LOST MEMORIES.
I found myself lying in a gipsy’s tent perfectly alone, dizzy, feverish,
and so parched with thirst that it seemed to me one drop of water would
satisfy every want I could ever have again. An earthen pitcher stood
near the fresh hay on which I was lying. I reached forth my feeble hand
and slanted it down, till the bottom glistened on my sight. Then I fell
back weeping. It was empty, not a drop—not a drop! How terrible was that
thirst. I felt the tears rushing down my cheek, and strove to gather
them in my hand, thinking, poor thing, to moisten my burning lips with
the drops of my own sorrow. The wind blew aside the fall of canvas that
concealed the entrance to my tent, and I saw through it a glimpse of the
bright morning; clover fields bathed in fragrant mist; soft, green
meadow grasses sparkling with dew. Then the whole strength of my being
centered in one great wish—water! My wild eyes were turned in every
direction where the soft drops seemed flashing, dancing, leaping around
me like a whirlwind of diamonds. I closed my eyes and strove to shake
the hallucination from my brain. A moment’s rest, and there was another
calm glimpse of the dewy morning. I wonder if Paradise ever looks half
so beautiful to the angels.
Dizzy and fascinated, I crept across the tent on my hands and knees,
dragging the loose hay after me, and moaning softly with each strain
upon my shrinking muscles, till I crept into the deep verdure. How
softly the cool dew-drops rained over me as I lay down at length in the
soft meadow grass. My face, my arms, and my little, burning feet were
bathed as with new life. I lay still, and laughed with a glee that
frightened up a lark from her nest close by. The young ones began to
flutter, and piped forth their tiny music as if to comfort the lone
child that had stolen to their home, still more helpless than
themselves.
I swept my hand across the grass, gathering up the dew, which I drank
greedily. Then I rolled over and over, bathing my feet and my garments
till my face came on a level with the young larks. They uttered a cry,
and opened their little golden throats as if for food. This brought the
mother-bird back again, who circled over and over us, uttering her
discontent in wild gushes of song. The flutter of her plumage between my
eyes and the sun—the softened notes as she grew comforted by my
stillness—the flutter that seemed half smothered in thistle-down still
going on in the nest—the balmy air, the bath of dew—some, perhaps all of
these things slaked the fire in my veins, and I fell asleep.
Did I dream? Had I wandered off again into delirium, or was the thing
real? To this day I cannot tell; but as I lay in that meadow which
bounded the wayside, a long funeral procession crept by me, fringing the
meadow with blackness, and gliding away sadly, dreamily, toward a
village church, whose spire cut between me and the sky.
Time went by like thistle-down upon the wind. The sky was purple above
me. Thousands and thousands of great stars twinkled dreamily through the
deep stillness. The dew lay upon me like a shower. I turned softly, and
as I moved, the lark stirred above her young. My sleep had been so like
death that the bird feared me no longer.
If I had a connected thought it was this—the lark had come back to her
young; with her soft bosom she kept them from the damp and cold night
air. I was young: it was night: the dew fell like rain: I had no
strength to move. _Where was my mother?_
I could not answer the question; my brain was too feeble, and ached
beneath the confused images that crowded upon it. The funeral train,
ridges of snow, heaped-up stones, flashes of crimson, as if a red mantle
were floating over me, disjointed fragments like these were all the
answer that came back to my heart, as it drearily asked where am I?
where is my mother?
Probably another day went by; I do not know, for a heavenly sleep
settled on me. But at last—it must have been sometime near noon—I saw
the lark settle down by her nest with some crumbs of bread in her bill.
I watched the young ones as they greedily devoured it, and a craving
desire for nourishment stole over me. I envied the little ragged
birdlings, and wondered how they could be so greedy and so selfish.
The mother flew away again, and I watched her with longing eyes. She
might take compassion on my hunger. Surely those greedy young ones had
eaten enough. She would think of me now that they were satisfied. How
eagerly I watched for some dark speck in the sky, some noise that should
tell me of her return! She came at last, shooting through the atmosphere
like an arrow. After whirling playfully over, and again above our heads,
she settled down by her nest, and I saw that her bill was distended by a
fine blackberry. The largest and sauciest young one, who always crowded
his brethren down into the nest when food appeared, rose upward with a
hungry flutter and held his open bill quivering just beneath the
delicious berry.
My heart swelled. I uttered an eager cry, and flung out my hand. The
lark, startled in affright, dropped the fruit, and it fell into my palm.
What did I care for the angry cry of the old bird, or the commotion
among her nestlings? The fruit was melting away—oh, how
deliciously!—between my parched lips! When that was gone, I lifted my
hands imploringly to the angry bird, and asked for more. She was all the
friend I had, and it seemed as if she must understand my terrible want.
She went away and returned; but oh, how my poor heart ached when she
lighted, and with her eye turned saucily on me, dropped a grain or two
of wheat for her young!
Tears crowded to my eyes. Who would aid me—so hungry, so miserable, such
a little creature, more helpless than the birds of heaven, and they so
pitiless? I turned my face away; the young larks had become detestable
to me. I was tempted to hurt them, to dash my hand down into the nest
and exterminate the whole brood; but the very thought exhausted me, and
I began to weep again with faint sighs that would have been sobs of
anguish but for my prostration.
I lifted my head and strove to sit upright, looking wearily around with
a vague expectation of help. At a little distance was a stone wall, and
climbing over it a blackberry bush in full fruit, clusters on clusters
glittering in the sunshine. The tears rained down my cheeks. I turned my
eyes upon the young larks and feebly laughed out my triumph. I crept
forward on my hands and knees, pulled myself along by clenching handsful
of the meadow grass, and, at length, found myself prostrate and panting
by the wall. Most of the fruit was above my reach, but some clusters
fell low, and while my breast was heaving and my poor hands trembled
with exhaustion, I began to gather and eat. Fortunately, it was
impossible for me to pluck enough of the fruit to injure myself, and
with the grateful taste in my mouth, I lay contemplating the clusters
overhead with dreamy longing, wondering when I should be able to climb
up the stones and gather them.
It is strange that while my senses were so acute in all things that
pertained to my animal wants, all remembrance of the past had forsaken
me. I could neither remember who I was, nor how I came to be alone in
the meadow. My whole range of sympathy and existence went back no
farther than the lark’s nest and its inmates, that had seemed to mock at
my hunger in the midst of their own abundance. Was it from this that I
drew my first lesson of sympathy for the destitute, and hate for the
heartless rich?
Some vague remembrance of a tent that had sheltered me did seem to haunt
by brain; but when I lifted myself up by the wall it had disappeared,
and that, with the rest, floated away into indistinctness. It was not
that all memory of the past had left me. I knew what the relations of
life were—knew well that I ought to have a mother to care for me—some
one to bring me food and arrange my garments; and, through the
cloudiness of my ideas, one beautiful face always looked down upon me,
like the rich, dark-eyed women whom we find repeated, and yet varied
over and over again in Murillo’s pictures. I knew that this face should
have been my mother’s, but all around it was confused, like the clouds
in which the great artist sometimes buries his most ideal heads.
But even this beautiful remembrance was floating and visionary. I had no
strength to grasp a continued thought. Even the aspect of nature, the
meadows, the distant woods, and the gables of a building that shot up
from their midst, had a novel aspect. The feeble impression thus left
was like that of bright colors to an infant. I felt happier, more
elastic. The world seemed very beautiful, and a keen desire for action
came upon me. I tried to walk, but fell down like an infant making its
first attempt. I made another effort, tottered on a few paces, and lay
quietly down overcome with a desire to sleep. Then I started again,
creeping, staggering a little on my feet, resting every few minutes, but
all the while making progress toward the building whose gables I had
seen in the distance. I had no definite object; the instincts of
humanity alone no doubt induced me to seek a human habitation.
I must have passed over the spot where the tent had stood, for some
loose hay littered the grass in one place, and among it I found a crust
of dry bread. I uttered a low shout, and seizing it with both hands, sat
down in the hay and began to eat voraciously. Never, never have I tasted
food so delicious. I cannot think of it yet without a sensation of
delight!
As I sat devouring the precious morsel, there came a sweet noise to my
ear—a soft gurgle, that made me pause in my exquisite banquet and
listen. Old associations were not altogether lost. I knew by the sound
that a spring or brook was near, and my joy broke forth in a laugh which
overpowered the flow of the waters. I crept on toward the sound,
hoarding the fragments of my crust. It was a beautiful little spring
gushing up from the cleft in a rock which lay cradled in a hollow close
by. The rock was covered with moss and the most delicate lichen, thick
with tiny, red drops, more beautiful than coral. The water rushed down
in a single stream, slender and graceful as the flight of a silver
arrow, and spread away with soft murmurs, through the peppermint and
cowslips that lined the hollow. I drank of the water slowly, like a
little epicure, enjoying the cool taste on my lips with exquisite
relish. Then, enticed by the fragrance, I gathered a stem or two of the
mint, and laying the moist leaves on my bread, made a meal, such as one
never takes twice in a life-time.
The waters gathered in a pretty pool beneath the rock, as bright and
scarcely larger than a good sized mirror. I turned, after my bread was
exhausted, and saw myself reflected in the pool—not myself at the time,
for I supposed it another child—a poor, little, miserable thing, in an
old dress of torn and soiled embroidery, whose original richness gave
force to its poverty-stricken raggedness. Her little feet were bare and
white, and great, black eyes, illuminating a miserable pale face, like
lamps that could never burn out, were staring at me so wildly, that I
flung out my arms to repulse her. She also flung up her bare arms, and
looked more like a weird thing than ever. The action terrified me. I
burst into tears, and clambered up the hollow, looking back in terror
lest the starved creature should follow me.