JOSEPH.
What with Joseph's music, and all he had to say to them, Daisy and Susan
sat for hours on the hill side, and promised, at parting, to come very
soon again.
But they found Maud ready, as usual, to spoil all their pleasure, by
fretting because they had left her alone, and had not come earlier, and
a hundred other foolish things.
She wouldn't hear a word about the music, but asked her sister if she
was not ashamed to talk with a cow boy, and declared that neither she
nor Susan should go to the hill again.
But it was no strange thing for Maud to change her mind; so, one day,
she told Daisy she had dreamed about Joseph's music, and must hear it,
and they would all go that very afternoon.
Daisy was glad, you may be sure; but she had great trouble with her
sister on the way, for Maud would shriek at an earth worm, and start at
a fly, and was afraid of bats, and snakes, and owls, and more other
things than Daisy ever thought of.
Then the sharp sticks cut through her satin boots; and when she sat a
while to rest, the crickets ate great holes in her new silk gown, and
mosquitos kept buzzing about her, and little worms dropped down
sometimes from the boughs.
When any of these things happened, of course poor Daisy had to be
scolded, as if it were her fault. If a shadow moved, or a bird flew
quickly past, or a bee buzzed by,--thinking of any one except Miss
Maud,--the beauty would fancy that a tiger or rattlesnake was making
ready to spring at her, and suffered a great deal more from fright than
she would from pain if the creatures she dreaded had really been near,
and she had allowed them quietly to eat her up.
When, after all this trouble, she found that Joseph wore a coarse blue
frock, and did not oil his curly hair, and hardly looked at her, while
he was overjoyed at seeing Daisy again, Maud began to pout, and say she
must go home.
But Joseph brought a kind of harp he had made from reeds and corn
stalks; and when he began to play, Maud started, for it was as if she
stood under the arching trees again, and the Beautiful Being stood
beside her, with his sad eyes, saying, "O Maud, when you despise my
little ones, you are despising me."
She thought it must only be a kind of waking dream, however, and tossing
her head, asked Joseph if he could play any opera airs, and where he
bought his harp, and who his teacher could have been.
"The trees, and river, and birds, the morning wind and midnight sky,
sorrow, and joy, and hope have been my teachers," he answered gravely.
"They're an old-fashioned set, then," said Maud. "We haven't had any of
the tunes you play at our balls this year; and you must find more modern
teachers, or else be content to take care of your cows."
Joseph heard not her sneers; he was talking with Daisy; and every thing
he said seemed so noble, and wise, and pure, so unlike the words of Maud
or of the fretful dame, that Daisy could not help loving him with all
her heart.
The more she thought of Joseph the less she said of him to Maud; but
whenever her sister was away, they were sure to meet; and the herdsman
grew as fond of Daisy as she was of him.
In the long winter evenings, when Maud was away at her balls, she little
dreamed what pleasant times Daisy had at home. When floating about in
the dance, to the sound of gay, inspiring music, she thought of her
sister only to pity her, and did not know that she was listening to
sweeter music from Joseph's humble harp of reeds.
We often pity people who are a great deal better off than ourselves,
forgetting that what seems fine to us may be tedious enough to them.
Then it was such a new thing for Daisy to have any one think of _her_
comfort, and plan pleasant surprises for her, and even admire her
serious face, and--best of all--appreciate her spectacles.
As soon as Joseph came, he wanted her to put them on, and tell him about
a hundred things which he had looked at only with his naked eyes. Daisy
found so often that he had seen rightly and clearly, and had in humblest
paths picked up most lovely things, and every where found what was best,
she told him that he must have borrowed the old dame's lantern.
But Joseph said, no, he had only taken care that the lantern in his own
breast should be free from dust and stains; while that burned clearly,
there was no use in borrowing another's light.
Maud's lover took her to dances and sleigh rides, and gave her jewels
and confectionery; Daisy's lover took her to see the old sick mother he
supported, and to look at his cows in their neat barn, and brought her a
new apron sometimes from the fair, or a bag of chestnuts which he had
picked up in the fall.
But Joseph gave the love of a fresh, honest heart; and Daisy thought
this better than all her sister's bright stones and sugar plums.