[Illustration: "NYCTERIS OPENED HER EYES AND LOOKED AFTER HER JUST IN
TIME TO SEE HER VANISH THROUGH A PICTURE."]
It was some time before she had a second opportunity of going out, for
Falca, since the fall of the lamp, had been a little more careful, and
seldom left her for long. But one night, having a little headache,
Nycteris lay down upon her bed, and was lying with her eyes closed, when
she heard Falca come to her, and felt she was bending over her.
Disinclined to talk, she did not open her eyes, and lay quite still.
Satisfied that she was asleep, Falca left her, moving so softly that her
very caution made Nycteris open her eyes and look after her--just in
time to see her vanish--through a picture, as it seemed, that hung on
the wall a long way from the usual place of issue. She jumped up, her
headache forgotten, and ran in the opposite direction; got out, groped
her way to the stair, climbed, and reached the top of the wall.--Alas!
the great room was not so light as the little one she had left. Why?
Sorrow of sorrows! the great lamp was gone! Had its globe fallen? and
its lovely light gone out upon great wings, a resplendent fire-fly,
soaring itself through a yet grander and lovelier room? She looked down
to see if it lay anywhere broken to pieces on the carpet below, but she
could not even see the carpet. But surely nothing very dreadful could
have happened--no rumbling or shaking, for there were all the little
lamps shining brighter than before, not one of them looking as if any
unusual matter had befallen. What if each of those little lamps was
growing into a big lamp, and after being a big lamp for a while, had to
go out and grow a bigger lamp still--out there, beyond this _out_?--Ah!
here was the living thing that would not be seen, come to her
again--bigger to-night!--with such loving kisses, and such liquid
strokings of her cheeks and forehead, gently tossing her hair, and
delicately toying with it! But it ceased, and all was still. Had it gone
out? What would happen next? Perhaps the little lamps had not to grow
great lamps, but to fall one by one and go out first?--With that came
from below a sweet scent, then another, and another. Ah, how delicious!
Perhaps they were all coming to her only on their way out after the
great lamp!--Then came the music of the river, which she had been too
absorbed in the sky to note the first time. What was it? Alas! alas!
another sweet living thing on its way out. They were all marching slowly
out in long lovely file, one after the other, each taking its leave of
her as it passed! It must be so: here were more and more sweet sounds,
following and fading! The whole of the _Out_ was going out again; it was
all going after the great lovely lamp! She would be left the only
creature in the solitary day! Was there nobody to hang up a new lamp for
the old one, and keep the creatures from going?--She crept back to her
rock very sad. She tried to comfort herself by saying that anyhow there
would be room out there; but as she said it she shuddered at the thought
of _empty_ room.
When next she succeeded in getting out, a half-moon hung in the east: a
new lamp had come, she thought, and all would be well.
It would be endless to describe the phases of feeling through which
Nycteris passed, more numerous and delicate than those of a thousand
changing moons. A fresh bliss bloomed in her soul with every varying
aspect of infinite nature. Ere long she began to suspect that the new
moon was the old moon, gone out and come in again, like herself; also
that, unlike herself, it wasted and grew again; that it was indeed a
live thing, subject like herself to caverns, and keepers, and solitudes,
escaping and shining when it could. Was it a prison like hers it was
shut in? and did it grow dark when the lamp left it? Where could be the
way into it?--With that, first she began to look below, as well as above
and around her, and then first noted the tops of the trees between her
and the floor. There were palms with their red-fingered hands full of
fruit, eucalyptus-trees crowded with little boxes of powder puffs,
oleanders with their half-caste roses, and orange-trees with their
clouds of young silver stars and their aged balls of gold. Her eyes
could see colors invisible to ours in the moonlight, and all these she
could distinguish well, though at first she took them for the shapes and
colors of the carpet of the great room. She longed to get down among
them, now she saw they were real creatures, but she did not know how.
She went along the whole length of the wall to the end that crossed the
river, but found no way of going down. Above the river she stopped to
gaze with awe upon the rushing water. She knew nothing of water but from
what she drank and what she bathed in; and as the moon shone on the
dark, swift stream, singing lustily as it flowed, she did not doubt the
river was alive, a swift rushing serpent of life, going--out?--whither?
And then she wondered if what was brought into her rooms had been killed
that she might drink it, and have her bath in it.
Once when she stepped out upon the wall, it was into the midst of a
fierce wind. The trees were all roaring. Great clouds were rushing along
the skies, and tumbling over the little lamps: the great lamp had not
come yet. All was in tumult. The wind seized her garments and hair, and
shook them as if it would tear them from her. What could she have done
to make the gentle creature so angry? Or was this another creature
altogether--of the same kind, but hugely bigger, and of a very different
temper and behavior? But the whole place was angry! Or was it that the
creatures dwelling in it, the wind, and the trees, and the clouds, and
the river, had all quarrelled, each with all the rest? Would the whole
come to confusion and disorder? But as she gazed, wondering and
disquieted, the moon, larger than ever she had seen her, came lifting
herself above the horizon to look, broad and red as if she too were
swollen with anger that she had been roused from her rest by their
noise, and compelled to hurry up to see what her children were about,
thus rioting in her absence, lest they should rack the whole frame of
things. And as she rose, the loud wind grew quieter, and scolded less
fiercely, the trees grew stiller, and moaned with a lower complaint, and
the clouds hunted and hurled themselves less wildly across the sky. And
as if she were pleased that her children obeyed her very presence, the
moon grew smaller as she ascended the heavenly stair; her puffed cheeks
sank, her complexion grew clearer, and a sweet smile spread over her
countenance, as peacefully she rose and rose. But there was treason and
rebellion in her court; for ere she reached the top of her great stairs
the clouds had assembled, forgetting their late wars, and very still
they were as they laid their heads together and conspired. Then
combining, and lying silently in wait until she came near, they threw
themselves upon her, and swallowed her up. Down from the roof came spots
of wet, faster and faster, and they wetted the cheeks of Nycteris; and
what could they be but the tears of the moon, crying because her
children were smothering her? Nycteris wept too, and not knowing what to
think, stole back in dismay to her room.
The next time she came out in fear and trembling. There was the moon
still! away in the west--poor, indeed, and old, and looking dreadfully
worn, as if all the wild beasts in the sky had been gnawing at her; but
there she was, alive still, and able to shine.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
* * * * *
=The Royal Fern.=--A legend has been handed down from the time of the
Danish invasions of Britain, explanatory of the generic name of
Osmunda--an island, covered with large specimens of this fern, figuring
prominently in the story. Osmund, the ferryman of Loch Tyne, had a
beautiful child, who was the pride of his life and the joy of his heart.
In those days, when the merciless Danes were making their terrible
descents upon the coasts of Great Britain, slaughtering the peaceful
inhabitants, and pillaging wherever they went, no man could say how long
he would be free from molestation and outrage. But Osmund, throughout
the troublous times, had lived quietly in his country home with his wife
and beautiful daughter.
The peaceful calm of his life was, however, destined to be broken. One
evening the ferryman was sitting, with his wife and child, on the margin
of the lake, after his day's work. The setting sun was tingeing with
roseate glory the fleecy banks of cloud, piled up against the horizon,
silvering the surface of the rippling lake, and adding a richer hue to
the golden locks of Osmund's darling child. Suddenly the sound of
hurrying footsteps startled the quiet group. Men, women, and children
came hastening from the neighboring village, and breathlessly, as they
passed, they told the ferryman that the terrible Danes were coming.
Quick as thought Osmund sprang to his feet, seized his wife and child,
and hurried them into his ferry-boat. Away he rowed with them pulling
for very life--in the direction of a small island in the loch, densely
covered with the tall and stately fronds of the royal fern. He quickly
hid his precious charges amongst the clustering fronds, and then rowed
rapidly back to his ferry place. He had rightly divined that the Danes
needed his assistance, and would not hurt him.
For many hours of the ensuing night he worked with might and main to
carry the fierce invaders across the ferry. When they had all
disappeared on the opposite bank, Osmund returned to his trembling wife
and child, and brought them safely back to his cottage. In
commemoration, it is said, of this event, the fair daughter of Osmund
gave the great island fern her father's name. Those who care not to
accept this fanciful origin of the name Osmunda, will perhaps incline to
another suggestion which has been made, that the generic name had been
derived from an old Saxon word signifying strength, the specific name
indicating its royal or stately habit of growth.