floating on high, and sunshine, and such lovely trees and flowers growing
over on the other side of the ditch! Let us try to make this side
beautiful, too.
“I will cover the rough, red places with pretty, green leaves, and you
can decorate with your wonderful pink blossoms. Come, let us try.”
“No,” said the small fig tree, “I would not waste my time trying to make
this ugly old place beautiful.
“Now if, like my mother, I could have grown in the soft, rich earth of
the garden, I would have tried to do something, but here there is no use.”
So, from day to day, the little fig tree grumbled. Nothing pleased her.
If the sun shone she said it was too hot; if the rain fell she said it
was too wet; and if the wind blew she said it was too cold.
But with the little ivy vine it was very different, and she was as happy
as a lark from early morning until night.
“Whether the sun shines or whether the rains fall, it is God’s will,”
said the little vine, “and I am well pleased. I shall do all I can to
make my side of this ditch beautiful, and I shall begin to-day.”
And so she did. Though she lived only on the edge of the red ditch, she
spread out her leaves day by day, running here and there and yonder,
hiding this red spot and that red spot, until by and by nothing could
be seen but the beautiful green leaves of the ivy, and she did not stop
until every ugly spot was hidden by her graceful garlands.
“Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful, now,” cried the ivy; “only look!”
“Yes,” said the fig tree, crossly, “but no one sees it. What are you
going to do now? Dry up, I suppose, since you can never cross the ditch.”
“Oh, but I shall cross the ditch,” said the ivy vine. “I shall keep on
trying until I do. There is so much on the other side I can do to help
make the earth-world beautiful. Surely there is a way to cross.”
So she ran out little tendrils, reaching here and there, searching
everywhere for a way to cross the ditch. And at last, by climbing down to
the edge of the muddy water, she reached a rock half way across, where
she stopped for a moment to rest and wonder what next to do.
“You’ll never get across,” laughed the fig tree. “I told you so! You
might as well make up your mind to dry up and stop trying.”
“I shall never stop trying,” called back the ivy vine. “There is a way to
cross all ditches, and I shall cross this one. Wait and see.”
“Bravo, my pretty one!” said the voice of the old oak tree close by.
“Cling to my roots there. I am old and worn, but it is a joy to help one
like you; reach out and I will pull you up.”
So with one huge stretch the ivy vine clung tightly to the twisted roots
of the old oak, and was soon laughing merrily on the other side.
“Dear me, but you are a brave little vine,” said the old oak. “I have
been watching you across the ditch all these months, and you have changed
its ugly, red banks into a real thing of beauty.
“Now there was a time, once, when flowers and grasses grew there, and
ferns fringed the edge of the brook, and it was beautiful, indeed. Every
fall I shook armfuls of crimson and yellow leaves upon the bank, but that
was long ago, before the great forest fire which robbed me of my limbs
and leaves and left me old and worn.
“What a joy it would be to me if only I might have my branches decked
in leaves one more time,—especially do I long for this in the glad
springtime, when trees and flowers are robing themselves for the joyous
Easter Day.
“Sad, indeed, it is to me, to know that I shall be clothed no more in a
fresh dress of delicate green, like your own pretty leaves, dear Ivy.”
“But you shall,” said the ivy vine, clapping her hands; “you have helped
me cross the ditch to-day, and I mean to give you an Easter dress. Watch
me.”
Now vines had never climbed high before this. They had only run along
the ground and down the hill, and over walls, but this little ivy vine
wrapped her delicate arms around the rough bark of the old oak, and began
to climb her first tree.
She pulled and stretched, and stretched and pulled, until little by
little, up, up, higher and higher she went, leaving a trail of rich,
green leaves behind her. It was a lovely sight.
“See!” she called to the old oak; “I am bringing you a most beautiful
Easter dress,—how do you like it?”
“Beautiful, beautiful!” laughed the old oak. “You make me feel young
again. But what will you do when you reach my branches?”
“Why, I shall keep on climbing,” replied the ivy vine. “When I give a
dress at all, it must be a whole dress, don’t you know? I shall not stop
until I have covered every branch, as I did the bare spots on the ditch.”
And so she did. Every day she climbed a little higher, until by and by
every limb on the great, old oak was completely hidden by the beautiful
leaves of the ivy. The old oak laughed in delight, as she looked on her
beautiful Easter dress of fresh, rich green.
Now the queen of the fairies who, I told you, was always on the watch for
beautiful deeds, stood under the old oak on Easter Day and wondered at
the beautiful sight. It made her glad to see the joy of the old oak in
her new dress, and of course she knew who had given it.
So, turning with a smile to the ivy vine, she said, “Because you have
tried to make others happy and to make the earth beautiful your leaves
shall never fade. Forever and forever they shall stay beautiful and
green. Cold shall not hurt them nor summer’s heat destroy them, and
wherever you go you shall gladden the hearts of men with your freshness
and beauty.”
Very happy, indeed, did these words make the pretty ivy vine, and ever
since she has been climbing over the earth-world, hunting bare places to
make more beautiful.
Stone walls and churches and houses,—no place seems too high for her to
climb, and never does she weary in making fresh Easter dresses for the
trees that are old and worn and cannot make them for themselves.
JONQUILS
MARGARET DELAND
Blow golden trumpets, sweet and clear,
Blow soft upon the perfumed air:
Bid the sad earth to join your song,
“To Christ does victory belong!”
Oh, let the winds your message bear
To every heart of grief and care:
Sound through the world the joyful lay,
“Our Christ has conquered Death to-day.”
On cloudy wings let glad words fly
Through the soft blue of echoing sky:
Ring out,—O trumpets, sweet and clear,
“Through Death, immortal Life is here!”
WHEN THOU COMEST INTO THY KINGDOM
MARY STEWART
Many years ago, in a rocky cave half way up a steep mountain, there
lived a band of robbers. From the mouth of their cave they could look
far out over the villages of white houses which dotted the green valley
below to the blue waters of the sea beyond, and between the villages and
the sea there ran a straight white road. It was there that the robbers
waylaid travellers, robbing them of money, bales of rich stuff or jewels,
until the band became a terror to the neighbourhood and the very name of
Tibeous, their leader, was whispered fearfully among travellers.
One clear bright morning Tibeous climbed down the mountain path alone and
mingled, unrecognised, among the villagers. He was young and strong and
did not look very differently from the fishermen who, returning from a
night’s work, were carrying their nets of shining fish across the beach
and through the narrow streets. Only the eyes of Tibeous were as keen and
suspicious as those of a wild animal, and often his hand went to his belt
where beneath his cloak of skins he carried, for protection this time, a
sharp dagger.
Through the streets he walked down to the seashore. There had been heavy
rains during the night, and in the morning sunshine the tall beach grass
sparkled as if hung with diamonds, the sky was blue and cloudless, and
the dancing waves broke merrily upon the glittering beach. Watching the
peaceful scene Tibeous forgot for a moment the errand which had drawn
him from his safe retreat. By listening, unnoticed, to the talk of the
village, he had hoped to learn whether any rich merchants were expected,
so that he and his men could be ready to waylay them upon the road.
But as he stood upon the beach watching the barefooted boys play in
the waves, a picture of his own boyhood rose in his mind. He, too, had
lived beside the sea and had helped his fisherman father draw in nets
and carry strings of silvery fish. How happy he had been, he thought,
and now for the last five years the sun seemed to have ceased shining in
his life. His parents had died, and not content with the small, though
honest, living he made at the fishing, he had fallen in with the band
of robbers. They soon made him their leader and although younger than
any of them, he was a very good one, for he did not know what fear was,
was ready for any wild adventure and cared so little for the treasure he
risked his life to steal that he divided it up among his followers.
But that golden morning Tibeous had forgotten all this, and as he gazed
at a woman walking toward him with a boy clinging to one hand and a baby
nestled against her shoulder, he thought only of his own boyhood, and of
the mother who had loved and guarded him. So intently was he watching
the woman that he did not notice a crowd which was collecting behind
him until, warned by a sudden murmur of many voices, he turned sharply,
his dagger half drawn. But the men and women had not noticed him, they
were all clustering around a white-robed man, and as Tibeous turned
their murmurs died away and they stood motionless, eagerly listening to
the voice of the figure in their midst. Tibeous could not see his face,
could not at first catch his words, but the tones of the speaker’s voice
reached him, and like the ripples of the waves and the glimmer of the
sunshine they reminded him afresh of his own joyous boyhood.
He saw the little boy’s hand tighten in his mother’s clasp as he urged
her forward, and Tibeous was not surprised; that thrilling voice seemed
to draw all toward it and he, too, followed the lad. And then, as they
reached the outskirts of the crowd, the men drew back, making a pathway
up to the Master, who, Tibeous now saw, was already surrounded with
children. The boys and girls were looking up at him admiringly and even
the baby in its mother’s arms held out its arms, as though to one to whom
it belonged.
Again the Master was speaking, and as Tibeous gazed, half startled at
that beautiful face, he heard the words:
“Verily, I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God
as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.”
“The kingdom of God,” thought Tibeous with a shudder, how far that was
from the kingdom of robbers over which he ruled on the wild mountain
side. And as far asunder as those two kingdoms was he, an outlaw and a
thief, from the gracious white-robed man whose words stirred every heart
upon that shining beach.
From that day Tibeous surprised even his own rough followers by his
recklessness. He risked capture and death over and over again, attacking
travellers in the daytime as well as under cover of the night, robbing
not only merchants, but priests and wealthy Pharisees, men whose power
was so great that if the band was caught, one word would suffice to hang
them all to the nearest trees. But instead of being captured they only
made themselves hated and feared more than ever. At length a proclamation
went forth promising a large reward to any man who could bring Tibeous
a prisoner to Jerusalem. As a warning to all robbers the thief, if
captured, would be crucified outside the city walls.
None knew that since that one glorious morning upon the beach, the pain
in the heart of Tibeous had been well-nigh unbearable.
“Such gentle scenes have no place in my wild life,” he would cry bitterly
to himself, and with the hope of forgetting the picture of the lad in the
Master’s arms he dashed wildly into every dangerous adventure.
One morning the robber band, looking out from the cave, saw a multitude
of people journeying toward the mountain, which sloped down to the far
end of the blue sea. Some came by boat, others rode, while many, who
seemed to be quite poor people, walked.
What could draw them to that out of the way spot, the robbers wondered,
and only Tibeous suspected the truth. They had probably travelled so far
to meet again the Master whom he had seen upon the beach. He did not
tell the others of his surmise, but when they planned to ride around the
landward side of the mountain and rob these people as they journeyed
home, he refused to go with them.
“In any dangerous attack,” he said, “I am always ready to lead you,
but as to robbing poor men and women and children” ... he turned away
disgusted, while again there rose before him the picture of the mother
upon the beach, bringing her children to that marvellous man who talked
about the kingdom of God.
Slowly the day passed and the sun sank behind the mountains while Tibeous
sat alone, at the entrance of the cave, pondering deeply. He remembered
that his mother had often spoken of a King who would some day come into
the world, a great Deliverer she had called him, before whom all the
nations of the world would bow and called Him blessed.
Tibeous had wondered at times during the last weeks whether the glorious
white robed figure could be that King, but this day, as he sat watching
the sun sink, he decided that it was impossible.
Beautiful the man was and tender and stirring, but surely, Tibeous
thought, no one could be a King and a Deliverer without courage and
strength a thousand times greater than even he, a lion among his
followers, possessed. Could that gracious, gentle figure possess such
miraculous power? “And yet if I thought for an instant,” he murmured,
“that that wonderful man was the King of whom my mother dreamed, I would
forsake this lawless life and become his loyal follower.”
At that moment he saw a dark cloud rising out of the west, the sign of
one of the sudden storms which come so often in that country. Quickly
it spread across the sky, the waves of the sea grew black and in a few
moments they rose high crested with white foam, and the wind tore over
them, while above the thunder pealed and the lightning flashed across the
darkness.
Tibeous stood in the cave watching intently. “Verily,” he exclaimed, “to
conquer and subdue his foes, a great Deliverer must have power stronger
even than this mighty storm.”
A flash of vivid lightning lit up the whole scene, and in the midst of
the furious sea Tibeous saw a tiny boat. He saw the desperate men within
it and guessed at their terror. “Surely,” he thought, “the next wave will
engulf them,” and then walking upon the storm-tossed waters toward the
boat he saw a figure, his white robes fluttering in the wind.
Again all was darkness while Tibeous stood before the cave unheeding the
torrents of rain which drenched him, his gaze fixed intently upon the
sea, longing, almost praying, for the lightning to flash once more and
show him again that mysterious figure.
Another flash, and standing in the stern of the boat Tibeous saw the
white robed man while the others knelt before him as if in reverence,
and then—there was perfect peace. The storm died away, the waves were
stilled, and the moon breaking out from behind the jagged clouds, threw
its silvery light upon the boat sailing quietly across the sea.
“Even the winds and the waves obey him!” cried Tibeous. “Surely this is
the King all powerful, whom I vowed, if I ever found, to follow forever.”
Two days later Tibeous was taken prisoner, carried bound to Jerusalem,
and thrown into a dark dungeon. With his usual fearlessness he had
searched undisguised, through the villages for the Deliverer, but before
he had found the Master he was recognised and captured. Many a weary
month he lay in the prison. At times his restless energy drove him almost
crazy, and he would rush up and down his narrow cell like a caged beast.
At other times, when the first beams of early dawn pierced the narrow
slit in the stone wall, which was his only window, or when a silvery
ray of moonlight struggled through, the scenes of his wild life seemed
blotted out, and he thought only of the Christ, and of his kingdom to
which now, alas, he could never belong.
He supposed first it was an earthly kingdom, full of brave soldiers who
would fight for the great King, to whom at last all the nations of the
world would bow. But one morning, after nearly a year of imprisonment,
he was taken out of his dark cell and led, his hands bound with leathern
thongs, toward a green hill outside the city walls. Beside him walked
another prisoner, a coarse, savage-looking man, well known for his brutal
deeds, and upon the shoulders of each of them was laid a heavy cross.
Upon those crosses they were to be crucified.
Tibeous was wan and pale from his long imprisonment, but in his eyes,
which gleamed out of his white face, there was no look of fear or hate.
He was as willing to die as to linger on hopeless in the dungeon. The
vision of the great Deliverer on which he had dwelt for so long seemed
to fill his soul, his one longing was to serve him, and as that was
impossible he had nothing else to live for.
When they left the prison the sky was blue and clear, but as they
reached the foot of the green hill dark, threatening clouds hung over
them. The two prisoners paused there, resting upon the ground the heavy
crosses under which they had staggered, and then up the road from the
city-gate another procession came toward them. There were priests in long
robes, soldiers in red cloaks and shining armour, women—sobbing, many
of them—and fishermen and peasants walking side by side with wealthy
publicans and Pharisees.
In the midst of the crowd walked a white-robed figure, and Tibeous
caught his breath in astonished wonder. Could it be, yes it was, the
King, the great Deliverer, who had drawn crowds to him upon the sunlit
beach, and who by his great power had stilled the raging storm. And yet
he was here to-day as a prisoner, his hands bound and his garments torn,
while before him walked a man bearing the cross on which the Christ, like
a common thief or murderer, was to be crucified.
“But he looks more like a King than ever,” thought the bewildered
Tibeous, and then he understood!
Around the Master pressed those who belonged to the kingdom of this
world, their faces cruel, or evil, or merely weak, and among them the
Lord whom they had bound walked as fearlessly and graciously as a young
king on his way to be crowned. But others, the poor fishermen and many of
the women, seem to have caught his look of perfect goodness. They were
frightened and heartbroken as they gazed at their King who was so soon to
be taken from them, but they belonged to him, to his kingdom which was
not of this world, and their faces, in spite of their sorrow, were full
of childlike faith and trust.
Up the hill streamed the procession, Tibeous and his companion, with
their guard of soldiers, walking slowly behind.
And then followed the deed at which through all the centuries that have
passed since then men and women have shuddered with awestruck horror.
Jesus Christ, the Deliverer of the world, was nailed upon a cross, while
upon two other crosses, one on his right and one on his left, hung the
dying robbers. “With righteous wrath will he not denounce his murderers?”
thought Tibeous, and then Jesus spoke: “Father, forgive them,” he said,
“for they know not what they do.” And during the following hours of
anguish he uttered no word of anger or condemnation. “How like a king
he is even here,” thought Tibeous. “Above the mocking, cruel crowd he
hangs, unmoved by pain, glorious, noble, kingly to the end. Soon my life
will be over and I shall never see that wonderful face again. Ah! if for
one moment only I might feel that I have belonged to his kingdom. I, a
miserable dying thief, who richly deserves this bitter agony.”
Then as the crowd jeered at the Master, crying, “He saved others, let him
save himself if he be Christ, the chosen one of God!”, the other robber
mocked him also.
“If thou be Christ save thyself and us!” he said.
But Jesus answered not a word, and Tibeous cried to the robber:
“Dost thou not fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And
we, indeed, justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds, but this
man hath done nothing amiss.”
Then turning his pain-dimmed eyes toward Jesus he gazed with adoration
and longing upon the face of the glorious dying Master.
“Jesus,” he said, his voice trembling with wistful entreaty, “Lord,
remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”
And Jesus, gazing back at him with tender compassion, answered slowly:
“Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.”
The terrible hours wore away and then—we know no more, but can we not
picture to ourselves a faint glimmer of the glory into which that very
day Tibeous entered?
Jesus had said, “Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a
little child shall in no wise enter therein.” And it seems to me that
when, in the twilight, the spirit of Tibeous entered the kingdom of
heaven, all his wild and selfish life was forgotten, and he was like a
little lad again at his mother’s side. Surely his mother was waiting for
him there, her arms outstretched with tender longing, and we know that
he was with Jesus, the glorious King, the Light of Life, the Joy of the
World.
And so to Tibeous, the dying thief, there came the glory of Easter.
THE LEGEND OF THE EASTER LILY
When Jesus grew to be a man He went about teaching the people how to
live. Many loved Jesus and believed what He told them. But some doubted
His words, while others were unkind and even cruel. At last some wicked
people believed it was unwise to let Jesus live and teach; and they
hanged Him upon a cross. All His friends were very sad after they had
seen Him die. They wrapped His body in linen clothes and laid Him in
a tomb in a garden. A great rock was rolled in front of the tomb and
soldiers were placed to guard the way day and night; for the wicked
people who had killed Jesus did not wish any of His friends to take His
body away.
All night and all the next day the soldiers watched at the tomb. The
second night a strange and wonderful light came slowly in the east and
some little birds began to sing beautiful songs. Suddenly, there was a
great noise and a shaking of the ground and a beautiful angel came down
from heaven, rolled the stone away from the tomb and Jesus came forth!
Two beautiful angels stood at the door to meet Him and with them He
walked away through the garden.
When the friends of Jesus came to the tomb early in the morning they saw
a wonderful sight. “Behold,” said one, pointing to the garden near the
tomb, “pure white lilies have come forth.” “And behold!” said the other,
“where pure white lilies mark the footsteps of Jesus and the angels.”
SONG
HENRY NEVILLE MAUGHAN
There was a knight of Bethlehem;
Whose wealth was tears and sorrows:
His men-at-arms were little lambs,
His trumpeters were sparrows;
His castle was a wooden cross,
Whereon He hung so high;
His helmet was a crown of thorns
Whose crest did touch the sky.
IN THE GARDEN
AN EASTER PRELUDE
W. M. L. JAY
PART I
Deep down in the garden closes,
In the wildering April weather,
The embryo lilies and roses
Whispered and wondered together:—
“What doth it mean, this thrill
And stir in the mould about us?
Will it prophecies sweet fulfil,
Or cometh it but to flout us?”
_A Lily_
It may be a downward drift
From that unknown world above us,
Some mystical stir or lift
Of beings that know and love us,—
That world of wonderful things,
Ineffable tints and glories,
And blossoms that wander on wings—
_A Red Rose_
Now, _do_ you believe those stories!
That world and its wings and its glow,
I fear me are only fancies
Why, barely a fortnight ago,
Went thither our friends, the pansies!
_A Lily_
Did any return to tell
How the blindfold journey ended,—
If joy at the last befell,
Or a deadly frost descended?
_A White Rose_
Nathless, it is pleasant to stray
In limitless dream and vision.
_A Red Rose_
Nay, better be senseless as clay
And feel not the walls that imprison!
_A Pink Rose_
What more than this warm brown nest
Need any one dream or desire?
_A Lily_
Ah, me! in my aching breast
Is a thirst for something higher!
I may surely trust I go
To some lovely goal unknowing,
To some better thing I grow—
At least, I think I am growing.
PART II
Out in the garden closes,
In the shining, summery weather,
Blossoming lilies and roses
Wondered and laughed together:—
“What a wide, wide world of bliss,
Of loveliest gleams and glowings!
We had never a vision like this,
In the fairest of hope’s foreshowings.”
_A White Rose_