A little maid sat sadly weeping while the sunbeams played merrily at
hide-and-seek with the shadows that the great oak branches cast on the
ground; while the warm summer wind sang softly to itself as it passed,
and the blue sky had not even a white cloud with which to hide the sad
sight from its eyes.
"Why do you weep?" asked the oak-tree; but Marie did not hear it, and
her tears tell faster than ever.
"Why are you so sad?" questioned the sunbeams; and they came to her
gently and tried to peep into her eyes.
But she only got up and sat farther away in the shadow, and they could
do nothing to comfort her. So they danced awhile on the door-step; and
then the sun called them away, for it was growing late.
And still the little maid sat weeping; and if she had not fallen asleep
from very weariness, who knows what the sad consequences might not have
been?
"How warm it is!" murmured the dandelions in the meadow. "Our heads
are quite heavy, and our feet are hot. If it was not our duty to stand
up, we would like nothing better than to sink down in the shade and go
to sleep; but we must attend to our task and keep awake."
"What can you have, you wee things, to keep you busy?" asked the tall
milkweed that grew near the fence-rails; and the mullein-stalk beside
it echoed,--
"What, indeed?"
"Now, one can understand one so tall as I having to stand upright and
do my duty; but you,--why, you are no taller than one of my green pods
that I am filling with floss--"
"And not half so tall as one of my leaves that I must line with
velvet," interrupted the mullein-stalk again.
The dandelions looked grieved for a moment, but answered brightly:
"Why, don't you know? It must be because you live so far away--there
by the fence--that you don't know we are here to pin the grass down
until it grows old enough to know it must not wander off like the
crickets, or to blow away like the floss in your own pods. Young grass
is very foolish,--I think I heard the farmer call it green the other
day, but we don't like the expression ourselves,--and it would be apt
to do flighty things if we did n't pin it down where it belongs. When
we have taught it its lesson, we can go to sleep. We always stay until
the last minute, and then we slip on our white nightcaps,--so fluffy
and light and soft they are,--and lo! some day we are gone, no one
knows where but the wind; and he carries us off in his arms, for we are
too tired to walk; and then we rest until the next year, when we are
bright and early at our task again."
Then the milkweed and the mullein-stalk bowed very gravely and
respectfully to the little dandelions, and said,--
"Yes, we see. Even such wee things as you have your duties, and we are
sorry you are so weary."
So the milkweed whispered to the breeze that the dandelions were too
warm, and begged it to help them; but the breeze murmured very gently,--
"I don't know what is the matter with me, dear milkweed, but I am so
faint, so faint, I think I shall die."
And sure enough, the next day the little breeze had died, and then they
knew how they missed him, even though he had been so weak for the last
few days; for the sun glared down fiercely, and the meadow thought it
was angry, and was so frightened it grew feverish and parched with very
dread.
"We wish our parasols were larger," sighed the toadstools; "but they
are so small that, try as we may, we cannot get them to cast a large
shadow, and now the breeze has died we have no messenger. If only one
knew how to get word to the clouds!"
But the clouds had done such steady duty through the spring that they
thought they were entitled to a holiday, and had gone to the
mountain-tops, where they were resting calmly, feeling very grand among
such an assembly of crowned heads.
Meanwhile the meadow grew browner and browner, and its pretty dress was
being scorched so that by and by no one would have recognized it for
the gay thing it had been a week ago. And still the sun glared angrily
down, and the little breeze was dead.
Then the grasses laid down their tiny spears, and the dandelions bent
their heads, and the locusts and the crickets and the grasshoppers
called feebly,--
"Oh, little brook, cannot you get out of your bed and come this way?"
"Our hearts are broken," cried the daisies.
"We shall die," wailed the ragged-sailors. Then they all waited for
the brook to reply; but she was silent, and call as they would they
could get no answer.
"Hush!" whispered the springs. "Her bed is empty. Have n't you
noticed how little she sang lately? The weeds must have fallen asleep
and she has run away. You know they always hindered her."
They did not tell that they were too weak to feed the brook; so it had
dried away. And still the sun glared down, and the little breeze was
dead, and the brook had disappeared; while there on the door-step sat
Marie weeping big tears,--for the little maid was always sad, and come
when you would, there was Marie with her dark eyes filled and brimming
over with the shining drops.
The beeches beckoned her from the garden; she saw them do it. Their
long branches waved to her to come, like inviting arms; and still
weeping, she stole quietly away.
"Come," whispered the gnarled apple-trees down in the orchard; and she
threaded her way sadly among the trunks, while her tears fell splash,
splash, on her white pinafore.
"Here!" gasped the meadow-grass; and she followed on, sobbing softly to
herself, as she sat down where, days ago, the brook had merrily sung.
"Why do you grieve?" asked the pebbles; and she heard them and
answered,--
"Because I am so sad. Things are never as I want them, and so I cry.
I am made to obey, and then, when the stars come out and I wish to stay
up, I am sent to bed; and the next morning, when I am so sleepy I can
hardly open my eyes, I am made to get up. Oh, this is a very sad
world!" And she wept afresh.
Then the flowers and the grasses and the pebbles, seeing her tears, all
said at once: "Would you like to stay here with us? Then you could
stay awake all night and gaze at the stars, and in the morning you need
not get up. You may lie in the brook's empty bed, and you need never
obey your parents any more."
Marie was silent a moment, and then a hundred small voices said, "Do,
oh, do!" And her tears fell faster and more fast, and larger and
larger, for she felt more abused than ever now the meadow had shown her
sympathy, as she thought. She kept dropping tears so quickly that by
and by even her sobbing could scarcely be heard for the splash, splash,
of the many drops that were falling on the white pebbles in the brook's
bed.
How they fell! The brown eyes grew dim, and Marie could not see. She
felt tiny hands pulling her down--down; and in a moment she had ceased
to be a little girl and had become a brook, while her weeping was the
murmur of little waves as they plashed against the stones.
Yes, it was true!
She need never go to sleep when the stars came out; she need never get
out of her bed in the morning,--how could she when the strong weeds
hindered her,--and how could a brook obey when people spoke?
And meanwhile the meadow grew gay again, for the brook cooled its
fever; and by and by the dandelions tied on their large, fluffy
nightcaps and disappeared, and the sun ceased to glare--for Marie was
gone from the door-step with her weeping, and he need not look down on
the ungrateful little maid who ought to have been so happy. The clouds
came back; and when they heard how the meadow had suffered they wept
for sympathy, and the underground springs grew strong, until one day
there was a great commotion in the meadow.
A little bird had told the whole story of Marie's woe to the breeze,
and he rose and sighed aloud; the trees tossed their arms about,
because it was so wicked in a little girl to be ungrateful. The
crickets said, "Tut, tut!" in a very snappy way; and at last the great
wind rose, and whipped the poor brook until it grew quite white with
foam and fear.
Then Marie knew how naughty she had been, and she made no complaint at
her punishment. In fact, she bore it so meekly that after the wind had
quieted down and the stormy flurry was over, she began to sing her
quiet little song again, although she was very tired of it by this
time, and was so meek and patient that all the meadow whispered:
"Good little thing now,--good little thing!" and then they told her how
everything in the world, no matter how small it is, has a duty to
perform, and should do its task cheerfully and gladly, and not weep and
complain when it thinks matters are not going in the right way, but try
to keep on with its task and relief will come.
Marie listened like an obedient little brook as she was, and was just
going to float another merry little bubble to the little reeds below
when she heard a voice say, "Give me my bed; I want it," and lo! there
was the real brook come back. She pushed Marie aside and hurt her,
though she seemed so gentle.
Marie tried to rise, but it was difficult; her limbs were stiff lying
all this time in the meadow, her eyes were weary gazing at the sky, and
her voice hoarse with the song she had been forced to sing.
She tried again, and this time she succeeded; and behold! there she was
on the door-step, and the sun was going down.