A SUDDEN FALL
“What has become of these two children of mine?” said Mrs. Wingfield
fretfully, as on her return from her neighbour’s she found the cottage
empty. “I’m sure such a day of bustle as I have had--scarce out of one
trouble before I am into another! Well, poor Mrs. Bright is still worse
off, that is one thing. I am glad that the baby has at last dropped
asleep.”
It grew darker and darker. Mrs. Wingfield became uneasy. She stirred
the fire, filled the kettle, then with a long weary sigh sat down to
rest. She missed Minnie and her quiet attentions.
“I suppose that they are still out, searching for little Johnny. I fear
that there will be rain. I wish that they were back.” Mrs. Wingfield
fancied that she heard a low knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said; but no one entered. Mrs. Wingfield drew her chair
nearer to the fire, leaned her head upon her hand, and wished that Tom
and Minnie would not stay out so late.
Again the same low knock. She called out louder, “Come in,” and the
faint light which came through the doorway was darkened by a figure
which seemed to linger, as if in fear, on the threshold. Then the voice
of poor Polly was heard--“O Mrs. Wingfield, can you tell me how baby
is?”
“What! Polly, is that you? Come in, my poor child. All cold and wet
with the dew! Why don’t you go home?”
“I dare not,” said Polly, bursting into tears; “mother forbade me
till Johnny is found. Oh, tell me how baby is. Is he better? will he
live?”--she could hardly speak through her sobs.
“Yes, he is better; that is to say, he is asleep.”
“Not _dead_!” exclaimed Polly, alarmed at the word.
“Dead! no, child. Why, how you tremble! Come to the fire; I’ll get you
a little tea and toast.”
“I could not eat, it would choke me! Oh, that I had never left the
children--that I had done my duty as Minnie would have done! She--she
has been a comfort in her home--but I--”
“Come, come,” said Mrs. Wingfield in a soothing tone, “don’t go
breaking your heart in this way; all may come right at last. Would not
you like to see the baby?”
“Oh, if I might only sit up with him all night! But I may not return
without Johnny.”
“Your mother never meant that. Come, I’ll take you to her myself. When
she sees how you feel all this, I am sure that she will forgive you.”
Mrs. Wingfield was a kind-hearted woman, and taking Polly’s trembling
hand within her own, she crossed over the lane to Mrs. Bright’s. Polly
shrank back as they reached the door.
“Oh, say, do you bring me news of my child?” cried the poor anxious
woman from within.
“Not of Johnny, yet still of your child. There is one here who is
afraid to come in. Poor thing, she has almost cried herself to death.”
“Polly,” murmured the mother, and stretched out her arms. In another
moment the poor girl was sobbing upon her bosom.
Amidst the troubles of our human friends we must not quite forget those
of our little winged ones. The frightened hungry bees, confined in
their small prison, passed the long hours in most uncomfortable plight.
“What a bitter thing it is,” cried Violetta, sinking exhausted after a
last effort to gnaw through the unyielding crockery, “to think of all
the joy and happiness left in the world, from which we are shut out for
ever. To-morrow the lark will be rising on high, the butterfly flitting
over the daisied meadow, your comrades feasting in the dewy flowers,
all Nature one hum of life!”
“I am glad that they can enjoy still, there is some comfort in that,”
said Silverwing.
“That is a feeling which I cannot understand,” observed Violetta.
“It is strange that the very same thought should give pain to me and
pleasure to you!”
Violetta had had no great experience of life, or she would have known
that such is often the case. Living by herself as a solitary insect,
she had never heard one of the mottoes of Bee-land: _From the blossom
of a comrade’s success one draws the poison of envy, another the honey
of delight._
The village church-clock had struck the hour of nine; it was seldom
that its sound could be heard in the cottage of Mrs. Wingfield, but
now the place was so still that the breeze bore it distinctly to her
listening ear. Weary, she lay on her bed, unwilling to sleep till her
children should return. The rain was beginning to fall without; the
heavy clouds bending towards earth, made the night much darker than is
usual in summer. Presently a sound was heard at the door.
“Minnie, is that you?” cried the mother.
“It is Polly,” answered a mournful voice, as the little girl entered
the cottage.
“Is the baby worse?” asked Mrs. Wingfield.
“I hope not; but mother is in such a state about Johnny. If it were not
for baby, she would be wandering all night in the rain. I come to ask
if you could kindly give her a little hartshorn--I know that that is
what you take when you are poorly.”
“You are heartily welcome to what I have,” replied the cottager; “I
daresay that you can find it yourself--I need not rise. Snuff the long
wick of the candle, and there--don’t put it in the draught--mind you
don’t snuff it out--why, how your poor fingers tremble!”
How changed was Polly since the morning’s sun had risen! Her cheeks
pale and haggard, her eyes swollen with weeping, her dress hanging damp
around her chill form; who would have guessed that she ever could have
been the gayest girl in the village.
“You will find the bottle on the shelf; you can reach it with a chair,”
continued Mrs. Wingfield, raising herself on one arm to watch the
proceedings of the girl. “There, do you not see, just behind that
mug! Why, what have you done?” she cried in a tone of impatience, as
something came crashing upon the floor.
What had she done indeed. She had thrown down Tom’s mug, and set two
little prisoners free. Yes, they were free, free as the air which
they now joyously beat with their little wings! Uttering a loud hum of
delight, they flew round the cottage, darted to the door, then drew
back, afraid of the damp, and at last both settled sociably under the
table, to enjoy together a nice crumb of sugar that Tom had dropped on
the floor.
[Illustration: AT LIBERTY.]
Oh, if liberty be so sweet, so precious to all, who would deprive even
an insect of its birthright! Let them spread the free wing, unconfined
and happy, and let us find our pleasure rather in seeing them in the
position for which Providence formed and designed them, than in keeping
them as captives, the slaves to our will, deprived of their life’s
dearest blessing!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]