merry songs. But I love the gentle sea, who in sweet humility crouches
at my feet or playfully dashes her white spray against my brown bosom."
Now the sea was full of joy when she heard these words, and her thousand
voices sang softly with delight. But the air was filled with rage and
jealousy, and she swore a terrible revenge.
"The mountain shall not wed the sea," muttered the envious air. "Enjoy
your triumph while you may, O slumberous sister; I will steal you from
your haughty lover!"
And it came to pass that ever after that the air each day caught up huge
parts of the sea and sent them floating forever through the air in the
shape of clouds. So each day the sea receded from the feet of the
mountain, and her tuneful waves played no more around his majestic base.
"Whither art thou going, my love?" cried the mountain, in dismay.
"She is false to thee," laughed the air, mockingly. "She is going to
another love far away."
But the mountain would not believe it. He towered his head aloft and
cried more beseechingly than before: "Oh, whither art thou going, my
beloved? I do not hear thy sweet voice, nor do thy soft white arms
compass me about."
Then the sea cried out in an agony of helpless love. But the mountain
heard her not, for the air refused to bring the words she said.
"She is false!" whispered the air. "I alone am true to thee."
But the mountain believed her not. Day after day he reared his massive
head aloft and turned his honest face to the receding sea and begged her
to return; day after day the sea threw up her snowy arms and uttered the
wildest lamentations, but the mountain heard her not; and day by day the
sea receded farther and farther from the mountain's base. Where she once
had spread her fair surface appeared fertile plains and verdant groves
all peopled with living things, whose voices the air brought to the
mountain's ears in the hope that they might distract the mountain from
his mourning.
But the mountain would not be comforted; he lifted his sturdy head
aloft, and his sorrowing face was turned ever toward the fleeting object
of his love. Hills, valleys, forests, plains, and other mountains
separated them now, but over and beyond them all he could see her fair
face lifted pleadingly toward him, while her white arms tossed wildly to
and fro. But he did not know what words she said, for the envious air
would not bear her messages to him.
Then many ages came and went, until now the sea was far distant, so very
distant that the mountain could not behold her,--nay, had he been ten
thousand times as lofty he could not have seen her, she was so far away.
But still, as of old, the mountain stood with his majestic head high in
the sky, and his face turned whither he had seen her fading like a dream
away.
"Come back, come back, O my beloved!" he cried and cried.
And the sea, a thousand miles or more away, still thought forever of the
mountain. Vainly she peered over the western horizon for a glimpse of
his proud head and honest face. The horizon was dark. Her lover was far
beyond; forests, plains, hills, valleys, rivers, and other mountains
intervened. Her watching was as hopeless as her love.
"She is false!" whispered the air to the mountain. "She is false, and
she has gone to another lover. I alone am true!"
But the mountain believed her not. And one day clouds came floating
through the sky and hovered around the mountain's crest.
"Who art thou," cried the mountain,--"who art thou that thou fill'st me
with such a subtile consolation? Thy breath is like my beloved's, and
thy kisses are like her kisses."
"We come from the sea," answered the clouds. "She loves thee, and she
has sent us to bid thee be courageous, for she will come back to thee."
Then the clouds covered the mountain and bathed him with the glory of
the sea's true love. The air raged furiously, but all in vain. Ever
after that the clouds came each day with love-messages from the sea, and
oftentimes the clouds bore back to the distant sea the tender words the
mountain spoke.
And so the ages come and go, the mountain rearing his giant head aloft,
and his brown, honest face turned whither the sea departed; the sea
stretching forth her arms to the distant mountain and repeating his dear
name with her thousand voices.
Stand on the beach and look upon the sea's majestic calm and hear her
murmurings; or see her when, in the frenzy of her hopeless love, she
surges wildly and tosses her white arms and shrieks,--then you shall
know how the sea loves the distant mountain.
The mountain is old and sear; the storms have beaten upon his breast,
and great scars and seams and wrinkles are on his sturdy head and honest
face. But he towers majestically aloft, and he looks always toward the
distant sea and waits for her promised coming.
And so the ages come and go, but love is eternal.
1886.
* * * * *
The Robin and the Violet.
THE ROBIN AND THE VIOLET.
Once upon a time a robin lived in the greenwood. Of all the birds his
breast was the brightest, his music was the sweetest, and his life was
the merriest. Every morning and evening he perched himself among the
berries of the linden-tree, and carolled a song that made the whole
forest joyous; and all day long he fluttered among the flowers and
shrubbery of the wild-wood, and twittered gayly to the brooks, the
ferns, and the lichens.
A violet grew among the mosses at the foot of the linden-tree where
lived the robin. She was so very tiny and so very modest that few knew
there was such a pretty little creature in the world. Withal she was so
beautiful and so gentle that those who knew the violet loved her very
dearly.
The south wind came wooing the violet. He danced through the shrubbery
and ferns, and lingered on the velvet moss where the little flower grew.
But when he kissed her pretty face and whispered to her, she hung her
head and said, "No, no; it cannot be."
"Nay, little violet, do not be so cruel," pleaded the south wind; "let
me bear you as my bride away to my splendid home in the south, where all
is warmth and sunshine always."
But the violet kept repeating, "No, it cannot be; no, it cannot be,"
till at last the south wind stole away with a very heavy heart.
And the rose exclaimed, in an outburst of disgustful indignation: "What
a foolish violet! How silly of her to refuse such a wooer as the south
wind, who has a beautiful home and a patrimony of eternal warmth and
sunshine!"
But the violet, as soon as the south wind had gone, looked up at the
robin perched in the linden-tree and singing his clear song; and it
seemed as if she blushed and as if she were thrilled with a great
emotion as she beheld him. But the robin did not see the violet. His
eyes were turned the other way, and he sang to the clouds in the sky.
The brook o'erleapt its banks one day, and straying toward the
linden-tree, it was amazed at the loveliness of the violet. Never had it
seen any flower half so beautiful.
"Oh, come and be my bride," cried the brook. "I am young and small now,
but presently you shall see me grow to a mighty river whose course no
human power can direct, and whose force nothing can resist. Cast thyself
upon my bosom, sweet violet, and let us float together to that great
destiny which awaits me."
But the violet shuddered and recoiled and said: "Nay, nay, impetuous
brook, I will not be your bride." So, with many murmurs and complaints,
the brook crept back to its jealous banks and resumed its devious and
prattling way to the sea.
"Bless me!" cried the daisy, "only to think of that silly violet's
refusing the brook! Was there ever another such piece of folly! Where
else is there a flower that would not have been glad to go upon such a
wonderful career? Oh, how short-sighted some folks are!"
But the violet paid no heed to these words; she looked steadfastly up
into the foliage of the linden-tree where the robin was carolling. The
robin did not see the violet; he was singing to the tops of the
fir-trees over yonder.
The days came and went. The robin sang and fluttered in the greenwood,
and the violet bided among the mosses at the foot of the linden; and
although the violet's face was turned always upward to where the robin
perched and sang, the robin never saw the tender little flower.
One day a huntsman came through the greenwood, and an arrow from his
cruel bow struck the robin and pierced his heart. The robin was
carolling in the linden, but his song was ended suddenly, and the
innocent bird fell dying from the tree. "Oh, it is only a robin," said
the huntsman, and with a careless laugh he went on his way.
The robin lay upon the mosses at the foot of the linden, close beside
the violet. But he neither saw nor heard anything, for his life was
nearly gone. The violet tried to bind his wound and stay the flow of his
heart's blood, but her tender services were vain. The robin died
without having seen her sweet face or heard her gentle voice.
Then the other birds of the greenwood came to mourn over their dead
friend. The moles and the mice dug a little grave and laid the robin in
it, after which the birds brought lichens and leaves, and covered the
dead body, and heaped earth over all, and made a great lamentation. But
when they went away, the violet remained; and after the sun had set, and
the greenwood all was dark, the violet bent over the robin's grave and
kissed it, and sang to the dead robin. And the violet watched by the
robin's grave for weeks and months, her face pressed forward toward that
tiny mound, and her gentle voice always singing softly and sweetly about
the love she never had dared to tell.
Often after that the south wind and the brook came wooing her, but she
never heard them, or, if she heard them, she did not answer. The vine
that lived near the chestnut yonder said the violet was greatly changed;
that from being a merry, happy thing, she had grown sad and reticent;
she used to hold up her head as proudly as the others, but now she
seemed broken and weary. The shrubs and flowers talked it all over many
and many a time, but none of them could explain the violet's strange
conduct.
It was autumn now, and the greenwood was not what it had been. The birds
had flown elsewhere to be the guests of the storks during the winter
months, the rose had run away to be the bride of the south wind, and the
daisy had wedded the brook and was taking a bridal tour to the seaside
watering-places. But the violet still lingered in the greenwood, and
kept her vigil at the grave of the robin. She was pale and drooping, but
still she watched and sang over the spot where her love lay buried. Each
day she grew weaker and paler. The oak begged her to come and live among
the warm lichens that protected him from the icy breath of the
storm-king, but the violet chose to watch and sing over the robin's
grave.
One morning, after a night of exceeding darkness and frost, the
boisterous north wind came trampling through the greenwood.
"I have come for the violet," he cried; "she would not have my fair
brother, but she must go with _me_, whether it pleases her or not!"
But when he came to the foot of the linden-tree his anger was changed to
compassion. The violet was dead, and she lay upon the robin's grave. Her
gentle face rested close to the little mound, as if, in her last moment,
the faithful flower had stretched forth her lips to kiss the dust that
covered her beloved.
1884.
* * * * *
The Oak-tree and the Ivy.
THE OAK-TREE AND THE IVY.
In the greenwood stood a mighty oak. So majestic was he that all who
came that way paused to admire his strength and beauty, and all the
other trees of the greenwood acknowledged him to be their monarch.
Now it came to pass that the ivy loved the oak-tree, and inclining her
graceful tendrils where he stood, she crept about his feet and twined
herself around his sturdy and knotted trunk. And the oak-tree pitied the
ivy.
"Oho!" he cried, laughing boisterously, but good-naturedly,--"oho! so
you love me, do you, little vine? Very well, then; play about my feet,
and I will keep the storms from you and will tell you pretty stories
about the clouds, the birds, and the stars."
The ivy marvelled greatly at the strange stories the oak-tree told; they
were stories the oak-tree heard from the wind that loitered about his
lofty head and whispered to the leaves of his topmost branches.
Sometimes the story was about the great ocean in the East, sometimes of
the broad prairies in the West, sometimes of the ice-king who lived in
the North, and sometimes of the flower-queen who dwelt in the South.
Then, too, the moon told a story to the oak-tree every night,--or at
least every night that she came to the greenwood, which was very often,
for the greenwood is a very charming spot, as we all know. And the
oak-tree repeated to the ivy every story the moon told and every song
the stars sang.
"Pray, what are the winds saying now?" or "What song is that I hear?"
the ivy would ask; and then the oak-tree would repeat the story or the
song, and the ivy would listen in great wonderment.
Whenever the storms came, the oak-tree cried to the little ivy: "Cling
close to me, and no harm shall befall you! See how strong I am; the
tempest does not so much as stir me--I mock its fury!"
Then, seeing how strong and brave he was, the ivy hugged him closely;
his brown, rugged breast protected her from every harm, and she was
secure.
The years went by; how quickly they flew,--spring, summer, winter, and
then again spring, summer, winter,--ah, life is short in the greenwood
as elsewhere! And now the ivy was no longer a weakly little vine to
excite the pity of the passer-by. Her thousand beautiful arms had twined
hither and thither about the oak-tree, covering his brown and knotted
trunk, shooting forth a bright, delicious foliage and stretching far up
among his lower branches. Then the oak-tree's pity grew into a love for
the ivy, and the ivy was filled with a great joy. And the oak-tree and
the ivy were wed one June night, and there was a wonderful celebration
in the greenwood; and there was the most beautiful music, in which the
pine-trees, the crickets, the katydids, the frogs, and the nightingales
joined with pleasing harmony.
The oak-tree was always good and gentle to the ivy. "There is a storm
coming over the hills," he would say. "The east wind tells me so; the
swallows fly low in the air, and the sky is dark. Cling close to me, my
beloved, and no harm shall befall you."
Then, confidently and with an always-growing love, the ivy would cling
more closely to the oak-tree, and no harm came to her.
"How good the oak-tree is to the ivy!" said the other trees of the
greenwood. The ivy heard them, and she loved the oak-tree more and more.
And, although the ivy was now the most umbrageous and luxuriant vine in
all the greenwood, the oak-tree regarded her still as the tender little
thing he had laughingly called to his feet that spring day, many years
before,--the same little ivy he had told about the stars, the clouds,
and the birds. And, just as patiently as in those days he had told her
of these things, he now repeated other tales the winds whispered to his
topmost boughs,--tales of the ocean in the East, the prairies in the
West, the ice-king in the North, and the flower-queen in the South.
Nestling upon his brave breast and in his stout arms, the ivy heard him
tell these wondrous things, and she never wearied with the listening.
"How the oak-tree loves her!" said the ash. "The lazy vine has naught
to do but to twine herself about the arrogant oak-tree and hear him tell
his wondrous stories!"
The ivy heard these envious words, and they made her very sad; but she
said nothing of them to the oak-tree, and that night the oak-tree rocked
her to sleep as he repeated the lullaby a zephyr was singing to him.
"There is a storm coming over the hills," said the oak-tree one day.
"The east wind tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air, and the sky
is dark. Clasp me round about with thy dear arms, my beloved, and nestle
close unto my bosom, and no harm shall befall thee."
"I have no fear," murmured the ivy; and she clasped her arms most
closely about him and nestled unto his bosom.
The storm came over the hills and swept down upon the greenwood with
deafening thunder and vivid lightning. The storm-king himself rode upon
the blast; his horses breathed flames, and his chariot trailed through
the air like a serpent of fire. The ash fell before the violence of the
storm-king's fury, and the cedars groaning fell, and the hemlocks and
the pines; but the oak-tree alone quailed not.
"Oho!" cried the storm-king, angrily, "the oak-tree does not bow to me,
he does not tremble in my presence. Well, we shall see."
With that, the storm-king hurled a mighty thunderbolt at the oak-tree,
and the brave, strong monarch of the greenwood was riven. Then, with a
shout of triumph, the storm-king rode away.
"Dear oak-tree, you are riven by the storm-king's thunderbolt!" cried
the ivy, in anguish.
"Ay," said the oak-tree, feebly, "my end has come; see, I am shattered
and helpless."
"But _I_ am unhurt," remonstrated the ivy, "and I will bind up your
wounds and nurse you back to health and vigor."
And so it was that, although the oak-tree was ever afterward a riven and
broken thing, the ivy concealed the scars upon his shattered form and
covered his wounds all over with her soft foliage.
"I had hoped, dear one," she said, "to grow up to thy height, to live
with thee among the clouds, and to hear the solemn voices thou didst
hear. Thou wouldst have loved me better then?"
But the old oak-tree said: "Nay, nay, my beloved; I love thee better as
thou art, for with thy beauty and thy love thou comfortest mine age."
Then would the ivy tell quaint stories to the old and broken
oak-tree,--stories she had learned from the crickets, the bees, the
butterflies, and the mice when she was an humble little vine and played
at the foot of the majestic oak-tree, towering in the greenwood with no
thought of the tiny shoot that crept toward him with her love. And these
simple tales pleased the old and riven oak-tree; they were not as heroic
as the tales the winds, the clouds, and the stars told, but they were
far sweeter, for they were tales of contentment, of humility, of love.
So the old age of the oak-tree was grander than his youth.
And all who went through the greenwood paused to behold and admire the
beauty of the oak-tree then; for about his seared and broken trunk the
gentle vine had so entwined her graceful tendrils and spread her fair
foliage, that one saw not the havoc of the years nor the ruin of the
tempest, but only the glory of the oak-tree's age, which was the ivy's
love and ministering.
1886.
* * * * *
Margaret: A Pearl.
MARGARET: A PEARL.
In a certain part of the sea, very many leagues from here, there once
lived a large family of oysters noted for their beauty and size. But
among them was one so small, so feeble, and so ill-looking as to excite
the pity, if not the contempt, of all the others. The father, a
venerable, bearded oyster, of august appearance and solemn deportment,
was much mortified that one of his family should happen to be so sickly;
and he sent for all the doctors in the sea to come and treat her; from
which circumstance you are to note that doctors are an evil to be met
with not alone upon _terra firma_. The first to come was Dr. Porpoise, a
gentleman of the old school, who floundered around in a very important
manner and was full of imposing ceremonies.
"Let me look at your tongue," said Dr. Porpoise, stroking his beard with
one fin, impressively. "Ahem! somewhat coated, I see. And your pulse is
far from normal; no appetite, I presume? Yes, my dear, your system is
sadly out of order. You need medicine."
The little oyster hated medicine; so she cried,--yes, she actually shed
cold, briny tears at the very thought of taking old Dr. Porpoise's
prescriptions. But the father-oyster and the mother-oyster chided her
sternly; they said that the medicine would be nice and sweet, and that
the little oyster would like it. But the little oyster knew better than
all that; yes, she knew a thing or two, even though she _was_ only a
little oyster.
Now Dr. Porpoise put a plaster on the little oyster's chest and a
blister at her feet. He bade her eat nothing but a tiny bit of sea-foam
on toast twice a day. Every two hours she was to take a spoonful of
cod-liver oil, and before each meal a wineglassful of the essence of
distilled cuttlefish. The plaster she didn't mind, but the blister and
the cod-liver oil were terrible; and when it came to the essence of
distilled cuttlefish--well, she just couldn't stand it! In vain her
mother reasoned with her, and promised her a new doll and a
skipping-rope and a lot of other nice things: the little oyster would
have none of the horrid drug; until at last her father, abandoning his
dignity in order to maintain his authority, had to hold her down by main
strength and pour the medicine into her mouth. This was, as you will
allow, quite dreadful.
But this treatment did the little oyster no good; and her parents made
up their minds that they would send for another doctor, and one of a
different school. Fortunately they were in a position to indulge in
almost any expense, since the father-oyster himself was president of one
of the largest banks of Newfoundland. So Dr. Sculpin came with his neat
little medicine-box under his arm. And when he had looked at the sick
little oyster's tongue, and had taken her temperature, and had felt her
pulse, he said he knew what ailed her; but he did not tell anybody what
it was. He threw away the plasters, the blisters, the cod-liver oil, and
the essence of distilled cuttlefish, and said it was a wonder that the
poor child had lived through it all!
"Will you please bring me two tumblerfuls of water?" he remarked to the
mother-oyster.
The mother-oyster scuttled away, and soon returned with two conch-shells
filled to the brim with pure, clear sea-water. Dr. Sculpin counted three
grains of white sand into one shell, and three grains of yellow sand
into the other shell, with great care.
"Now," said he to the mother-oyster, "I have numbered these 1 and 2.
First, you are to give the patient ten drops out of No. 2, and in an
hour after that, eight drops out of No. 1; the next hour, eight drops
out of No. 2; and the next, or fourth, hour, ten drops out of No. 1. And
so you are to continue hour by hour, until either the medicine or the
child gives out."
"Tell me, doctor," asked the mother, "shall she continue the food
suggested by Dr. Porpoise?"
"What food did he recommend?" inquired Dr. Sculpin.
"Sea-foam on toast," answered the mother.
Dr. Sculpin smiled a smile which seemed to suggest that Dr. Porpoise's
ignorance was really quite annoying.
"My dear madam," said Dr. Sculpin, "the diet suggested by that quack,
Porpoise, passed out of the books years ago. Give the child toast on
sea-foam, if you wish to build up her debilitated forces."
Now, the sick little oyster did not object to this treatment; on the
contrary, she liked it. But it did her no good. And one day, when she
was feeling very dry, she drank both tumblerfuls of medicine, and it did
not do her any harm; neither did it cure her: she remained the same sick
little oyster,--oh, so sick! This pained her parents very much. They did
not know what to do. They took her travelling; they gave her into the
care of the eel for electric treatment; they sent her to the Gulf Stream
for warm baths,--they tried everything, but to no avail. The sick little
oyster remained a sick little oyster, and there was an end of it.