to a rippling brook, and in summer-time were full of red and white and
yellow blossoms. Over the brook there hung green trees, whose roots made
pleasant places to rest when one was tired; and along the water’s edge
there grew blue flowers, while many little frogs and other live creatures
played there. It was summer-time when the little Elf Boy came, and the
flowers and the trees and the brook and the frogs made him very happy. I
think that in the world from which he came they did not have such things:
it was made chiefly of gold and silver and precious stones, instead of
things that grow and blossom and keep one company. So the Elf Boy was
very happy. He did not ask to go to play in the village over the hill,
but was quite content with the meadows and the brook-side. The only thing
that did not please him was that the old Hermit still remained sorrowful,
thinking always of his child who had died and this the Elf Boy did not
understand, for in the world from which he came nothing ever died, and
he thought it strange that if the Hermit’s child had died he did not
patiently wait for him to come back again.
So the summer went merrily on, and the Elf Boy learned to know the names
of all the flowers in the meadow, and to love them dearly. He also became
so well acquainted with the birds that they would come to him for crumbs,
and sit on the branches close by to sing to him; the frogs would do the
same thing, and although the Elf Boy did not think their voices as sweet
as those of the birds, he was too polite to let them know it.
But when September came, there began to be a sad change. The first thing
the Elf Boy noticed was that the birds began to disappear from the
meadows. When he complained of this, the Hermit told him they had gone to
make their visit to the Southland, and would come back again; and this he
easily believed. But as time went on, and the air became more and more
still as the last of them took their flight, he began to lose heart.
What was worse, at the same time the flowers began to disappear from the
meadows. They were dead, the Hermit said, and in this way the Elf Boy
learned what that meant. At first others came to take their places, and
he tried to learn to like the flowers of autumn as well as those which
he had known first. But as these faded and dropped off, none came after
them. The mornings grew colder, and the leaves on the trees were changing
in a strange way. When they grew red and yellow, instead of green, the
Elf Boy thought it was a queer thing for them to put on different
colours, and wondered how long it would last. But when they began to
fall, he was very sad indeed. At last there came a day when every limb
was bare, except for a few dried leaves at the top of one of the tallest
trees. The Elf Boy was almost broken-hearted.
One morning he went out early to see what new and dreadful thing had
happened in the night, for it seemed now that every night took something
beautiful out of the world. He made his way toward the brook, but when
he reached the place where he usually heard it calling to him as it
ran merrily over the stones, he could not hear a sound. He stopped and
listened, but everything was wonderfully still. Then he ran as fast as
his feet would carry him to the border of the brook. Sure enough, it had
stopped running. It was covered with a hard sheet of ice.
The Elf Boy turned and went to the Hermit’s house. By the time he had
reached it, the tears were running down his cheeks.
“Why, what is the matter?” asked the Hermit.
“The brook is dead,” said the Elf Boy.
“I think not,” said the Hermit. “It is frozen over, but that will not
hurt it. Be patient, and it will sing to you again.”
“No,” said the Elf Boy. “You told me that the birds would come back, and
they have not come. You told me that the trees were not dead, but their
leaves have every one gone, and I am sure they are. You told me that the
flowers had seeds that did not die, but would make other flowers but I
can not find them, and the meadow is bare and dark. Even the grass is not
green any more. It is a dead world. In the summer-time I did not see how
you could be sorrowful; but now I do not see how any one can be happy.”
The Hermit thought it would be of no use to try to explain anything more
to the Elf Boy, so he said again, “Be patient,” and tried to find some
books in which he could teach the Boy to read, and make him forget the
outside world.
The next time they went for a walk to the village over the hill, the Elf
Boy was very curious to see whether the same thing had happened there
that had happened in their valley. Of course it had: the trees there
seemed dead, too, and the flowers were all gone from the door-yards. The
Boy expected that every one in the village would now be as sorrowful as
the Hermit, and he was very much surprised when he saw them looking as
cheerful as ever. There were some boys playing on the street-corner, who
seemed to be as happy as boys could be. One of them spoke to the Elf Boy,
and he answered:
“How can you play so happily, when such a dreadful thing has happened to
the world?”
“Why, what has happened?”
“The flowers and trees are dead,” said the Elf Boy, “the birds are gone,
and the brook is frozen, and the meadow is bare and grey. And it is so on
this side of the hill also.”
Then the boys in the street laughed merrily, and did not answer the
Elf Boy, for they remembered that he was a stranger in the world, and
supposed he would not understand if they should try to talk to him. And
he went on through the village, not daring to speak to any others, but
all the time wondering that the people could still be so happy.
As the winter came on, the Hermit taught him many things from the books
in his house, and the Elf Boy grew interested in them and was not always
sad. When the snow came he found ways to play in it, and even saw that
the meadow was beautiful again, though in a different way from what it
had been in summer. Yet still he could not think the world by any means
so pleasant a place as it had been in the time of flowers and birds; and
if it were not that he had become very fond of the Hermit, who was now
the only friend he could remember, he would have wished to go back to the
world from which he had come. It seemed to him now that the Hermit must
miss him very much if he should go away, since they two were the only
people who seemed really to understand how sorrowful a place the earth is.
So the weeks went by. One day in March, as he and the Hermit sat at their
books, drops of water began to fall from the eaves of the roof, and they
saw that the snow was melting in the sunshine.
“Do you want to take a little walk down toward the brook?” asked the
Hermit. “I should not wonder if I could prove to you to-day that it has
not forgotten how to talk to you.”
“Yes,” said the Elf Boy, though he did not think the Hermit could be
right. It was months since he had cared to visit the brook, it made him
so sad to find it still and cold.
When they reached the foot of the hillside the sheet of ice was still
there, as he had expected.
“Never mind,” said the Hermit. “Come out on the ice with me, and put down
your ear and listen.”
So the Elf Boy put down his ear and listened; and he heard, as plainly as
though there were no ice between, the voice of the brook gurgling in the
bottom of its bed. He clapped his hands for joy.
“It is waking up, you see,” said the Hermit. “Other things will waken
too, if you will be patient.”
The Elf Boy did not know quite what to think, but he waited day after day
with his eyes and ears wide open to see if anything else might happen;
and wonderful things did happen all the time. The brook sang more and
more distinctly, and at last broke through its cold coverlet and went
dancing along in full sight. One morning, while the snow was still around
the house, the Elf Boy heard a chirping sound, and looking from his
window, saw a red robin outside asking for his breakfast.
“Why,” cried the Boy, “have you really come back agin?”
“Certainly,” said the robin, “don’t you know it is almost spring?”
But the Elf Boy did not understand what he said.
There was a pussy-willow growing by the brook, and the Boy’s next
discovery was that hundreds of little grey buds were coming out. He
watched them grow bigger from day to day, and while he was doing this the
snow was melting away in great patches where the sun shone warmest on
the meadow, and the blades of grass that came up into the daylight were
greener than anything the Elf Boy had ever seen.
Then the pink buds came on the maple trees, and unfolded day by day. And
the fruit trees in the Hermit’s orchard were as white with blossoms as
they had lately been with snow.
“Not a single tree is dead,” said the Elf Boy.
Last of all came the wild flowers—blue and white violets near the brook,
dandelions around the house, and a little later, yellow buttercups all
over the meadow. Slowly but steadily the world was made over, until it
glowed with white and green and gold.
The Elf Boy was wild with joy. One by one his old friends came back, and
he could not bear to stay in the house for many minutes from morning
to night. Now he knew what the wise Hermit had meant by saying, “Be
patient,” and he began to wonder again that the Hermit could be sorrowful
in so beautiful a world.
One morning the church bells in the village—whose ringing was the only
sound that ever came from the village over the hill—rang so much longer
and more joyfully than usual, that the Elf Boy asked the Hermit why they
did so. The Hermit looked in one of his books, and answered:
“It is Easter Day. The village people celebrate it on one Sunday every
spring.”
“May we not go also?” asked the Elf Boy, and as it was the first time he
had ever asked to go to the village, the Hermit could not refuse to take
him.
The village was glowing with flowers. There were many fruit trees, and
they, too, were in bloom. Every one who passed along the street seemed
either to wear flowers or to carry them in his hand. The people were all
entering the churchyard; and here the graves, which had looked so grey
and cold when the Hermit and the Boy had last seen them, were beautiful
with flowers that the village people had planted or had strewn over them
for Easter.
The people all passed into the church. But the Hermit and the Elf
Boy, who never went where there was a crowd, stayed outside where the
humming-birds and bees were flying happily among the flowers. Suddenly
there came from the church a burst of music. To the Elf Boy it seemed
the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He put his finger on his lip
to show the Hermit that he wanted to listen. These were the words they
sang:
“_I am He that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for
evermore!_”
The Boy took hold of the Hermit’s hand and led him to the church door,
that they might hear still better. He was very happy.
“Oh,” he cried, “I do not believe that anything ever really dies.”
The Hermit looked down at him and smiled.
“Perhaps not,” he said.
When the music began again, a strange thing happened. The Hermit sang the
Easter song with the others. It was the first time he had sung for many
years.
All silently, and soft as sleep,
The snow fell, flake on flake.
Slumber, spent Earth, and dream of flowers,
Till springtime bids you wake.
Again the deadened bough shall bend
With blooms of sweetest breath.
Oh, miracle of miracles,
This life that follows death!
SHEEP AND LAMBS
KATHARINE TYNAN
All in the April morning
April airs were abroad,
The sheep with their little lambs,
Passed me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road;
All in an April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary, and crying
With a weak human cry,
I thought on the Lamb of God
Going meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountains
Dewy pastures are sweet;
Rest for the little bodies,
Rest for the little feet.
All in the April evening
April airs were abroad;
I saw the sheep with their lambs,
And thought on the Lamb of God.
ROBIN REDBREAST—A CHRIST LEGEND[16]
SELMA LAGERLÖF
It happened one day when our Lord sat in His Paradise creating and
painting little birds that He conceived the idea of making a little grey
bird.
“Remember your name is Robin Redbreast,” said our Lord to the bird, as
soon as it was finished. Then He held it in the palm of His open hand and
let it fly.
After the bird had been testing his wings a while, and had seen something
of the beautiful world in which he was destined to live, he became
curious to see what he himself was like. He noticed that he was entirely
grey, and that his breast was just as grey as all the rest of him. Robin
Redbreast twisted and turned in all directions as he viewed himself in
the mirror of a clear lake, but he couldn’t find a single red feather.
Then he flew back to our Lord.
Our Lord sat there on His throne, big and gentle. Out of His hands came
butterflies that fluttered about His head; doves cooed on His shoulders;
and out of the earth beneath Him grew the rose, the lily, and the daisy.
The little bird’s heart beat heavily with fright, but with easy curves
he flew nearer and nearer our Lord, till at last he rested on our Lord’s
hand. Then our Lord asked what the little bird wanted. “I only wish to
ask you about one thing,” said the little bird. “What is it you wish
to know?” said our Lord. “Why should I be called Redbreast, when I am
all grey from the bill to the very end of my tail? Why am I called
Redbreast when I do not possess one single red feather?” The bird looked
beseechingly on our Lord with his tiny black eyes—then turned his head.
About him he saw pheasants all red under a sprinkle of gold dust, parrots
with marvellous red neckbands, cocks with red combs, to say nothing about
the butterflies, the goldfinches, and the roses! And naturally he thought
how little he needed—just one tiny drop of colour on his breast and he,
too, would be a beautiful bird, and his name would fit him. “Why should
I be called Redbreast when I am so entirely grey?” asked the bird once
again, and waited for our Lord to say: “Ah, my friend, I see that I have
forgotten to paint your breast feathers red, but wait a moment and it
shall be done.”
But our Lord only smiled a little and said: “I have called you Robin
Redbreast, and Robin Redbreast shall your name be, but you must look to
it that you yourself earn your red breast feathers.” Then our Lord lifted
His hand and let the bird fly once more—out into the world.
The bird flew down into Paradise, meditating deeply.
What could a little bird like him do to earn for himself red feathers?
The only thing he could think of was to make his nest in a brier bush.
He built it in among the thorns in the close thicket. It looked as if he
waited for a rose leaf to cling to his throat and give him colour.
After many years there dawned a new day, one that will long be remembered
in the world’s history. On the morning of this day Robin Redbreast sat
upon a little naked hillock outside of Jerusalem’s walls, and sang to his
young ones, who rested in a tiny nest in a brier bush.
Robin Redbreast told the little ones all about that wonderful day of
creation, and how the Lord had given names to everything, just as each
Redbreast had told it ever since the first Redbreast had heard God’s
word, and gone out of God’s hand. “And mark you,” he ended sorrowfully,
“so many years have gone, so many roses have bloomed, so many little
birds have come out of their eggs since Creation Day, but Robin Redbreast
is still a little grey bird. He has not yet succeeded in gaining his red
feathers.”
The little young ones opened wide their tiny bills, and asked if their
forebears had never tried to do any great thing to earn the priceless red
colour.
“We have all done what we could,” said the little bird, “but we have
all gone amiss. Even the first Robin Redbreast met one day another bird
exactly like himself, and he began immediately to love it with such a
mighty love that he could feel his breast turn. ‘Ah!’ he thought then,
‘now I understand! It was our Lord’s meaning that I should love with so
much ardour that my breast should grow red in colour from the very warmth
of the love that lives in my heart.’ But he missed it, as all those who
came after him have missed it, and as even you shall miss it.”
The little young ones twittered, utterly bewildered, and already began
to mourn because the red colour would not come to beautify their little,
downy grey breasts.
“We had also hoped that song would help us,” said the grown-up bird,
speaking in long-drawn-out tones—“the first Robin Redbreast sang until
his heart swelled within him, he was so carried away, and he dared to
hope anew. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘it is the glow of the song which lives in
my soul that will colour my breast feathers red.’ But he missed it, as
all the others have missed it and as even you shall miss it.” Again was
heard a sad “peep” from the young ones’ half-naked throats.
“We had also counted on our courage and our valour,” said the bird. “The
first Robin Redbreast fought bravely with other birds, until his breast
flamed with the pride of conquest. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘my breast feathers
shall become red from the love of battle which burns in my heart.’ He,
too, missed it, as all those who came after him have missed it, and as
even you shall miss it.” The little young ones peeped courageously that
they still wished to try and win the much-sought-for prize, but the bird
answered them sorrowfully that it would be impossible. What could they
do when all other robins had missed the mark? What could they do more
than love, sing, and fight? What could—the little bird stopped short, for
out of one of the gates of Jerusalem came a crowd of people marching,
and the whole procession rushed toward the hillock, where the bird had
its nest. There were riders on proud horses, soldiers with long spears,
executioners with nails and hammers. There were judges and priests in
the procession, weeping women, and above all a mob of mad, loose people
running about—a filthy, howling mob of loiterers.
The little grey bird sat trembling on the edge of his nest. He feared
each instant that the little brier bush would be trampled down and his
young ones killed!
“Be careful!” he cried to the little defenceless young ones. “Creep
together and remain quiet. Here comes a horse that will ride right over
us! Here comes a warrior with iron-shod sandals! Here comes the whole
wild, storming mob!” Immediately the bird ceased his cry of warning and
grew calm and quiet. He almost forgot the danger hovering over him.
Finally he hopped down into the nest and spread his wings over the young
ones.
“Oh! this is too terrible,” said he. “I don’t wish you to witness this
awful sight! There are three miscreants who are going to be crucified!”
And he spread his wings so that the little ones could see nothing.
Robin Redbreast followed the whole spectacle with his eyes, which
grew big with terror. He could not take his glance from the three
unfortunates.
“How terrible!” said the bird after a little while. “They have placed a
crown of piercing thorns upon the head of one of them. I see that the
thorns have wounded his brow so that the blood flows,” he continued. “And
this man is so beautiful, and looks about him with such mild glances that
every one ought to love him. I feel as if an arrow were shooting through
my heart, when I see him suffer!”
The little bird began to feel a stronger and stronger pity for the
thorn-crowned sufferer. “Oh! if I were only my brother the eagle,”
thought he, “I would draw the nails from his hands, and with my strong
claws I would drive away all those who harm him!” He saw how the blood
trickled down from the brow of the Crucified One, and he could no longer
remain quiet in his nest. “Even if I am little and weak, I can still
do something for this poor suffering one,” thought the bird. Then he
left his nest and flew out into the air, striking wide circles around
the Crucified One. He flew around him several times without daring to
approach, for he was a shy little bird, who had never dared to go near a
human being. But little by little he gained courage, flew close to him,
and drew with his little bill a thorn that had become imbedded in the
brow of the Crucified One. And as he did this there fell on his breast a
drop of blood from the face of the Crucified One;—it spread quickly and
floated out and coloured all the little fine breast feathers.
Then the Crucified One opened his lips and whispered to the bird:
“Because of thy compassion, thou hast won all that thy kind have been
striving after, ever since the world was created.”
As soon as the bird had returned to his nest his young ones cried to him:
“Thy breast is red! Thy breast feathers are redder than the roses!”
And even unto this day the blood-red colour shines on every Robin
Redbreast’s throat and breast.
THE MAPLE SEED
On the topmost twig of a maple tree there grew a seed. In the springtime
the gentle movement of the sap and the soft rustle of the leaves
whispering among themselves had awakened him; then, day by day, half
sleeping and half conscious, he had fed upon what the roots provided,
stretching himself lazily in the sunshine. Presently his wing began to
unfold.
“That is very curious,” said he, stirring a little. “It must be a
mistake. I don’t flutter about like the bees.” That bit of wing, which
seemed his and not his, puzzled him. “It must belong to something else,”
he thought. And afterward he was always on the lookout for a bee or a
dragon fly with only one wing. But none came.
The hot summer noons and the long moonlit nights became sultrier and the
leaves dropped. “How withered I am!” said the seed to his most intimate
friend, a leaf that hung from a near bough. “It makes me feel quite
brittle.” But the leaf did not answer, for just then it fell from the
twig with a queer, reluctant shiver to the ground.
“Ah!” murmured the maple seed, “I understand.” So he was not surprised
when a rude breeze twisted him off one day, and sent him spinning into
space.
“Here I go,” thought he, “and this is the end of it.”
“Puff!” said the breeze, who had seen much of the world, and looked with
contempt upon the untravelled. “Puff! how ignorant!” and he blew the seed
right into a crack in the earth.
“It must be the end, for all that,” insisted the seed. No wonder he
thought so, for it was cold and dark where he lay. A troubled cloud
leaned down and wept over him. Then he began to grow amazingly in the
warmth and moisture.
“If this goes on,” he thought, “I shall certainly burst, and then I must
die. How is one to live, with a crack in his sides?”
But the maple seed was wrong. He did not die. An unsuspected, mysterious
strength sustained him. His roots found food in the brown earth, and he
lifted up a slender stem into the pure sunlight and warm air. Through
spring, summer, autumn and winter, year after year, this lived and grew,
until the tiny sapling had become a beautiful tree, with spreading
branches.
“Ah!” said the tree, “how stupid I was.”
It was very pleasant on the lawn. An old couple from the house near by
came out in good weather to sit under the tree. They reminded him of some
fragile leaves he had seen fluttering somewhere in the past. He was glad
to have them come, and he kept his coolest shade for them. Partly for
their sakes, he liked to have the robins sing in his branches.
The years went by. The old man tottered out alone to sit in the cool
shadow. He was bent and sorrowful.
“Ah!” sighed the tree, “I know! I know! He has lost his leaf, and feels
brittle. If I could only tell him this is not the end!”
After this, many sunny days came, but not the old man, and the tree
concluded that he had been blown away. “If he only knew that he would
grow again!” he said to himself. “Unless one knows that, it is so
uncomfortable to lie in the dark.”
A great storm came. The sky blackened, the winds blew with might, and the
heavy rain fell. The maple was uprooted and broken. The next day there
came men with axes who cut the tree in pieces, and drew it to the house.
“Is this the end?” he questioned. But no,—the logs were piled one day in
the fireplace in a large, sunny room. The old man leaned from his chair
to warm his hands by the cheerful heat the crimson flame gave out. “Is it
the maple?” he said. “Ah! this goes with the rest.”
The fire grew brighter, burned duller, turned to embers, smouldered to
ashes. The hearth was cold. The figure was sitting still in the armchair,
but the old man himself had gone away.
The spirit of the maple whispered, “Does he know? There is _no_ end.”
WHY THE IVY IS ALWAYS GREEN[17]
MADGE BINGHAM
There were once two small plants that grew on the edge of a rough, red
ditch. One of them was an ivy plant and the other a tiny fig tree.
It was early in the morning when they first awoke and looked around to
see how they liked the world.
“I think it is an ugly old world,” said the young fig tree. “I see only a
rough, red ditch with dirty water flowing below.”