in the garden of God, you played
together in the same fountain, drank the same dew; and think no more of
yourself or your beautiful earth-home, for God gave it to you for the
same purpose he gave the wretched cottage to the other. Remember, too,
the good mother, who has patiently hushed your cries, and will yet bear
you through many dark places. She has never yet tired in caring for you,
and you have given her little else but trouble. Go; be henceforth
patient and loving."
Sorrow came into the heart of the child for his selfishness; and, as he
thought of his beautiful mother, how she always smiled upon him, and
would help him to heaven, his heart filled up with love to her.
At that moment he opened his eyes, and there by his side sat the
mother, watching for his awaking; a heavenly smile stole over his
features, and he held up his arms to her. The mother caught him from the
cradle, and wept over him in the ecstasy of a new-found joy and love;
for it was the _First Smile_ her baby had given her.
CYBELE, THE TAMBOURINE GIRL.
Cybele was a little girl; she had large gray eyes, and brown hair
smoothly parted over her forehead, while there was a pitiful expression
round her mouth, that pleaded with you so earnestly, you could scarce
help stopping, as you met her, to give her a few pennies.
Her real home was not in this country. Long ago she had come over from
the bright land of Italy,--from its warm, sunny skies and beautiful
gardens, where the birds sang so joyfully, and gay music sounded on the
air,--all which she longed to see and hear again; and as all things
there had been so beautiful, and here so dreary, all beauty grew to be
the same thing as that dear Italy, so that when she even saw flowers in
the window of some lordly house, she would stand, gazing tearfully
through them at the far-off home!
Cybele's mother had died in that beautiful land, and it was in one of
its lovely gardens her body rested while her spirit soared heavenward.
The little girl knew this place so well;--the orange-trees grew about
it, and the song of the waterfall, near by, played and sparkled in the
tones of the birds. But Cybele's aunt had taken the little girl with her
to this distant land, and the child could no longer go and weep over the
grave where her mother's body had been laid; but her heart was there--it
could not forget. She dreamed of it in the long nights; and, when she
played upon her tambourine, the remembrance inspired her notes, making
people love to listen to her.
Away down in an uncomfortable, out-of-the-way part of the city dwell a
great many poor people, who have come from distant countries to find
here some bread, which may keep them from starving. The streets where
they dwell are dirty, and the houses look smoky and wretched. There are
queer little shops, with oranges and cigars, bread and tobacco, in the
windows, and if you go in you smell yeast, and see milk-cans standing
about, while a man in a green jacket sells you what you ask for. To such
shops do the people near by come for their bread and cent's worth of
milk. To such a shop little Cybele came, early in the morning, and late
at night; and so dingy looked the shops and people, that her aunt's room
seemed bright and cheerful in comparison. This room, nevertheless, was
small and quite dark, having but one window, which looked down into a
brown back-yard; but her aunt kept the room neat and clean; the bed
stood off by itself, in one corner, the two chairs on either side of the
table, and in the cupboard were a few plates and cups, with which the
scanty table was spread; yet was this room dear to the child, since the
dreams she had dreamed there hung over her still with their light and
love.
It chanced, one day, that her aunt fell sick--so sick as to be obliged
to lie on the bed. For a long time she had not been able to do any hard
work, but had sat at home and made little brooms for Cybele to take out
with her when she went to play the tambourine about the streets. And
Cybele had seen how her aunt grew pale, day by day, but she had not
dreamed the time would come when her aunt must lay still on the bed for
weariness.
With a heavy heart she took the brooms and the tambourine, and went out,
hoping to get a few pennies, and bring home a doctor for her aunt.
But it was a sad day for Cybele. She was rudely sent away from the doors
at which she stopped, and though she stood long before the windows of
lordly houses, in which she felt were many persons, still the sashes
were left down, and no kind group appeared to encourage her. So she
passed on, through quiet squares and noisy streets, but everywhere met
with a repulse.
What should she do? It was impossible to go home without money. She
thought of the poor aunt who was sick, and of the mother who lay away in
the gardens of Italy, and new courage came into her soul. A gentleman
came toward her, with ruddy cheeks and smooth, rich clothes. Surely he
will not turn away from the little child. So she stepped forward, and,
when he came near, she looked up in his face, saying,
"Please, sir, will you not buy one of my brooms?"
But he brushed by her, unheeding her gentle tones, and leaving her eyes
filled with tears.
Then came along a careless boy, whistling a merry tune, and with his
hands thrust into his pockets. Confidence and hope made her ask him
also.
"Please, will you buy a broom?"
The boy stopped, and, still whistling, looked into her face, glanced
over her dress, tambourine and brooms; and, as his eyes rested upon
these last, he replied:
"Buy a broom! Pray, what think you I want with one of those flimsy
things?" And then he looked at her as though he thought her so absurd!
Cybele was abashed by his manner, and began to think she had asked him
to do a very foolish thing, so she hurried to reply:
"I don't know, I'm sure; but they brush away flies with them."
"Flies!" he repeated, contemptuously, at the same time taking one of the
brooms from her little bundle, and thrusting it about him in all
conceivable ways; pulling open the brush, and altogether ruining it.
"Flies! it is getting too cool for flies; and, besides, my mother never
lets any get into the house; so it's no use any way. Why don't you go
home? It's a shame to be walking round the streets so. You ought to be
in school, or at work, or something else."
[Illustration: CYBELE THE TAMBOURINE GIRL.]
"I don't know how to do anything else," replied Cybele, the blood
rushing to her cheeks; "my aunt is sick, and I want to get some money."
"Tush!--always sick!" replied the boy, contemptuously; "how silly! I
wonder the beggars don't all die some day, they've been sick so long!"
"We are not beggars!" said Cybele, raising her head somewhat proudly,
and preparing to move away. "If you don't want the broom, I'll take it,
if you please."
The boy seemed half pleased, as he looked at her, and said:
"Proud, too--if it isn't funny! Here, don't go away--I want to hear your
tambourine."
So she laid down her bundle of brooms, and, arranging her tambourine,
played him some merry tunes.
"Can't you dance, too?" asked the boy, when she had finished. So she
danced and played to him; and, when she stopped, he placed a penny in
her hand, and coolly walked away.
She looked at the penny lying in her hand, and then after the boy, who
was walking up the street, and she couldn't help thinking how very
little it was, and how she hoped he would have given her more. She
looked at the little broom he had ruined, and everything seemed sadder
than before. Then, by some strange freak, her mind ran off to the
gardens where her mother slept, as it always did when darkness gathered
round her, and she longed, more than ever before, to throw herself on
the ground there, and quietly sleep a long, long time. During the whole
day she had received but a few pennies; so few, they would not induce a
doctor to go down to her sick aunt. If she only could have met some kind
heart, which would have gone home with her, and given kind words and
soothing draughts to the sick one! But it was not brought into her path.
When she came home and saw how much worse her aunt was than when she had
left her in the morning, her little heart grew sick; and Cybele, who had
seen her mother grow thin and die, began to be terrified, lest the aunt
too would be taken.
So, she went up to her gently, and kissed her brow, and the poor aunt
opened her eyes and smiled mournfully; and when she heard how little
money the tambourine had brought that day, she tried to conceal her
sorrow lest the little child should be grieved.
Then Cybele lighted a small fire in their bit of a fireplace, and made a
little tea for her aunt. It was the very last she had; but when she
thought how much her aunt needed it, and how she would need still more
on the morrow, hope whispered, quite cheerfully, that with the
tambourine she would win from people's pockets many a bright cent. With
these thoughts, she looked very lovingly towards the tambourine, which
lay quietly upon the floor in the corner, its gay bells silent, as if
it, too, felt sorrow for the aunt's sickness.