into the minds of the people, till the once dark condition of earth
seemed passing rapidly away. People grew trustful, and less gloomy: yet,
with all the teachings of Faith, and the cheering words of Hope, they
failed to exercise the right feelings at all times towards each other.
The sisters sat by the wayside one evening, after a hard day's toil,
their eyes lifted to the stars, which seemed to look lovingly on them.
They sat without words, while each possessed the same unspoken wish. They
both longed for their sister, who at that moment was thinking earnestly
of them.
Faith glanced from the stars to the scarcely less brilliant eyes of Hope,
and a few tears fell over her face. Even Hope sighed, and almost wished
herself back to her starry home with her father.
"Are you sorry, Hope, that you came to earth?" asked Faith, tenderly.
"No: but I was thinking--"
"I know your thought: it must be the same as my own," said Faith.
"Yes, our sister--" Hope ventured thus far.
"Charity come too." Faith finished the sentence.
"Just my wish," said Hope, rejoiced to find they had the same desire.
"I see," said Faith, "that we are all needed here to make our work
complete," while the brilliant eyes of Hope spoke more than words.
"I have felt for a long time," answered Hope, "that another element,
softer, sweeter, and finer than ours, was needful for the people."
"Do you suppose that father would spare Charity, too?" asked Hope
of her sister.
"I know he would, if convinced that earth's people would receive her."
"Why, Faith, you speak with such confidence!"
"Because I know how good our father is, as you do yourself, Hope. If
needed, she will come," said Faith, trustingly, thinking of her own
experience that lonely night.
"Charity is so delicate," said Hope, a little doubtfully, "I do not quite
see how she could endure this cold clime."
"She could not without our presence to sustain her," answered Faith.
"But, with us to help her, she could; for we can all live wherever we
are called to do the work of our father."
"Let us lift the voices of our souls," said Hope; and they offered a
silent prayer for their sister.
* * * * *
That night, in his abode of peace and comfort, the father walked to and
fro; for the voices of his children on the earth, pleading for their
sister, had reached him.
It was not without a struggle that he called the only remaining child
to his side to look upon her for the last time for many years.
"It must be," he said, "and then will my sacrifice be perfect; and from
perfect sacrifice must fullness of good come forth. Faith alone could not
perfect the work; Hope's added brightness was not all that was needed.
Charity must be added." And he drew the fair, frail form to his side, and
told her to go for her mantle.
He enveloped her slight figure in the spotless garment, and, placing
her in the care of Zephyr, the gentle west wind, who was always faithful
to her charges, bade her depart, with his prayers and blessings.
Zephyr was very tender of her charge, and, after what seemed a long
journey to Charity, she laid her on a soft bed of moss in a pleasant
woodland, where her sisters were gathering flowers.
She might have lain there some time had not Faith's eyes discovered
her coming through the clouds.
Full and joyous was the meeting of the three; and when the sun went
to rest they sought shelter among the people.
With the uplifted eyes of Faith, the clear, soul-speaking face of Hope,
and the tender, forgiving words of Charity, their united force was great.
Some of the people at first refused to admit the last comer into their
dwellings.
"Faith, with her lovely eyes, and Hope, with her bright ways, are good
enough," they said; "and why need they bring this pale, fragile one to
earth?"
But when once she had spoken, either in council or rebuke, to her
listeners, there was melody and richness in her tones: such an awakening
of their souls' finer powers that they ever after bade her welcome.
Her strength lay in her gentleness. She always went when called for, but
never obtruded herself on others. Very often her sisters were invited to
the feast of the people without her. It took time for her quality to be
known: she was so still and silent. Her step, too, was noiseless, and her
delicate feet left no prints where she trod.
Before she grew into favor with the people they used to watch for her
footprints to see whose guest she had been; but they found no traces,
and learned to entertain her after a long time for the lovely qualities
which she possessed.
They walk the earth now, each loved and entertained by many, while
some sit in the shadows, and know not that earth has the angels of Faith,
Hope, and Charity to bless them.
XVII.
GOING FORTH.
A wise parent sent his children to a distant country to learn the lessons
of life which experience alone can teach. Before their departure he
called them to him, and, after providing them liberally with means, told
them that at their return he would listen to their several experiences;
at the same time telling them to use the means which he had given them
well--neither to hoard, nor spend them unwisely; above all, not to bring
them back in their original form, but a full equivalent therefore, either
in spiritual or material things.
A year had scarcely passed, when, as the father sat looking at the
western sky, the youngest son came running breathlessly up the path.
"So soon returned?" asked his father--which caused a look of
disappointment to pass over the face of the youth; and his words were
shaded with regret as he replied, "I thought you would be glad to see
me, and would rejoice that I got through so quickly."
"Not so, my son," replied the father. "You cannot, in the brief time
you have been absent, have performed many, if any, deeds of goodness
compared with what you might have done by tarrying longer; and your
gold--you surely cannot have used it all in so brief a period."
"Why, I've brought all the money back you gave me, father. You see,
I got through without its costing me a penny."
"It grieves me more than all, my son, that you should go through
any country and return no equivalent for deeds and kindness given. Rest
awhile, and in a few days return to the land and the people I sent you
among, and come not back again to me till every farthing is wisely
spent."
The youth murmured within himself, but dared not reply. A few days
later he departed, to go over the same ground and do the work he had
neglected for the sake of a speedy return.
At the end of the second year another returned, looking sad and
dispirited.
"Thou hast soon returned, my son," said the father. "Is thy work
done in so brief a period?"
The youth hung his head, and answered slowly, "I was so weary, father.
I saw so much sorrow among those people, I longed to come home where
all is rest and peace. Surely, I was right in that, was I not?"
"Far from it, my child. If there was much sorrow there, that was the
very reason why you should have remained. Dost thou not remember
those lines I have so often quoted,--
"'Rest is not quitting the busy career:
Rest is the fitting of self to one's sphere'?"
"I remember them well, father," the youth replied; "but I never felt
their meaning until now."
"And if you sense it now, my son, what is your duty?"
"To return, I suppose."
"But how--cheerfully or otherwise?"
"Gladly and willingly," said the son, born from the old to the higher
self.
"I will provide you with more means," remarked his father, while a
feeling of joy thrilled his being at the thought that his son was going
to give his life to human needs.
They parted on the morrow, though that separation was the nearest
approach of their lives; for they were united by a truth which is ever
the essence of a divine union. Many years passed by. The hair of the
father grew whiter, and his ears longed to hear the voices of his sons,
yet he would not call, in word or feeling, so long as the busy throng was
receiving or giving them life.
One evening, when his thoughts were taking a somewhat pensive turn,
a messenger came to his door with a letter from the long-absent and
eldest, who had not returned to his home since the day of his departure.
Its words were these:--
"Dear Father,--I cannot come to the home I love so well, nor to
your side, while this land is so full of need of human words and deeds.
With your blessing I shall remain here my lifetime; and when age comes
on, and I can no longer serve the people, may I return?"
The tears fell over the good man's face. God had blessed him greatly
in bestowing on him so worthy a son; and he penned warm and glowing
words of encouragement to his child, and sent by the messenger, with
gold to alleviate the wants of the needy.
"Tell him a thousand blessings await him when his work is done," said
he to the messenger as the latter mounted his horse to ride away.
Long after, when the father grew old and helpless, the sons returned
laden with rich experiences and abundantly able to care for him.
They had learned the great and valuable lesson that all must learn ere
they truly live,--that we must give to receive, sow if we would reap,
and lose our life to find it.
XVIII.
THE FEAST.
There was once a husbandman who had laborers in a valley, clearing it of
stones and brush, that it might become fit for culture. He resided near,
on a fine hill, where he raised rare fruits and flowers of every variety.
The view from the hill-top was extensive and grand beyond description,
and it was the kind owner's desire that each day the laborers should
ascend and be refreshed by whatever he had to offer them, beside catching
the inspiration of the lovely and extensive landscape. Some days he had
not much to offer them; at other times, the repast would be sumptuous and
most tempting: so those who went each day were sure of receiving in their
season the delicious fruits which ripened at different periods.
There had been a succession of days in which there was nothing but
dry food on the hill, with none of the luscious fruits which invigorate
and refresh; for they had been slow in ripening, and the kind husbandman
would not gather them before they were mellow and fit to spread before
his laborers.
"_I_ am not going to climb the hill to-day for a few crumbs," said one
dissatisfied toiler, as he sat by the roadside at noon-day, looking very
unhappy.
"Nor I!" "Nor I!" added a second and a third, until there was quite
a chorus of the dissatisfied.
The remainder went up as usual. A most tempting repast was before
them, of fruits and cake and refreshing wines, while the table was decked
with rare and fragrant flowers.
How glad was the good man to spread the bounties before them! for
well he knew of the murmurs which had gone out of their hearts for a
few days past. "Are they not all here?" he asked of those who had
ascended the hill, while a look of disappointment came over his face.
"Oh! let us go down and tell them what a nice feast is waiting," said
one of the group, as he gazed on the well-filled table.
"Nay, not so," answered the husbandman, in a gentle but commanding
tone. "My people should have faith in me, and know that I spread for
them all I can each day. My power, even like that of the Infinite, is
limited by conditions. It is not my pleasure ever to have them go
unrefreshed; but how much better for them, could they be content with
whatever comes each day, though sometimes meager. How it cheers me to
see those who have come in good courage and faith, _not_ knowing that the
feast was here. Eat and give thanks," he said; while a band played
some lively airs.
* * * * *
Shall we refuse to ascend each day the mount whereon dwells our
Father? Shall we, because some days no feast awaits us, linger in the
valley of doubt, and lose the bounties which his hand at other times has
ready for us? No: the faithful and believing will go up to the mount
each day, and take without murmur the morsel, or the fruits with
thanksgiving.
XIX.
THE LESSON OF THE STONE.
It was with feelings of satisfaction and pride that a builder looked
upon a large and costly edifice which, after much exertion, was just
completed. Long had the workmen toiled to place one stone upon another.
Many hours of thought had the designer spent in perfecting its
proportions, and a deep sense of relief came over him as he saw the
last stone deposited on the summit of the structure. Yet it was only to
be followed by one of pain; for, as he walked one evening to enjoy the
beautiful symmetry of his building, he heard words of contention and
strife among the various stones of which it was composed.
"Just look at my superior finish," said one of the top pieces to those
beneath it. "You are only plain pieces of granite, while I am polished,
elegantly carved, and the admiration of all eyes. Do I not see all the
people, as they pass by, look up at me?"
"Not so fast," replied one of the foundation stones. "A little less pride
would become you; for do you not see that, but for us below, you could
not be so high? And it matters very little, it strikes me, what part of
the building we are placed in, if we but remain firm and peaceful."
The words of the wise stone pleased the owner so much that he
resolved to remove a little of the vanity of the top one, and lay awake
a long time that night, thinking of some plan by which to effect his
purpose. The elements, however, spared him any effort on his part, for
the next day a terrible hail-storm swept over the land, and its hard
stones defaced all the ornaments which had led the lofty one to boast so
loudly of its superiority.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" moaned the vain piece of granite. "How I wish I had
been taken for a foundation stone, instead of being here to have all my
beauty destroyed by this awful storm! I'd much rather have been in the
middle of the building than up here, where all the force of the storm is
spent on my head."
The stone at the foundation could not help smiling, though he really
pitied the vain thing above him. "It will teach her wisdom," he said to
himself; "and she may learn that none in life are lowly if they bear
their part, and that a lofty position is far more dangerous than a humble
one."
There was a fearful crash in the air at that instant. The foundation
stone thought the building was coming down. Something struck him,
which he recognized as a part of the top stone; for he had seen the
workmen cutting and smoothing it day after day for many weeks prior to
its elevation. Now she could boast no more of superior finish or
position.
The following day, the remaining shattered portion was removed and
left by the roadside, where it could see another prepared to take its
place.
"I thought that stone was a little weak when we raised it," said one of
the workmen as it was placed aside.
It lay by the roadside until it grew to be humble and glad to be of any
use,--even delighted when one day the owner of the building took it to
finish a wall which was being built around some pasture land.
"Here I can be of use," she said, as the workmen deposited it on a
sunny corner as the place it was to occupy. It was glad to be there and
find itself useful and at rest; for it had been obliged to listen to the
remarks of the passers-by each day, and to endure their comments on its
misfortune.
"I suppose I shall never know any other life but this; so now, being
firmly set, I can sleep a little:" for the stone was sadly in need of
rest.
After what seemed to be a long period of repose, the stone awoke, with
new pulsations and finer emotions thrilling within it. The sound of
children's voices were heard in the air. How sweet and life-giving they
were! far more pleasant than the words of admiration which men uttered
when she was on the building's top. A new joy was hers also, for soft
hands were caressing her. Beautiful mosses had grown on her surface,
and delighted children were gathering them.
Useful and beautiful too! and the stone was silent with happiness.
She hoped the children would come again; and they did, bringing others
with them.
"I wonder how this beautiful moss grew on me," she said one day to
herself--at least she thought no one heard her. But an older stone
beside her replied, "By being perfectly quiet we become covered with
this lovely moss, firmer than grasses of any lawn."
The once vain stone grew to be perfectly contented, and never longed
for her former position. When the storms came, it knew it was close to
the earth. It had no fearful height to be pulled from, and the beautiful
lichens which grew upon its surface were far more ornamental than its
former carved and elegant adornings.
XX.
THE SEEDS.
They lay side by side one morning, while the gardener was preparing
the ground in which to plant them and many other varieties.
"Just think," said the more talkative one of the two, "how sad it is
that we are going to be put in that dismal ground! I shall not allow
myself to be buried out of sight this lovely morning."
"But," answered the more quiet seed by her side, "it is only for a brief
period that we shall lie there, and then we shall be far more beautiful."
"What care I for beauty for others to look at? I want my freedom,
and intend to have it, too. The wind is my friend, and I shall ask her
to waft me over to those lovely hills, where I can see something of the
world."
"I think it would be wiser to remain where we are, and let the gardener
care for us: he must know what is for our good," remarked the gentle
seed.
"You are too prosy by far. I think our own feelings tell us what we
need. So good-by," exclaimed the self-reliant seed, as she motioned to
the wind to bear her away.
She thought her breath was leaving her, as she was borne through
the air, and wished she were back in the garden. But when she found
herself on the warm hill-side she felt reassured, and nestled herself
amid the soft grass, whose waving motion soon lulled her to sleep.
Now the two seeds which the gardener had laid on the ground were of
a very choice and rare kind; and he felt very sad that the wind should
have blown one away. He took the remaining one and laid it carefully
in the ground, with many hopes that it would spring up and bear rich
blossoms, which would yield more seed. That night a cold wind came
on; but the little seed in the warm bed did not feel it at all, while her
absent sister shook all night with the cold.
After what seemed a long time to the seed in the ground, something
like a new life came over her. There was a deeper pulsation through
her being, and a strong desire to shoot upward to the light and air. This
feeling deepened every hour.
"At this rate I shall soon be in the air, where I can see all that is
going on about me," she said joyfully. Then she felt very quiet, and fell
asleep. When she awoke she saw the gardener bending over her with a
joyful face. "When did this happen? How came I up here in the warm
sunlight?" the seed exclaimed to him.
"Because the wind did not bear you away, and I could put you in the
ground, is the reason why you are here. First out of sight, then to the
light, my little seed! But," he said sorrowfully, "I wish we had the
other one, for your kind is rare."
The plant then told the gardener that her sister purposely went away,
at which he wondered that she had power of motion until she became a
plant.
"Oh, she asked the wind to carry her," answered the fresh-growing
plant.
"If I knew where she had gone I'd search for her, and bring her back."
"She asked the wind to take her to yonder hill-side," said the plant,
hoping, oh, so much! that he would go and find the seed, and plant it
beside her, that she, too, might have the pleasure of becoming a plant as
beautiful as herself.
The gardener went towards the hills; but the seed saw him, and
begged the south wind to bear her away. And she took her on her wing
and wafted her many miles from home.
The gardener searched a long time, and was obliged to return without
her. So he took extra care of the plant, and it grew to be the pride of
the garden; while the seed that had her own way was roaming over the
world. The truant one soon lost all her influence over the winds, who
finally refused to carry about a good-for-nothing seed while they had so
much needful work to perform. A cold northern blast was the last one
she could persuade to bear her, and he dropped her on a rock, where she
at last perished from exposure to the rain and cold.
The day before her death, a company of people passed by her, bearing
in their hands some rare and fragrant blossoms, to which she felt a
strange attraction. This gave place to a deep thrill of sorrow as she
heard them describe the lovely plant which grew in a beautiful garden,
and which by their description she knew was her own home, which she
in her folly had left.
"Had I but accepted the conditions of growth, I too might have been
a lovely plant, giving and receiving pleasure," she said, after the
people had passed on. "But now, alas!" and her breath grew quick and
short, "if I had only some one to profit by my last words, telling of my
life of folly, I might not have lived wholly in vain." But there was
nothing about her which she could discern save a tuft of moss upon the
cold, hard rock which must now be her death-bed.
But behind the rock, on the south side, there was growing a family of
wild daisies, who were going to migrate to a warmer part of the country
to plant their seeds before the winter came on. This was one of the
conditions which Providence ever has around the most seemingly deserted
and desolate, that her words might not only profit them, but that
they could convey the benefit of them to all wayward seeds who were
unwilling to accept the natural conditions of growth. And thus the seed,
though dying with its mission unfulfilled, did not live wholly in vain;
for its wasted life saved others from a similar fate.
XXI.
ONLY GOLD.
A parent sent his children forth one day into a fertile land to gather
fruits, flowers, and whatever was beautiful to adorn their homes. They
wandered till nightfall, gathering their treasures, while their joyous
laughter filled the air, and made music to the listening laborers in the
fields.
Just as the shadows of evening came on they approached an open field:
it was barren of verdure, but the ground was covered with golden stones,
which glittered strangely in the setting sun. They gathered as many as
they could with their other treasures, and then all but one of the group
began to prepare for home, while he lingered, eager to gather the shining
pebbles.
"We must return," they all said in chorus to him. They disliked to
leave without him; but darkness was fast coming on, and they must obey
their parents' command and return before the shades of evening had
covered the earth. One voice after another died away on the air as they
pleaded vainly for him to go with them, but he heeded them not: the
golden stones were far more precious in his eyes than kindred, home, or
friends; and they departed sorrowfully without him, while he remained
and added stone to stone, till he was obliged at last, from exhaustion,
to lie down on the damp ground.
It was not like his warm bed in his pleasant home; and he missed the
cheerful voices of his brothers, and more than all his parents' fond
goodnight, after the evening prayer. He slept; but his dreams were wild
and feverish, and there was no atmosphere of love about him to soothe the
weary brain.
The next day at noon his parents sent a messenger to him, bidding him
return. But the love of his golden stones was paramount to the wishes
of kindred, and the unnumbered comforts of a happy home; and his reply to
the messenger was, "I will return, when I have enough of these," pointing
to a large collection which was already higher than his head. At
nightfall hunger seized him. He felt too weary to go in search of
food, but the demand of nature asserted its claim, and he dragged himself
to a field near by, where grew berries and fruits in abundance. His
spirits rose after the cravings of hunger were satisfied, and he lay down
again by his precious pile of stones.
The days glided into weeks, and still he fed upon the berries and
gathered the golden pebbles. His father had ceased to send messengers to
him, knowing that nothing but a long experience would teach his child
the value of life's many blessings, and that gold _alone_ has no power to
bless us. The father suffered much in knowing and realizing that his
son must learn the truths of life through such severe lessons; but wisdom
told him it could not be otherwise.