that he was looking at his own soul. The face he saw was thin and tired,
and though it kept a smile or a grin for the people, it seemed very sad
to the hermit. Soon the man felt the hermit's eyes; he could not go on
with his tricks. And when he had stopped and the crowd had left, the
hermit went and drew the man aside to a place where they could rest; for
he wanted more than anything else on earth to know what the man's soul
was like, because what it was, his was.
So, after a little, he asked the clown, very gently, what his life was,
what it had been. And the clown answered, very sadly, that it was just
as it looked,--a life of foolish tricks, for that was the only way of
earning his bread that he knew.
"But have you never been anything different?" asked the hermit,
painfully.
The clown's head sank in his hands. "Yes, holy father," he said, "I have
been something else. I was a thief! I once belonged to the most wicked
band of mountain robbers that ever tormented the land, and I was as
wicked as the worst."
Alas! The hermit felt that his heart was breaking. Was this how he
looked to the Heavenly Father--like a thief, a cruel mountain robber? He
could hardly speak, and the tears streamed from his old eyes, but he
gathered strength to ask one more question. "I beg you," he said, "if
you have ever done a single good deed in your life, remember it now, and
tell it to me"; for he thought that even one good deed would save him
from utter despair.
"Yes, one," the clown said, "but it was so small, it is not worth
telling; my life has been worthless."
"Tell me that one!" pleaded the hermit.
"Once," said the man, "our band broke into a convent garden and stole
away one of the nuns, to sell as a slave or to keep for a ransom. We
dragged her with us over the rough, long way to our mountain camp, and
set a guard over her for the night. The poor thing prayed to us so
piteously to let her go! And as she begged, she looked from one hard
face to another, with trusting, imploring eyes, as if she could not
believe men could be really bad. Father, when her eyes met mine
something pierced my heart! Pity and shame leaped up, for the first
time, within me. But I made my face as hard and cruel as the rest, and
she turned away, hopeless.
"When all was dark and still, I stole like a cat to where she lay bound.
I put my hand on her wrist and whispered, 'Trust me, and I will take you
safely home.' I cut her bonds with my knife, and she looked at me to
show that she trusted. Father, by terrible ways that I knew, hidden from
the others, I took her safe to the convent gate. She knocked; they
opened; and she slipped inside. And, as she left me, she turned and
said, 'God will remember.'
"That was all. I could not go back to the old bad life, and I had never
learned an honest way to earn my bread. So I became a clown, and must be
a clown until I die."
"No! no! my son," cried the hermit, and now his tears were tears of joy.
"God has remembered; your soul is in his sight even as mine, who have
prayed and preached for forty years. Your treasure waits for you on the
heavenly shore just as mine does."
"As _yours_? Father, you mock me!" said the clown.
But when the hermit told him the story of his prayer and the angel's
answer, the poor clown was transfigured with joy, for he knew that his
sins were forgiven. And when the hermit went home to his mountain, the
clown went with him. He, too, became a hermit, and spent his time in
praise and prayer.
Together they lived, and worked, and helped the poor. And when, after
two years, the man who had been a clown died, the hermit felt that he
had lost a brother more holy than himself.
For ten years more the hermit lived in his mountain hut, thinking always
of God, fasting and praying, and doing no least thing that was wrong.
Then, one day, the wish once more came, to know how his work was
growing, and once more he prayed that he might see a being--
"Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown
To the selfsame measure as his own;
Whose treasure on the celestial shore
Could neither be less than his nor more."
Once more his prayer was answered. The angel came to him, and told him
to go to a certain village on the other side of the mountain, and to a
small farm in it, where two women lived. In them he should find two
souls like his own, in God's sight.
When the hermit came to the door of the little farm, the two women who
lived there were overjoyed to see him, for everyone loved and honoured
his name. They put a chair for him on the cool porch, and brought food
and drink. But the hermit was too eager to wait. He longed greatly to
know what the souls of the two women were like, and from their looks he
could see only that they were gentle and honest. One was old, and the
other of middle age.
Presently he asked them about their lives. They told him the little
there was to tell: they had worked hard always, in the fields with their
husbands, or in the house; they had many children; they had seen hard
times,--sickness, sorrow; but they had never despaired.
"But what of your good deeds," the hermit asked,--"what have you done
for God?"
"Very little," they said, sadly, for they were too poor to give much. To
be sure, twice every year, when they killed a sheep for food, they gave
half to their poorer neighbours.
"That is very good, very faithful," the hermit said. "And is there any
other good deed you have done?"
"Nothing," said the older woman, "unless, unless--it might be called a
good deed----" She looked at the younger woman, who smiled back at her.
"What?" said the hermit.
Still the woman hesitated; but at last she said, timidly, "It is not
much to tell, father, only this, that it is twenty years since my
sister-in-law and I came to live together in the house; we have brought
up our families here; and in all the twenty years there has never been a
cross word between us, or a look that was less than kind."
The hermit bent his head before the two women, and gave thanks in his
heart. "If my soul is as these," he said, "I am blessed indeed."
And suddenly a great light came into the hermit's mind, and he saw how
many ways there are of serving God. Some serve him in churches and in
hermits' cells, by praise and prayer; some poor souls who have been very
wicked turn from their wickedness with sorrow, and serve him with
repentance; some live faithfully and gently in humble homes, working,
bringing up children, keeping kind and cheerful; some bear pain
patiently, for His sake. Endless, endless ways there are, that only the
Heavenly Father sees.
And so, as the hermit climbed the mountain again, he thought,--
"As he saw the star-like glow
Of light, in the cottage windows far,
How many God's hidden servants are!"
FOOTNOTES:
[35] Adapted, with quotations, from the poem in _The Hidden Servants_,
by Francesca Alexander.
LITTLE GOTTLIEB[36]
Across the North Sea, in a country called Germany, lived a little boy
named Gottlieb. His father had died when he was but a baby, and although
from early morning till late at night his mother sat plying her needle,
she found it difficult indeed to provide food and clothing and shelter
for her little boy and herself.
Gottlieb was not old enough to work, but he would often sit on a small
stool at his mother's feet and dream about the wonderful things he would
do for his dear mother when he grew to be a man, and she was comforted
as she looked upon her boy, and the thought that she was working for him
often gave strength to her tired fingers.
But one night Gottlieb saw that his mother was more than usually
troubled. Every now and then she would sigh, and a tear would trickle
down her cheek. The little boy had grown quick to read these signs of
distress, and he thought, "Christmas will be here soon, and dear mother
is thinking of what a sad time it will be."
What would Gottlieb have given to be able to comfort his mother! He
could only sit and brood, while his young heart swelled and a lump rose
in his throat at the thought that he could do nothing.
Presently, however, a happy fancy came to him. Was not the Christ Child
born on Christmas Day, and did not He send good gifts to men on His
birthday? But then came the thought, "He will never find us. Our home is
so mean and small." It seemed foolish to hope, but a boy is not long
cast down, and as Gottlieb sat dreaming, a happy inspiration came to
him. Stealing softly from the room he took paper and pen, for he had
learnt to write, and spelt out, word after word, a letter which he
addressed to the Christ Child.
You may be sure that the postman was puzzled what to do with this letter
when he sorted it out of the heap in the letter-box. Perhaps the
Burgomaster would know the right thing to do? So the postman took the
letter to the great burly man who lived in the big house and wore a gold
chain round his neck. The Burgomaster opened the envelope, and as he
read the letter written in the trembling hand of a child, tears came
into his eyes. But he spoke gruffly enough to the postman, "This must
be a foolish boy; a small one, I have no doubt."
Soon Christmas morning dawned, and Gottlieb woke very early. But others
were up before him, for, to his surprise, he saw a strange gentleman
with his mother. His wondering eyes soon perceived other unusual
objects, for the hearth was piled with wood, and the table was loaded
with food and dainties such as he had never even imagined.
Gottlieb entered the room just as his mother threw herself at the
stranger's feet to bless him for his generous goodness to the widow and
orphan. "Nay, give me no thanks, worthy dame," said the visitor. "Rather
be grateful to your little son, and to the good Lord to whom he wrote
for aid."
Then he turned to Gottlieb with a smile, "You see that although you
wrote to the Christ Child, your prayer for aid came only to the
Burgomaster. The gifts you asked for are here, but they come from my
hand." But Gottlieb answered him humbly, "Nay, sir, the Christ Child
sent them, for He put the thought in your heart."
FOOTNOTES:
[36] Adapted from the poem by Phoebe Gary, in _A Treasury of Verse_,
Part I., M.G. Edgar.
HOW THE FIR TREE BECAME THE CHRISTMAS TREE[37]
When you stand round the Christmas tree and look longingly at the toys
hanging from the prickly branches, it does not occur to you to ask why
it is always this particular tree that is so honoured at Christmas. The
dark green Fir looks so majestic when laden with bright toys and lit up
by Christmas candles, that perhaps it is not easy to believe that it is
the most modest of trees. But so it is, and because of its humility it
was chosen to bear Christmas gifts to the children. This is the story:
When the Christ Child was born, all people, animals, trees, and other
plants felt that a great happiness had come into the world. And truly,
the Heavenly Father had sent with the Holy Babe His blessings of Peace
and Goodwill to all. Every day people came to see the sweet Babe,
bringing presents in their hands. By the stable wherein lay the Christ
Child stood three trees, and as the people came and went under their
spreading branches, they thought that they, too, would like to give
presents to the Child.
Said the Palm, "I will choose my biggest leaf and place it as a fan
beside the manger to waft soft air to the Child."
"And I," said the Olive, "I will sprinkle sweet-smelling oil over Him."
"What can I give to the Child?" asked the Fir.
"You?" said the others. "You have nothing to offer. Your needles would
prick the wee Babe, and your tears are sticky."
This made the poor Fir very unhappy indeed, and it said, sadly, "Yes,
you are right. I have nothing that would be good enough to offer to the
Christ Child."
Now, quite near to the trees had stood an Angel, who had heard all that
had passed. He was moved to pity the Fir, who was so lowly and without
envy of the other trees, and he resolved to help it.
High in the dark of the heavens the stars were beginning to twinkle, and
the Angel begged some of the little ones to come down and rest upon the
branches of the Fir. This they were glad to do, and their silvery light
shone among the branches just like Christmas candles. From where He lay
the Christ Child could see the great dark evening world and the darker
forms of the trees keeping watch, like faithful guardians, beside the
open door of the stable; and to its delight the Fir Tree saw the face of
the Babe illumined with a heavenly smile as He looked upon the twinkling
lights.
The Christ Child did not forget the lovely sight, and long afterward he
bade that to celebrate His birthday there should be placed in every
house a Fir Tree, which might be lit up with candles to shine for the
children as the stars shone for Him on His first birthday.
Was not the Fir Tree richly rewarded for its meekness? Surely there is
no other tree that shines on so many happy faces!
FOOTNOTES:
[37] From the German of Hedwig Levi.
THE DIAMOND AND THE DEWDROP[38]
A costly Diamond, that had once sparkled in a lady's ring, lay in a
field amid tall grasses and oxeye daisies.
Just above it, was a big Dewdrop that clung timidly to a nodding
grass-blade.
Overhead, the blazing sun shone in all his noonday glory.
Ever since the first pink blush of dawn, the modest Dewdrop had gazed
fixedly down upon the rich gem, but feared to address a person of such
exalted consequence.
At last, a large Beetle, during his rambles, chanced to espy the
Diamond, and he also recognised him to be some one of great rank and
importance.
"Sire," he said, making a low bow, "permit your humble servant to offer
you greeting."
"Tha--nks," responded the Diamond in languid tones of affectation.
As the Beetle raised his head from his profound bow, his gaze happened
to alight upon the Dewdrop.
"A relative of yours, I presume, Sire?" he remarked affably, waving one
of his feelers in the direction of the Dewdrop.
The Diamond burst into a rude, contemptuous laugh.
"Quite _too_ absurd, I declare!" he exclaimed loftily. "But there, what
_can_ you expect from a low, grovelling beetle? Away, sir, pass on! Your
very presence is distasteful to me. The _idea_ of placing ME upon the
same level--in the same family, as a low-born, mean, insignificant,
utterly valueless----" Here the Diamond fairly choked for breath.
"But has he not beauty exactly like your own, Sire?" the Beetle ventured
to interpose, though with a very timid air.
"BEAU--TY!" flashed the Diamond, with fine disdain--"the impudent fellow
merely apes and imitates ME. However, it is some small consolation to
remember that 'Imitation is the sincerest flattery.' But, even
_allowing_ him to possess it, mere beauty without _rank_ is ridiculous
and worthless. A Boat without _water_--a Carriage, but no _horses_--a
Well, but never a _winch_: such is beauty without rank and wealth! There
is no _real worth_ apart from rank and wealth. Combine Beauty, Rank,
_and_ Wealth, and you have the whole world at your feet. Now you know
the secret of the world worshipping ME."
And the Diamond sparkled and gleamed with vivid, violet flashes, so that
the Beetle was glad to shade his eyes.
The poor Dewdrop had listened silently to all that had passed, and felt
so wounded, that at last he wished he never had been born. Slowly a
bright tear fell and splashed the dust.
Just then, a Skylark fluttered to the ground and eagerly darted his beak
at the Diamond.
"Alas!" he piped, with a great sob of disappointment. "What I thought to
be a precious dewdrop is only a worthless diamond. My throat is parched
for want of water. I must die of thirst!"
"Really? The world will never get over your loss," cruelly sneered the
Diamond.
But a sudden and noble resolve came to the Dewdrop. Deeply did he repent
his foolish wish. _He could now lay down his life that the life of
another might be saved!_
"May _I_ help you, please?" he gently asked.
The Lark raised his drooping head.
"Oh, my precious, precious friend, if you will, you can save my life!"
"Open your mouth then."
And the Dewdrop slid from the blade of grass, tumbled into the parched
beak, and was eagerly swallowed.
"Ah--well, well!" pondered the Beetle as he continued his homeward way.
"I've been taught a lesson that I shall not easily forget. Yes, yes!
Simple worth is far better than rank or wealth without modesty and
unselfishness--and there is no _true_ beauty where these virtues are
absent!"
FOOTNOTES:
[38] By Rev. Albert E. Sims.
[Transcriber's notes: All words marked [A] in the original were presumed.
The text was not clear enough to make them out definitively.
Marchen changed to Märchen to fit rest of text.
Standarized punctuation.]
End of Project Gutenberg's Stories to Tell Children, by Sara Cone Bryant