It is not to be supposed that such things happen every day. If they
were to happen every day, one would get so familiar with them that they
would not seem at all extraordinary; and if there were no extraordinary
things in the world, how very dull one would be, to be sure! As it
is-- But to go back.
The beggar had stood before the area-gate for a long time, and no one
had paid the slightest attention to him. He was an old man with long
gray hair, and a faded, ragged coat, whose tatters fluttered madly to
and fro every time the wind blew. He was very tall and gaunt, and his
back was bent. On his head was a big slouched hat, whose brim fell
forward over his eyes and almost hid them entirely in its shadow. He
carried a basket upon one arm, and a cane with a crook for a handle
hung upon the other. He seemed very patient, for he was waiting,
unmurmuringly, for some one to come in answer to the ring he had given
the area-bell some fifteen minutes before. No one came, and he
appeared to be considering whether to ring again or go away, when
Lionel skipped nimbly from his chair by the drawing-room window,
slipped noiselessly down the basement stairs, and opened the area-door
just in time to prevent the beggar from taking his departure.
"What do you want, sir?" inquired Lionel, politely, through the tall
iron gate.
The beggar turned around at the sound of the child's voice, and replied:
"I have come to beg--"
"Oh, yes, I know," cried Lionel, hurriedly (he was afraid some one
might come, and then he would be snatched unceremoniously away from the
open door, and the beggar sent smartly about his business by one of the
pert-tongued maids); "but is it for cold victuals or money?"
The beggar looked down at the little lad, and a smile, half of pity,
half of amusement, lit up his grave features for a moment. "I have
come to beg," he said slowly, "that you will receive from me, not that
you will give to me."
Lionel's eyes widened with amazement. "That I will receive from you?"
he repeated slowly. "Then you are n't a beggar at all?"
"Most assuredly I am," responded the old man, promptly. "Do I not beg
of you? What is a beggar? 'One who begs or entreats earnestly or with
humility; a petitioner.' That is how your dictionary has it. It does
n't say for what he begs or entreats. Where I come from things are so
different,--there it is a mark of distinction, I can assure you, to be
a beggar. One must have lived such a long life of poverty and
self-sacrifice before one is permitted to beg--to beg others to receive
one's benefits. Ah, yes, there it is so different!"
"Yes, it must be," assented Lionel. "Here beggars are just persons who
go about and ask for cold bits or pennies; and we don't think much of
them at all."
"That is because they are not the right kind of almsfolk, nor you the
right kind of almoners," responded the beggar; and then he repeated:
"Ah, yes, there it is so different!"
"Where?" inquired Lionel. "Won't you tell me about it?"
"Dear child," replied the beggar, gently, "it can't be described. It
must be seen to be appreciated. If you once entered into that estate,
you would never wish to return to this."
"Is it as nice as all that?" questioned Lionel, eagerly. "Guess I 'll
go, then. Will you take me ?" he asked.
The beggar smiled down at him kindly. "I can't take you, dear boy," he
said. "I have to travel on. But I can set you on the road, and you
will reach there in safety if you follow my directions."
Lionel waited breathlessly for the beggar to continue; but the man
almost seemed to have forgotten his existence, for he was gazing
dreamily over his head into the darkness of the hallway, apparently
seeing nothing but what was in his own mind's eye.
"Well?" asked Lionel, a little impatiently. "You were going to give me
the directions, you know."
"Oh, yes!" returned the beggar, with a slight start. "Well, the
directions are: _Always turn to the right_!"
Lionel considered a moment, and then he said: "But if I always turn to
the right I should n't get anywhere at all. I 'd be only going round
and round."
"No, no!" replied the beggar, hastily; "you must always go _square_,
you know. And you 'll find you 'll get along beautifully if you always
keep to the right."
"But s'pose," suggested Lionel, "I come to a place where the road is to
the left,--some of the roads might be not to the right,--some might go
quite the other way."
"Yes," assented the beggar, wistfully. "They _all_ go the other
way,--that is, they _seem_ to go the other way. But when they seem to
go to the wrong and you don't see any that go to the right, just keep
as near to the right as you can, and by and by you 'll see one and it
will be lovely. But if you turn down to the wrong, you run a chance of
losing your way entirely. It is always so much harder to go back."
"But are those all the directions you are going to give me?" inquired
Lionel, with a doubtful glance.
"They are sufficient," replied the beggar. "You 'll find them
sufficient;" and before Lionel could say another word the beggar had
vanished from before his very eyes. He had not slipped away, nor slunk
away, nor walked away, nor sped away,--he had simply vanished; and
Lionel was left alone behind the grated door of the area-way gazing out
upon a vacant space of pavement where, an instant before, the beggar
had stood. The little boy rubbed his eyes and looked again. No, the
beggar was gone, in very truth, and had left not so much as a rag
behind him. But, look! what was that? Something lay upon the stone
step just outside the gate, and it gleamed brightly from out its dusky
corner. Lionel reached up and unlatched the heavy fastening. The
great gate swung slowly in, and Lionel stepped briskly out. He bent
down and grasped the shining object; it proved to be a little rule, and
it was made of solid gold. He clasped it to his bosom.
"How beautiful!" he murmured. "Now I can measure things and carve them
with my jack-knife, and they 'll be just exactly right. Before they
have n't been quite straight, and when I 'd try to put the parts
together they wouldn't fit; but now--"
And then suddenly the thought flashed across his mind: "Perhaps it
belongs to the beggar and he might want it;" and without a moment's
thought to his bare head, he passed quickly through the gateway and out
into the street.
"It's such a beautiful rule," he thought, as he flew along. "I never
saw such a darling. If it were mine, how I should hate to lose it! I
must certainly find him and give it back to him; for I know he must
feel just as I should if it were mine."
It never entered into his head to keep the thing; his one idea seemed
to be to find the beggar and return to him his property. But before
very long his breath began to come in gasps, and he found himself
panting painfully and unable to run any farther. He paused and leaned
against the huge newel-post at the foot of some one's outer steps. His
cheeks were aglow, his eyes flashing, his thick curls rough and
tumbled, and his bang in fine disorder. The deep embroidered cuffs and
collar upon his blouse were crushed and rumpled; his little Zouave
jacket was wind-blown and dusty, and his pumps splashed with mud from
the gutter-puddles through which he had run. At home they would have
said he "looked like distress;" but here, leaning wearily against the
post, he was a most picturesque little figure.
Suddenly he felt a light touch upon his head, and then his bang was
brushed back from his temples as though by the stroke of some kindly
hand. He looked up, and there beside him stood the oddest-looking
figure he had ever seen.
The stranger was clad from head to foot in a suit of silver gray. Upon
his head he wore a peaked cap, upon his feet were the longest and most
pointed of buskins; his doublet and hose were silver gray, and over his
shoulders hung a mantle about which was a jagged border made after the
most fantastic design, which shone and glittered like ice in sunlight.
About his hips was a narrow girdle from which hung a sheathed dagger
whose hilt was richly studded with clear, white crystals that looked to
Lionel like the purest of diamonds.
Lionel felt that when he spoke it would probably be after some
old-century fashion which he could scarcely understand; but there he
was mistaken, for when the stranger addressed him, it was in the most
modern manner and with great kindliness.
"Well, my son," he said cheerily, "tired out? I saw you run. You have
a fine pair of heels. They have good speed in them."
"I wanted to catch up with someone,--an old beggar-man who lost
something in our area-way. I wanted to return it to him," explained
Lionel, breathlessly.
The stranger gazed down at him more kindly than ever. "So? But one
can't expect to catch up with folks when one gets _winded_ and has to
stop every now and then for breath. Better try my mode."
"Please, sir, what is your mode?" inquired Lionel, with his politest
manner.
"To begin with," explained his companion, "I have to accomplish the
most astonishing feats in the manner of speed. Literally I have to
travel so fast that I am in two places at once. You will the better
believe me when I tell you who I am,--Jack Frost, at your service, sir.
Now, by what means do you think I manage it ?"
"I 'm sure I don't know. I should like immensely to find out," Lionel
returned.
"How do you get to places yourself?" inquired Jack Frost. "Do you
always run?"
"Oh, no, indeed. I almost always ride on my bicycle. Then I can _go_
like anything, 'specially down _coasts_. Upgrades are kind of hard
sometimes, but not so very. Oh, I can go quick enough when I have my
bicycle."
"Now then," broke in Jack Frost, "you use a bicycle,--that is, a
machine having two wheels. Now _I_ use a something having but one
wheel; consequently it goes twice as fast,--oh! much more than twice as
fast."
"One wheel?" repeated Lionel, thoughtfully; "seems to me I never
heard of that kind of an one."
"Suppose you guess," proposed Jack Frost. "I 'll put it in the form of
a conundrum: If a thing having two wheels is called a _bi_cycle, what
would a thing having but one be called?"
"Oh, that's an old one. I 've heard that before, and the answer is, a
wheelbarrow, you know."
Jack Frost shook his head, "I see I shall have to tell you," he said.
"If a thing having two wheels is called a _bi_cycle, a thing having but
one would naturally be an _i_cicle. Of course you might have known I
should use an icicle."
"But oh, Mr. Frost," objected Lionel, "I never saw an icicle with a
wheel in my life, and I never saw one go either."
"That's because you have n't seen me on one; and even if you had seen
me on one, you wouldn't have known it,--we travel so fast. Did you
ever notice that when things are going at the very rapidest rate
possible, they seem to be standing perfectly still? That's the way
with icicles. They have tremendous speed in them. They go so fast you
can't realize it, and then when they are slowing up they don't do it
with a clumsy jerk as bicycles do; they just gradually melt out of
sight."
"Yes, I 've seen them do that. I 've seen them go that way," admitted
Lionel. "But will you take me to the beggar? I'm 'fraid I sha'n't be
able to give him his rule if I don't hurry up."
"But do you know in what direction he went?" asked Jack Frost. "If one
wants to catch up with any one, one needs to have _some_ idea of the
direction he took. It's quite a _desideratum_,--when you get home,
look that up."
Then Lionel felt deeply mortified. "What a silly I was!" he said.
"Perhaps I was going just the opposite way from the one he went. Oh,
dear! how can I ever give him back his rule? It is such a beauty. If
it had been mine, I 'd just hate to lose it."
"Let us examine it," suggested Jack Frost, "and see if there is any
sign upon it that would help to discover its owner;" and without a
moment's doubt or hesitation Lionel drew it from his pocket and held it
up for Jack Frost to see.
Then for a little space they both gazed at it carefully; Jack Frost
bending down his tall head to get a nearer view of it, and Lionel
standing upon the tips of his toes to accomplish the same purpose.
"Oh, see, see!" cried the boy, joyously. "It says, 'LIONEL,--HIS RULE
FOR LIFE.' That means I can keep it for always, does n't it? Forever
'n' ever."
"It means," explained Jack Frosty gravely, "that you can keep it,--yes.
But it means you are to measure your life with it. You are always to
use it in everything you do. Then you 'll be _true_, and whatever you
do will be _straight_ and _square_."
"Why, that's what he said himself. He said I must always 'go square.'
That was when he was giving me directions how to reach the beautiful
place he came from. He called it an estate; and he said if I ever got
there I 'd never want to come away. As long as I 'm on the way I guess
I 'll try to find that place. Will you take me?"
"I 'm afraid," replied Jack Frost, with a very kindly seriousness,--"I
'm afraid one must depend on one's self in order to reach that place.
But I 'll tell you what I will do; I 'll stay with you for a bit, and,
perhaps, having company will hearten you, so if you happen to come
across any specially bad places just at first, you won't be
discouraged. And I want to tell you that if you are ever in doubt as
to the way and no one is there to give you advice, just set yourself to
work and use your rule and you 'll come out right. Now don't forget!"
and with these words he vanished.
"Why, I thought he was going to stay with me," murmured Lionel,
despondently. "He was so jolly, and I liked him so much. He said he
wouldn't leave me just yet--"
"Nor have I," rejoined the hearty voice close by his ear. "But I can't
neglect my business, you know; and at this moment I 'm here and 'way
off in Alaska too. Stiff work, is n't it?"
But in spite of this Lionel heard him whistling cheerily beside him.
The boy trudged on, and every once in a while he and his invisible
comrade would converse together in the most friendly manner possible,
and Lionel did indeed feel encouraged by the knowledge of Jack Frost's
companionship. But by and by, after quite a long time, Lionel noticed
that when he addressed his unseen fellow-traveller the voice that came
to him in reply seemed rather far away and distant, and later became
lost to him altogether.
Then he knew that Jack Frost had left him for a season, and he felt
quite lonely and deserted and was about to drop a tear or two of
regret, when all at once, at his very feet, opened a new way which he
had not noticed before. It looked bright and inviting, and wound along
in the most picturesque fashion, instead of lying straight and level
before him, as did the road from which it branched.
He was just about to turn down this fascinating side-path, and was in
the very act of complaining about his loneliness and bemoaning it
aloud, when he happened to notice that the sky looked a little
overcast; the air had grown heavy and still, and a strange, sad hush
brooded over everything; while the bare branches upon the trees
appeared to droop, and the one or two birds that had perched upon them
uttered low, plaintive little sounds that were disheartening to hear.
Lionel was struck with so great an awe that he entirely forgot himself
and his sorrow; and in that one moment the skies seemed to brighten,
the air to lighten, and the trees and birds had grown songful again.
"What does it mean?" he asked himself anxiously; and then, all at once,
he bethought himself of Jack Frost's advice in case he ever was in
doubt as to the course he was to take, and in a twinkling had whipped
out his rule and was down on his knees applying it in good earnest.
Then how glad he was that he had not turned into the inviting by-path,
for his little rule showed how crooked and wrong it was,--whole yards
and yards away from the right; and he knew he must have met with some
mishap, or at the very least have wasted any amount of precious time
trying to retrace his steps and regain the place upon which he now
stood.
He was so relieved to think he had been saved from making such a sad
mistake that he began to whistle merrily, and in an instant the whole
world about him was bright of hue and joyous again, and looking, he
saw, to his amazement, that the bare branches were abud.
"It's spring," he cried happily, and leaped along his way toward the
right. In a flash the tempting little by-path had curled up like a
scroll and disappeared from view; and then Lionel knew that it had not
been real at all, but only imaginary, and he was more grateful than
ever that he had not followed its lead.
"Now, you good little rule," said he, addressing the shining object in
his hand, "I 'll put you in my breast-pocket and keep you safe and warm
next to my heart. Then you 'll be ready if I want you again." And he
was just about to thrust it in his bosom, when his eyes were caught by
something unusual upon its surface, and on examining it very closely he
saw, in exquisitely chased characters, the words,--
Nor sigh nor weep o'er thine own ills;
Such plaining earth with mourning fills.
Forget thyself, and thou shalt see
Thyself remembered blessedly.
For some time after he had read the lines he was plunged in thought.
They seemed to teach him a lesson that it took him some little time to
learn.
"I don't know why it should make the world sad if one complains," he
mused. "But I s'pose it does. I s'pose one has n't any right to make
things unpleasant for other people by crying about things. One ought
to be brave and not bother folks with one's troubles. Well, I 'll try
not to do so any more, because if it's going to make things so
unpleasant it can't be right."
And this last word seemed to link in his mind his escape from the
complaint of his loneliness and the by-path down which he did not turn;
and he was so long trying to unravel the mystery of the connection that
before he knew it he had almost stumbled into quite a bog, and there,
in front of him, sat a wee child,--just where two roads met,--and he
had well-nigh run over her in his carelessness.
"Oh, bother!" said he,--for he was irritated at the thought of having
only so narrowly escaped doing himself serious damage,--"what do you
get in a fellow's way for? You--" But the poor little mite gazed up
at him so sadly, and wept so piteously at his hasty words that he
paused suddenly and did not go on.
He looked down the two paths. The one was wide and curving, the other
narrow and straight; the one was bordered with rich foliage, the other
was bare and sandy. He might have run lightly along the one, he would
have to toil wearisomely along the other. What wonder that his foot
was turning in the direction of the first! But a queer pricking in his
bosom and the child's cry stopped him.
He slowly drew forth his rule and began to measure, while the little
one sobbed,--
"I 'm so told I tan't walt any more. My foots are all tired out, and I
want sumpin to eat;" and there he found himself just on the verge of
making a fearful blunder. He got up from his knees and turning to the
tiny maid, said kindly,--
"There, there! don't cry, dear! We 'll fix you all right;" and he
stripped off his jacket and wrapped it about her, taking her in his
arms, and trudging on with his burden along the more difficult way.
But it was the right one, and he knew it; and so his heart was light,
and he did not have time to think of his own weariness; for all the
time he was trying to comfort his forlorn little companion. And so
well he succeeded that in no time at all she was asleep on his
shoulder. Then he sat down by the roadside, and holding her still in
his arms, began to think.
"There I was a little while ago complaining--no, not quite complaining,
but _almost_--because I hadn't anybody to keep me company. Now I 've
got somebody with a vengeance. She's awful heavy. But, oh, dear! what
a narrow escape I had! I might have run into that bog, and that would
have been a 'pretty how d 'ye do,' as Sarah says. I was so busy
thinking I forgot everything, and ran almost over little Sissy; and
that shows, I s'pose, how without meaning it one can hurt somebody if
one does n't look out."
And then, very carefully, so as not to wake his sleeping charge, he
slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out his rule again.
"What a good friend you are!" he said to it. "I really think you 're
better than any sword or poniard a body could have. You 've saved me
from danger twice now, and--" But here he stared at it in dumb
surprise, for even as he looked he saw appear upon its polished surface
the words,--
Deep is the bog in which they sink
Who ne'er on others' sorrow think;
Deeper the joy in which they rest
Who 've served the weary and distressed.
And, sure enough, he felt so happy he could have sung aloud in spite of
his weariness and fatigue.
But I could not begin to tell you of all his experiences, nor how
unfailingly his little rule helped him to meet them successfully.
He thought a great deal about it and its magical power; but once or
twice he did get to wondering why it should point to the straight path
when the winding one was so much the prettier to see.
"Are the right ways always the ones we should n't take if we had our
own way?" he thought. "Why is it that the right one always seems not
so pretty as the other? Seems to me some one told me once that the
curved lines were 'the lines of beauty.'" But before he had time
fairly to consider the subject, his rule, which he happened to be
holding in his hand, showed him this little verse,--
"Straight is the line of duty,
Curved is the line of beauty;
Follow th' one and thou shalt see
The other ever following thee."
And this was always the way. Whenever Lionel was puzzled about
anything, his rule always made it clear to him. And by and by, after
he had met with all sorts of adventures, he began to wonder whether he
was ever going to see the beggar again or reach his wonderful estate.
It was on a very beautiful day that he wondered this, and he was more
than a little happy because he had just been applying his rule to
unusually good effect, when, lo! there beside him stood the subject of
his thoughts. But oh! how changed he was!
Every rag upon him glowed and shimmered with a wondrous lustre, and the
staff he carried blazed with light, while the basket upon his arm
overflowed with the most beautiful blessings.
"I thought," said the new-comer, "that I might risk giving you this
encouragement. It will not make you content to go no farther on _now_.
It will make you long to strive for greater good ahead. You will not
reach it until you have travelled a lifetime; but you will not despair,
for you are being so blessed. I have been permitted to give you a
great gift. It is for that I was begging you that day. See, what a
privilege it is to be able to beg so--"
"Oh, yes," cried Lionel; "you were going to beg me to accept the little
rule, were n't you? And you left it for me when you disappeared, and
it is a beauty, and it is gold, and it does strange, wonderful things
for me, and--and--" In his enthusiasm he drew it from his breast and
held it up, when, lo! it curved about his hand until it formed a
perfect, beautiful circle. From its shining rim shot up points of
radiance, and it was no more a simple little rule, but a golden crown
fit for a king to wear.
Lionel gazed at it in mute wonderment, and the beggar put out his hand
and touched it lovingly.
"When your journey is done you shall wear it, lad," he said; and then
Lionel closed his eyes for very ecstasy, and then--
But when extraordinary things are just on the point of getting _too_
extraordinary, they are sure to meet with some sort of an interruption,
and after that they are quite ordinary and every-day again. So when
Lionel opened his eyes there he was curled up in the chair by the
drawing-room window, and it had grown very dark and must have been
late, for one of the maids was tripping softly about the room, lighting
the lamps and singing as she did it.