ripen for him. He saw some laborers one day in a field near by, eating
their meal which they had brought from their homes. Oh; what would he not
now give for some of their meat and bread! "I will go to them," he said,
"and offer some of my golden stores in exchange for just a few morsels."
He did so; and they only smiled at his offer, saying, "What would then
refresh and fit us for the rest of our day's labor? Surely your gold
would not."
"But it would help you to buy more," he replied.
"Yes, to-morrow: but we cannot spare a morsel to-day, for we need
all our supply to strengthen us for our work."
He turned away in deep thought. Was he not losing all of life's joys
and comforts in living thus alone only to amass such quantities of gold?
But as he looked again on the shining treasures his ambition arose with
increased power; and he forgot, for a time, his hunger in his toil. Then
a new thought came to him. "Now that the fruits are gone I can go to
the forest and gather nuts. They will be better food, too, for these
chilly autumn days. Surely I am provided for, at least till winter," and
he left his labor and repaired to the woods, where he feasted and
gathered enough for many days.
The household mourned much for their absent brother. They missed him in
their daily joys, and every hour they watched, waited, and hoped to see
him return. They almost rejoiced when the bleak winds of autumn swept the
foliage from the trees, because they could look farther down the road for
their brother.
"I shall soon be able to travel and see the world," said the youth to
himself every day as the pile of gold grew higher; but, alas for human
calculation! he awoke one morning to find his huge mountain of gold
one solid mass. The action of the light, heat, and atmosphere had fused
them together, and no exertion of his could break off even the smallest
atom.
Must he return with not even one golden pebble? for he had gathered
them all--not one was in sight, no more were to be found.
His golden dream of travel was over, and, worse, the freshness and
buoyancy of youth had departed. His limbs, alas! were stiff and sore.
He had a mountain of gold, not one atom of which he could use for himself
or others. And now he must return to his father's house empty-handed,
and void of truths or incidents to relate to his brothers.
But some kind angel led him home, where his blessings were yet in
store, awaiting his return. One evening when the shadows crept over
the earth, he walked up the well-known path. The brothers had long
before ceased to watch for his coming; and great was their surprise to
see him again among them, although not the brother of that happy,
sunny day of long ago. He told them sadly of the result of his long toil,
while they related to him the good results of their few golden pebbles,
which they brought home, and with which their father had purchased
land, which was now yielding them rich returns, aside from the health
and pleasure which they derived from its culture, the labor of which they
performed with their own hands. "Health, wealth, and happiness combined,"
he murmured sadly, as he felt keenly that his youth and opportunities
had departed.
Are there not too many who seek for gold alone, forgetting the joys
which it purchases, and forgetting that its possession alone has no
value? Rightly acquired and used it alleviates and mediates, but gathered
and amassed for itself only it is but a mountain of shining ore,
valueless and unsatisfying to its possessor.
"Fool that I have been thus to waste my time and strength!" said the
long-absent son that night as his father bade him welcome.
"If wisdom is purchased by the experience, it matters not how great
the price," answered his parent.
"But I have lost my youth and my strength," responded the son.
"Which loss will be compensated by more thought and greater ability
to labor mentally," said his parent consolingly.
In after years the youth who had wasted his bodily strength became a
worker in words of cheer and hope to others, and hence he had not
wholly lived in vain. He learned to love the angel Truth so well that
she came to his side each day, and gave him sweet counsel and many
lessons for mankind.
But he had purchased the light at a cost which few can afford to give.
XXII.
THE SACRIFICE.
A large party of travelers on their way to a distant country were obliged
to pass through a dense forest to reach it. Their leader went forward,
and, seeing the darkness of the dense woods, was convinced of the
impossibility of his people going through it, without the aid of a
light to guide them. He sat beside the mossy stones at the entrance,
trying to devise some means by which to light up the darkness. There
seemed but one way, and that almost hopeless, as it involved a sacrifice
of life, and he knew too well the nature of the trees to expect any of
them to give themselves up for his travelers. How could he ask it, as he
stepped into the deep wood, and looked on their grand proportions and
rich foliage? His was no enviable position to entreat them to give up the
existence which must be dear to themselves,--to pass from the known to
the unknown life.
Vainly he tried to think of another way to accomplish his purpose. None
presented itself; so with glowing words he appealed to their nobler
selves, telling them all the great need of the travelers who were obliged
to pass that way. First he appealed to a fine birch which bordered the
forest.
"Not I, indeed!" answered the tree. "Do you think I would give my
life to light a few people through this woodland? I prefer to live a few
years longer."
He next addressed a walnut. She shook a few leaves from her branches,
and made a similar reply, preferring to live in her own form, and amid
her sister trees, to going she knew not whither.
"Are there none here," he continued, "who are willing to sacrifice their
lives for the needs of others?"
He looked around the forest in vain: all were silent, and he was about
to return to the people, when a large and stately oak spoke in clear and
ringing tones, saying, "I will give my body that the travelers may have
light."
"What! that grand old body of yours, that has been so many years
growing and maturing to its present stately and fair proportions!"
exclaimed several of the trees.
"You are not only rash, but foolish," remarked a small fir growing by
its side.
"Beside taking away the pride of our grand old forest," said a delicate
birch, that had always admired the oak.
"Just throwing your life away," broke in a tall and rather sickly pine.
"When will you be ready for me?" asked the oak of the leader, who
had stood admiring its beautiful proportions, and sorrowing within
himself that it must be so.
At the close of the next day the travelers came to the edge of the
forest, and tarried while their leader lit the fire at the roots of the
oak. Now the flames went upward and flashed in the darkness; for it was
evening, and not a star was visible. The flames rose upward and touched
not even the bark of another tree, but wound closely around the oak, as
though it knew its work and that the light of that tree only was needed
to pass the travelers through in safety. It touched their hearts to thus
witness that the life of the noble oak must be sacrificed, and they
offered, with one accord, a silent prayer that its life might be extended
in a higher form. Having passed through, they tarried at the end of
the forest until the flames died away, and then pursued their journey.
* * * * *
Years passed away. From the pile of ashes left by the departed oak
sprang lovely flowers, which charmed the eyes of all the trees in the
forest, and atoned, in a great measure, for the loss of their noble
companion.
After a brief period workmen were seen in the forest felling the trees.
"Ah!" exclaimed the old pine who had refused to give its life for the
travelers, "I don't see as we have gained anything. If our life is to go,
it might as well have gone by the fire as by the axe."
"Just so," answered the beach, "only if we had perished by the fire
we might now be coming again into another form of life, as our oak seems
to be, from that pile of dust and ashes; for see what lovely blossoms are
coming forth from that unsightly heap of dust."
"I heard the workmen say that all these trees were to be cleared away,
and houses erected on the land," remarked a trembling ash, and her leaves
quivered beyond their wont with the terror of this new thought.
"And that will surely be the end of us," moaned the pine.
"Our happy life is all over now," said a small fir, who would have
continued bemoaning their destiny had not her attention at that instant
been arrested by two forms entering the forest. They went to the spot
where once stood the brave oak, and gazed admiringly on the lovely tinted
blossoms. They had heard of the sacrifice of the tree, and had come to
gaze upon its resurrection.
"We will gather some for our festival to-night," they said, and stooped
to pluck the fragrant blossoms.
The fire had not destroyed the consciousness of the oak: its soul was
still alive, enjoying its new form of existence, and it sent forth
thrills of gratitude, which took the form of sweetest odor, filling the
air around with fragrance. "Instead of losing my life it is being
extended, even as the good leader of the people said," were its words as
the two departed, bearing the flowers, instinct with its oak life, away.
Many went to the forest while the workmen were there, to gather the
seeds of the rare blossoms to plant in their gardens.
How much of human life did the soul of the oak learn as it went forth
thus amid the throngs of people; and how it rejoiced that it had given
its life for the good of others, knowing not that greater bliss was in
store for it! It was held in the hands of the aged; it crowned fair
brows; it was carried to the bedside of the suffering; it was laid upon
the caskets of the dead; it was planted by the door of the cottage and
reared in the conservatories of the rich,--everywhere admired and
welcomed. Was not this life indeed worth all the pain and heat of the
flames, and the loss of its once statelier and loftier form?
It never sighed for its forest home, but often longed to know of the
fate of its brother trees. One day a child, bearing in her hand one of
its blossoms, wandered to the ground where once arose the tall trees. The
eyes of the oak, through the flower, looked in vain for its kindred. None
were standing. They had all been felled and their wood converted into
dwellings,--a useful but less beautiful form of existence than that which
the oak possessed,--and they learned, after a time, that it is only by
apparent destruction that life can be reconstructed. But they could only
have the experiences which came within the scope of their life; and the
oak was more than ever satisfied with its own, and rejoiced that it had
passed through the refining element, losing thereby only its grosser
form. It filled the air with the fragrance of its gratitude. Whenever it
wished to journey, the winds, who were its friends, conveyed its seeds to
any portion of the earth it designated. Its blossoms were not only bright
to the eye, and their odor sweet to the sense of smell, but the leaves of
the plant were healing. Three forces connected it with human life: so
that it was in constant action, and its highest joy lay in the
consciousness of its increased usefulness.
XXIII.
STRANGERS.
In a large and elegant mansion dwelt a wealthy man who had three lovely
daughters. The house was built on an eminence upon the banks of a river
which wound like a thread of silver through the valleys for many miles.
Afar from the mansion were a large number of cottages, in which dwelt
carpenters, shipbuilders, gardeners, and some of every trade. Most of
them were good and honest people, though tinged with the love of earthly
gains, and many of them, too, often crushed many of the soul's finer and
better emotions in the greedy love of material things. The owner of the
mansion sorrowed over this failing of theirs, and, to rid them of it,
devised a plan by which to give those who wished an opportunity to be led
by their better nature, and forget, for the time, self and gain.
Accordingly, he told his daughters to deck themselves in their richest
apparel and ornaments, which were rare and choice, and then to throw
over the whole large and unsightly cloaks, so that the disguise might be
perfect, and conceal all the splendor beneath. To each he gave a purse
filled with gold to bestow upon the one who should welcome and give
them shelter.
At evening he went forth with them to the narrow street, and bade
them knock at the doors of the cottages, while he waited outside, and see
who would admit and give food and shelter to travelers in need. They
obeyed him, and first approached a dimly-lighted cottage. Making
known their presence by a gentle rap, the door was opened by a woman
of large and coarse features, whose eyes had no welcome in their rude
stare. She scarcely waited for the words of the travelers to be spoken,
ere she gruffly answered, "No: we have neither room nor food for
beggars," and closed the door abruptly.
They applied next upon the opposite side, saying to the man who opened
the door, "Can you feed and give shelter to three weary travelers?"
"We have no food to waste, and our home is scarcely large enough for
ourselves," he replied, and quickly shut the door upon them.
The same answer came from all, and they turned to their parent, saying,
"Shall we try any more?"
"There are but two more: try all; see if one at least can be found not
wholly selfish; and, as you are not truly in need of their bounties, you
can well afford to importune and be denied." He then guided his children
to the end of the street.
"This one looks quite gay compared with the others," said the eldest
of the daughters, as they all looked on the well-lit rooms, and beheld
forms flitting to and fro within.
"We shall certainly be admitted here," said the others.
But the parent kept his council, and was invisible while they rapped
at the door, which was opened by a bright and rather stylish-looking
girl, who gazed wonderingly on the group.
"Can you give us shelter for a night, and a little food?" asked the
eldest.
"Not we, indeed: we have just spent all our money for a merry-making
for our brother Jack, who has just come home from sea. Not we:
we have not one bit of room to spare; for all our friends are here."
"But we are weary, and ask rest and food," pleaded one of the three;
and her eyes wandered to the well-filled tables.
"Yes: but what we have is for our company and ourselves--not for
beggars," said the girl, and she closed the door upon them.
"Shall we try again, father?" they said to their parent.
"Just this one, which is the last," he answered, leading them to the
door of a cot where dwelt a poor and lonely widow.
They paused at the threshold, for a voice was heard within, low and
sweet; yet they heard the words of the kneeling form, in deep petition,
saying, "Give me, O Father, my daily bread; forgive me my trespasses,
and lead me not into temptation. For thine is the kingdom, and the
power, and the glory, forever and forever. Amen."
She arose at that instant. A gentle knock was heard. Without delay
she opened it, and smiled upon the strangers, who asked for more than
she could give.
"I have shelter, but no food; yet enter and be welcome," she said, and
opened wide the door.
They passed in, and left their parent, whom they knew would soon follow,
outside.
"I grieve that I have no food to offer thee," said the woman, "but come
to my fireside; for the evening air is chilly, and you must need rest."
She placed for them her only chairs beside the fire, saying, "I am glad
you come to-night; for this is my last fuel, and to-morrow eve it will be
all dark and chill within my dwelling."
The eldest bowed to the woman gracefully, and threw aside her cloak;
and at once the others followed her example.
Great was the surprise of the widow. She thought her senses had
departed, and, for an instant, had no voice, no words, naught but wonder
beaming from her eyes, so sudden and great was the surprise. Another
gentle rap at that instant seemed to help her to find herself, and she
was hastening to open it, when the eldest one said, "It is our father,
come to thank you for admitting angels in disguise; for, though not
angels in form, we hope to prove such by our administration to your
needs." And they laid upon her only table the purses of gold.
"He will ever give daily bread to those who forget not to entertain
strangers," said their father to the widow, as they took their leave of
one who had not refused to receive strangers.
The next morning there was great commotion in the neighborhood;
for the widow had been seen to exchange gold for bread at one of the
shops; but greater still was their surprise when she told them, as they
flocked around her dwelling, that it was given by three strangers who
had asked for bread and shelter the night before.
"Three strangers!" exclaimed they all. "They must be the same that called
at our dwellings. What fools we were that we did not let them in!"
"Nay: it but shows how dead you were in sympathy for human need,"
spoke a voice among them, which, as they turned, they found to be that
of the owner of the mansion.
Shame and confusion came over their faces; for he had long been their
benefactor, both in words of counsel and deeds of kindness. Their eyes
fell to the ground, as he in gentle tones chided them for their lack of
kindness and want of faith in the Father's love. "He who giveth not in
another's need shall receive none in his own," he continued; "and let
the lesson taught you by the experience you have just had, and the
example of the poor widow, last you through all the years of your life;
for she refused not the strangers whom you turned from your doors the
shelter which they apparently needed."
"But they were not cold and hungry," said one of the group.
"The demand upon your sympathies was just the same; for you knew not to
the contrary," he answered, and they could not but feel the truth of his
words.
The lesson was not lost; for in after years they grew less mercenary,
more kindly of heart, and never again closed their doors to strangers
asking aid.