words and a strong, sustaining arm, till the last landing was reached,
and the light, now streaming through the open windows, made words no
longer needful. With a bound she sprang to the open casement, exclaiming,
"Father, dear father!" and fell, weeping, on his breast.
His wish was granted; his effort was over, and his child could now
behold the beauties which had so long thrilled his own soul.
Thus does our Heavenly Father call us upward; and when he sees
that we will not leave the common view for grander scenes, and will not
listen to his voice, however beseeching, he makes all dark and drear
below, that we may be led to ascend higher, where the day-beams are
longer, the view more extended, and the air more rarified and pure.
VIII.
THE OAK.
An old and experienced gardener had been watching a tree for many
days, whose branches and foliage did not seem to repay him for his
care. "I see," he said, a little sadly; "the roots are not striking deep
enough: they must have a firmer hold in the earth, and only the wind
and the fierce blast will do it."
It was now sunset, and the faithful gardener put away his tools, closed
the garden gates, and went into his cottage. Soon a mass of dark clouds
began to gather on the horizon. "I am sorry to use such harsh means,"
he said, waving his hand in the direction of the wind clouds; "but the
tree needs to be more firmly rooted, and naught but a violent wind will
aid it."
A low, moaning sound went through the air, shaking every bush and
tree to its foundation.
"Oh, dear!" sighed the tree. "Oh, the cruel gardener, to send this
wind! It will surely uproot me!"
The tree readied forth its branches like arms for help, and implored
the gardener to come and save it from the fearful blasts. The flowers at
its feet bowed their heads, while the winds wafted their fragrance over
the struggling, tempest-tost tree.
"They do not moan, as I do. They cannot be suffering as I am," said
the tree, catching its breath at every word.
"They do not need the tempest. The rain and the dew are all they
want," said a vine, which had been running many years over an old dead
oak, once the pride of the garden. "I heard the gardener say this very
afternoon," continued the vine, "that you must be rooted more firmly;
and he has sent this wind for that purpose."
"I wonder if _I_ am the only thing in this garden that needs shaking,"
spoke the oak, somewhat indignantly. "There's a poor willow over by
the pond that is always weeping and--"
"But," interrupted the vine, "that's what keeps the beautiful sheet of
water full to the brim, and always so sparkling,--the constant dropping
of her tears; and we ought to render her gratitude. Besides, she is so
graceful--"
"Oh, yes: all the trees are lovely but me. I heard the gardener's
praise, the other day, of the elms and the maples, and even the pines;
but not one word did he say about the oaks. I didn't care for myself
in particular, but for my family, which has always been looked up to.
Well, I shall die, like my brother, and soon we shall all pass away; but,
unlike my brother oak, no one will cling to me as you do, vine, to his
old body."
"You're mistaken, sir. The gardener said, but a few days ago, that he
should plant a vine just like myself at your trunk if your foliage was
not better, so that you might present a finer appearance by the mingling
of the vine's soft leaves, and be more ornamental to the garden."
"I'll save him that trouble if my life is spared. I have no desire
to be decked in borrowed leaves. The oaks have always kept up a good
appearance; but oh, dear me, vine, didn't that blast take your breath
away? I fear I _shall_ die; but, if I do live, I'll show the gardener
what I can do. But, vine," and the voice of the oak trembled, "tell the
gardener, when he comes in the morning, if--if I am dead--that--that
the dreadful tempest killed instead of helped me."
The wind made such a roaring sound that the oak could not hear her
reply, and he tried now to become reconciled to death. He thought much
in that brief space of time and resolved, if his life was spared him,
that he would try and put forth his protecting branches over the beds of
flowers at his feet, to protect them from the blazing sun, and try to be
more kind and friendly to all. Deeper and deeper struck the roots into
the earth, till a new life-thrill shot through its veins. Was it death?
The oak raised its head. The clouds were drifting to the south. All
was calm, and the stars shone like friendly eyes in the heavens above
him.
"That oak would have surely died but for the tempest which passed
over us," said the gardener, a few weeks later, as he was showing his
garden to a friend.
The gardener stood beneath the branches, and saw with pleasure new
leaves coming forth and the texture of the old ones already finer and
softer.
"It only needed a firmer hold on the earth. The poor thing could not
draw moisture enough from the ground before the storm shook its roots
and embedded them deeper. If I had known the philosophy of storms
before, I need not have lost the other oak."
Here the old gardener sat beneath the branches of the oak, and they
seemed to rise and fall as if bestowing blessings on his head. That spot
became his favorite resting-place amid his labors for many years. The
oak lived to a good old age, and was the gardener's pride. Maidens
gathered its leaves and wove garlands for their lovers. Children sported
under its boughs. It was blessed and happy in making others so. It
had learned the lesson of the storm, and was often heard to say to the
young oaks growing up about it, "Sunshine and balmy breezes have their
part in our growth, but they are not all that is needful for our true
development."
IX.
TRUTH AND ERROR.
Amid the starry realms there lived an old philosopher, a man deep in
wisdom, who had two daughters, named Truth and Error, whom he sent to
earth to perform a mission to its people; and though he knew that their
labors must be united, he could not explain to them why two so dissimilar
should have to roam so many years on earth together. Well he knew that,
though Truth would in the end be accepted by the people, she must suffer
greatly. His life experience had taught him that she must go often
unhonored and unloved, while Error, her sister, would receive smiles,
gifts, and welcome from the majority. It was a sacrifice to part with his
much-loved daughter Truth, and a great grief to be obliged to send Error
with her. He placed them, with words of cheer and counsel, in the care of
Hyperion, the father of the Sun, Moon, and Dawn, who accompanied them in
his golden chariot to the clouds, where he left the two in charge of
Zephyr, who wafted them from their fleecy couch to the earth.
One bleak, chilly day, the two were walking over a dreary road dotted
here and there with dwellings. The most casual observer might have
seen their striking dissimilarity, both in dress and manners. Truth was
clad in garments of the plainest material and finish, while Error was
decked in costly robes and jewels. The step of the former was firm and
slow, while that of the latter was rapid and nervous. The bleak winds
penetrated their forms as they turned a sharp angle in the road, when
there was revealed to them, on an eminence, a costly and elegant
building.
"I shall certainly go in there for the night, and escape these biting
blasts," said Error to her sister.
"Although, the house is large and grand," answered Truth, "it does not
look as though its inmates were hospitable. I prefer trying my luck in
yonder cottage on the slope of that hill."
"And perhaps have your walk for naught," answered Error, who bade
a hasty good-by to her sister and entered the enclosure, which must have
been beautiful in summer with its smooth lawns, fine trees and beds and
flowers. She gave the bell a sharp ring, and was summoned into an elegant
drawing-room full of gaily dressed people. Error was neither timid
nor bashful, and she accepted the offered courtesies of the family as one
would a right. She seated herself and explained to them the object of
her call, dwelling largely on the grandeur of her elegant home amid the
stars, and tenderly and feelingly upon her relationship with the gods
and goddesses, and the numerous feasts which she had attended, so that
at her conclusion her hostess felt that herself and family were receiving
rather than bestowing a favor.
The evening was spent amid games and pastimes till the hour for retiring,
when they conducted her to a warm and elegantly furnished room, so
comfortable that it made her long, for a moment, for her sister to share
it with her; for, despite the difference in their natures, Error loved
her sister. The soft couch, however, soon lulled her to sleep. She,
slumbered deeply, and dreamed that Truth was walking all night, cold
and hungry, when suddenly a lovely form came out of the clouds. It was
none other than Astrea, whom she had seen often in her starry home,
talking with Truth. She saw her fold a soft, delicate garment about the
cold form of her sister, at the same time saying, in reproving tones, to
herself, "This is not the only time you have left your sister alone in
the cold and cared for yourself. The sin of selfishness is great, and the
gods will succor the innocent and punish the offender."
She closed, and was rising, with Truth in her arms, to the skies, when
Error gave such a loud shriek that Astrea dropped her, and a strong
current of air took the goddess out of sight. It was well for the earth,
which might have been forever in darkness, that Truth was dropped,
though hard for her.
Error awoke from her dream, which seemed more real than her elegant
surroundings, and resolved to go in search of Truth when the morning
came; but a blinding storm of snow and sleet, and the remonstrance of
the family, added to her own innate love of ease, left Truth uncared
for by one whose duty it was to seek her.
The days glided into weeks, and yet Error remained, much to the wonder
of the poorer neighbors around, that Mrs. Highbred should encourage and
keep such a companion for her daughters. They could see at a glance that
Error was superficial, that she possessed no depth of thought or feeling;
and their wonder grew to deep surprise when they saw all the gentry for
miles around giving parties in honor of her. Everywhere she was flattered
and adored, until she became, if possible, more vain and full of her own
conceit.
"You should see the feasts of the gods in our starry realms," she
would say, as each one vied with a preceding festivity to outshine its
splendor.
After Error left her sister, Truth walked slowly and thoughtfully
towards the cottage on the hill-side. She went slowly up the path,
which wound in summer by beds of roses, to the door, and rapped
gently. It was opened by a fair and beautiful woman, who bade her
"walk in" in tones which matched the kindness of her features. The
next moment Truth felt her gentle hands removing her hood and cloak,
and felt that she was welcome. A table covered with a snowy cloth
stood in the centre of the room, on which was an abundant supply of
plain, substantial food, more attractive to a hungry traveler than more
costly viands. A chair was placed for her by the bright fire, while the
air of welcome entered her soul and drew tears from her deep, sad eyes.
It was so seldom she was thus entertained--so often that the manner of
both high and low made the highway pleasanter than their habitations.
How often had she walked alone all night unsheltered, while Error, her
sister, reposed on beds of down! The sharp contrast of their lives was
the great mystery yet unrevealed. It cost her many hours of deep and
earnest thought.
It was so rare that any one gave her welcome that her gratitude took
the form of silence. For an instant the kind woman thought her lacking;
but when her grateful look upturned to hers, as she bade her sit at
the table and partake of the bounties, all doubt of her gratitude
departed.
Truth slept soundly all night, and arose much refreshed by her slumbers.
The storm of the day would not have detained her from continuing
her journey; but the warm and truthful appeal of the woman, who
felt the need of such a soul as Truth possessed with whom to exchange
thoughts, induced her to remain that day, and many others, which slipped
away so happily, and revealed to her that _rest_ as well as action is
needful and right for every worker.
Truth became a great favorite among the poorer classes of the
neighborhood, as she always was whenever they would receive and listen
to her words; and it was not long before people of thought, rank, and
culture began to notice her and court her acquaintance.
Mrs. Highbred, hearing of her popularity, concluded to give a party
and invite her.
Error had never spoken of the relationship between them until the day
the invitations were sent. Then, knowing she could no longer conceal
the past, she availed herself of the first opportunity to communicate the
same to her hostess. Great was the surprise of Mrs. Highbred and her
household to learn that the quiet stranger at the cottage was the sister
of Error.
"My sister is very peculiar, and wholly unlike myself," remarked Error
to her hostess; "and I fear you will find her quite undemonstrative.
Although it is my parent's wish that I should be with her, you cannot
imagine what a relief it has been to a nature like mine to mingle with
those more congenial to my tastes, even for a brief period."
"It must be," answered Mrs. Highbred sympathizingly, and Error
congratulated herself on having become installed in the good graces
of so wealthy a person.
"Now," she said to herself, "I need not go plodding about the world
any longer. Truth can if she likes to; and, as she feels that she has
such a mission to perform to the earth, she of course will not remain
in any locality long. But, thanks to the gods, who, I think, favor me
always, I shall not be obliged to roam any longer. Truth never did
appreciate wealth or the value of fine surroundings. She's cast in a
rougher mold than I--"
"Ma sends you this set of garnets, and begs you will do her the favor
to wear them on the night of the party," said the bearer of a case of
jewels, as she laid them on the table, and bounded out of the room before
Error could reply. Indeed, her surprise was too great for words had the
child remained. "I wonder what Truth will say when she sees them,"
thought Error, as she glanced again and again at the sparkling gems.
Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between Truth and
her sister, both in costume and manner, as they stood apart from the
company a moment to exchange a few words.
Error was decked in a costly robe of satin of a lavender hue, to contrast
with her gems; while Truth was arrayed in white, with a wreath of ivy on
her brow, and the golden girdle around her waist which her father gave
her at parting. She wore no gems save an arrow of pearl which Astrea gave
her when they parted at the gate of clouds, kept by the goddesses named
the Seasons, which opened to permit the passage of the celestials to
earth and to receive them on their return.
The simple dress and manners of Truth won the admiration of a few, while
the majority paid tribute to Error, who kept her admirers listening to
her wonderful adventures amid the region of the stars. Truth spoke but
seldom; but what she uttered was food for thought, instead of a
constellation of merely dazzling words.
A careful observer might have seen that the elder members lingered,
attracted by her simple charms, near Truth, as did also the youngest
portion of the company, while youth and middle age could not divine her
sphere of pure and earnest thought. The few who sought her would
gladly have continued the acquaintance, and they invited her to their
dwellings; but on the morrow she would set forth on her journey, feeling
that she had implanted in the minds of a few the love of something
beyond externals and mere materialisms.
Her earthly mission was to traverse hill and plain throughout the land,
and sow seeds of righteousness which would spring up in blossoms of
pearl long after her weary feet had traversed other lands and sown again
in the rough places the finer seeds.
At early dawn Truth went forth from the cottage and the kind woman
who had sheltered her. They had enjoyed much together in their mutual
relation. Trust met trust, hope clasped hope, and each was stronger for
the soul exchange.
When the sun rose in the heavens Truth was on her way, while Error,
tossed in feverish dreams upon her bed, thought the Sun was angry with
her, and was sending his fierce rays upon her head to censure or madden
her. But he was only trying to waken her and urge her to go on with
her sister. A sense of relief came when she opened her eyes and found
it was, after all, only a dream. Yet the pleasure was brief; for a sharp
pain shot through her temples, her brow was feverish, and her pulses
throbbed wildly. "Oh, for the pure air and the cool, refreshing grass!"
she cried. "Oh, better the highway with its friendly blossoms than this
couch of down and this stifled atmosphere which I am breathing!" How
she longed for Truth then, to cool her brow with the touch of her gentle
hand. "Come back, oh, come to me, Truth!" she cried, so hard that the
whole household heard and came to her bedside.
"She is ill and delirious!" they cried in one voice. The family physician
was summoned, who pronounced the case fearful and her life fast ebbing.
"For whom shall we send?" said Mrs. Highbred, who was unused to scenes of
distress and now longed to have her guest far from her dwelling.
"For her sister Truth," said one.
"Truth--Truth," said the physician. "Is it possible?" and he gazed
from one to another for revelation.
"Truth is her sister," said one of the younger members, and added, "I
think she is far better and prettier than Error,--"
"Far better, far better," continued the physician, looking only at the
child, and inwardly saying, "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings
come words of wisdom."
"I met her on the hill,--the one you call Truth," he said, in answer to
the searching look of Mrs. Highbred, who by manner and inquiry plainly
manifested her desire to have an end of the unusual state of things.
"I will go for her. She will return with me," continued the doctor,
"and soon we will find some spot to which we can remove Error."
A look of relief came over the face of the lady as he departed.
Truth heard not the sound of the horses, nor the rumbling of wheels
as they approached, so intent were her thoughts on separation from her
sister and her own strange mission to earth; and she scarce sensed
whither she was going, when the kind man courteously lifted her into his
carriage. But when she stood by the fevered, unconscious form of Error,
a few moments later, all her clearness of thought was at her command.
"Carry her to the cottage on the hill-side," she said, as she bound a
cool bandage on her sister's brow.
They bore her there, and, as though in mercy, a dark cloud shut off
the sun's rays, and their fierce glare was obscured during transit from
the home of splendor to the humble cottage.
There for many weeks Truth nursed her sister, while the kind hostess
and kind neighbors aided by words and deeds through the long night
watches.
Error arose from her illness somewhat wiser, and firmly fixed in her
determination to follow Truth and share her fate to their journey's end.
Thus, reader, shall we ever find them together while we dwell on earth,
and perchance in the regions above. Let us trust that they are wisely
related; and, while we love, reverence, and admire the purity of Truth,
let us seek also courteously to endure Error as an opposing force, which,
though it may seem for a time to work our discomfort and hinder us in
our progress, yet gives us strength, as the rower on the stream is made
stronger by the counter currents and eddies with which he has to contend.
X.
THE TREE.
A large shade-tree grew near a house, and under its branches the children
played every summer day. It seemed to take great delight in their voices,
and shook its green boughs over their heads, as though it would join in
their sports and laughter. But, alas! one day it got a foolish idea into
its head--it grew discontented, and felt that its sphere of usefulness
was too limited.
At that moment dark clouds gathered, a fearful tempest arose, and a
strong current of wind, soon set the giant tree swinging with such
violence that it was torn from the earth and lay like a broken column
on the ground.
"Now I shall be something: I've got my roots out of the old earth.
Bah! such a heap of old black loam, to be sure, as I have been in! I'll
soon shake it off, however, and then the world will see that _I_ can soar
as well as other things."
There was a terrible quaking and noise as the old tree tried to rise
from its recumbent position. The sun's rays were fast parching its roots,
causing sharp pains to shoot through its branches.
"Oh, dear!" said the tree. "I hope I shall be able to get on my feet
soon, else people will be laughing at me for lying here so helpless."
The golden sun went down behind the hills. Its rays could not gild
the top of its branches now, and the tree missed the benediction of its
parting rays. A feeling akin to homesickness came over it, and a longing,
as the dews of evening came, to be once more rooted to the earth.
A wild wind sang a dirge all through the night, and ceased not till day
darted over the hills. It was not very pleasant for the old tree to hear
the children's regrets and words of grief as they came around it in the
morning to play and sit as usual under its pleasant shade. It had hoped
to have been far away by dawn, and thus have escaped the sound of their
voices.
"I'll wait till they are gone, and then I must be off," said the tree
softly.
"Papa will cut it all up into wood, I know," said the youngest of the
group, a bright, three-year-old boy.
"I am going to have a piece of one of the boughs to make a cane of,"
said another.
"And oh, dear me!" sighed little blue-eyed May. "I can't have any
more autumn leaves to make pretty wreaths of for mamma."
Poor old tree! how it had mistaken its mission and its relation to the
earth! So it is with people who lament the position in which Providence
has placed them. In vain the old tree tried to rise: its branches
withered, its leaves dropped one by one away, and rustled on the lawn. It
found, to its sorrow, that it was not made for the air, and that the once
despised earth from which it drew its nourishment was its true parent
and source of life.
Out of respect to its former protection and beauty, its owner had its
wood made into handsome ornaments and seats for the garden to keep
its memory alive in the minds of the children.
When any of them repined in after years at the lot which God had
assigned them, the folly of the tree was alluded to, and all restlessness
was allayed.
Over the spot where it stood a beautiful rustic basket made of its own
wood was set, from which bright flowers blossomed throughout the summer
day.
XI.
THE TWO WAYS.
Two men were informed, as they were listlessly standing and gazing
into a dense forest one day, that beyond it lay a fertile and beautiful
valley, reached only through the dark and close woods; but, when
reached, it would repay them for all their efforts.
They started one morning, entering the forest together, and forced
their way for a while through the tangled woods. They held the branches
for each other to pass, and walked along in social converse. Soon one
began to grow restless and impatient of the slow progress made.
"I must get on faster than this," he exclaimed, and began to quicken
his pace, regardless of overhanging boughs and thorny branches, which
pierced his flesh at every step. He rushed forward, leaving his
companion; and, so intent did he become on reaching the valley with all
possible speed, that he no longer noticed the briers which pierced
him or the underbrush which entangled and made his feet sore. In
a few days he reached the valley, tired, worn, and bleeding from head
to feet.
The laborers who were working in their gardens looked on him with
pity, and several, at the command of a leader, carried him to a house
(for he could no longer walk), where he was cared for and nursed.