machine was poked down from the surface of the water far above, and
with slow but intrepid movement began exploring every nook and crevice
of the oyster village. There was not a family into which it did not
intrude, nor a home circle whose sanctity it did not ruthlessly invade.
It scraped along the great mossy rock; and lo! with a monstrous
scratchy-te-scratch, the mother-oyster and the father-oyster and
hundreds of other oysters were torn from their resting-places and borne
aloft in a very jumbled and very frightened condition by the impertinent
machine. Then down it came again, and the sick little oyster was among
the number of those who were seized by the horrid monster this time. She
found herself raised to the top of the sea; and all at once she was
bumped in a boat, where she lay, puny and helpless, on a huge pile of
other oysters. Two men were handling the fierce-looking machine. A
little boy sat in the stern of the boat watching the huge pile of
oysters. He was a pretty little boy, with bright eyes and long tangled
hair. He wore no hat, and his feet were bare and brown.
"What a funny little oyster!" said the boy, picking up the sick little
oyster; "it is no bigger than my thumb, and it is very pale."
"Throw it away," said one of the men. "Like as not it is bad and not fit
to eat."
"No, keep it and send it out West for a Blue Point," said the other
man,--what a heartless wretch he was!
But the little boy had already thrown the sick little oyster overboard.
She fell in shallow water, and the rising tide carried her still farther
toward shore, until she lodged against an old gum boot that lay half
buried in the sand. There were no other oysters in sight. Her head ached
and she was very weak; how lonesome, too, she was!--yet anything was
better than being eaten,--at least so thought the little oyster, and so,
I presume, think you.
For many weeks and many months the sick little oyster lay hard by the
old gum boot; and in that time she made many acquaintances and friends
among the crabs, the lobsters, the fiddlers, the star-fish, the waves,
the shells, and the gay little fishes of the ocean. They did not harm
her, for they saw that she was sick; they pitied her--some loved her.
The one that loved her most was the perch with green fins that attended
school every day in the academic shade of the big rocks in the quiet
cove about a mile away. He was very gentle and attentive, and every
afternoon he brought fresh cool sea-foam for the sick oyster to eat; he
told her pretty stories, too,--stories which his grandmother, the
venerable codfish, had told him of the sea king, the mermaids, the
pixies, the water sprites, and the other fantastically beautiful
dwellers in ocean-depths. Now while all this was very pleasant, the sick
little oyster knew that the perch's wooing was hopeless, for she was
very ill and helpless, and could never think of becoming a burden upon
one so young and so promising as the gallant perch with green fins. But
when she spoke to him in this strain, he would not listen; he kept right
on bringing her more and more cool sea-foam every day.
The old gum boot was quite a motherly creature, and anon the sick little
oyster became very much attached to her. Many times as the little
invalid rested her aching head affectionately on the instep of the old
gum boot, the old gum boot told her stories of the world beyond the
sea: how she had been born in a mighty forest, and how proud her folks
were of their family tree; how she had been taken from that forest and
moulded into the shape she now bore; how she had graced and served a
foot in amphibious capacities, until at last, having seen many things
and having travelled much, she had been cast off and hurled into the sea
to be the scorn of every crab and the derision of every fish. These
stories were all new to the little oyster, and amazing, too; she knew
only of the sea, having lived therein all her life. She in turn told the
old gum boot quaint legends of the ocean,--the simple tales she had
heard in her early home; and there was a sweetness and a simplicity in
these stories of the deep that charmed the old gum boot, shrivelled and
hardened and pessimistic though she was.
Yet, in spite of it all,--the kindness, the care, the amusements, and
the devotion of her friends,--the little oyster remained always a sick
and fragile thing. But no one heard her complain, for she bore her
suffering patiently.
Not far from this beach where the ocean ended its long travels there was
a city, and in this city there dwelt with her parents a maiden of the
name of Margaret. From infancy she had been sickly, and although she had
now reached the years of early womanhood, she could not run or walk
about as others did, but she had to be wheeled hither and thither in a
chair. This was very sad; yet Margaret was so gentle and uncomplaining
that from aught she said you never would have thought her life was full
of suffering. Seeing her helplessness, the sympathetic things of Nature
had compassion and were very good to Margaret. The sunbeams stole across
her pathway everywhere, the grass clustered thickest and greenest where
she went, the winds caressed her gently as they passed, and the birds
loved to perch near her window and sing their prettiest songs. Margaret
loved them all,--the sunlight, the singing winds, the grass, the
carolling birds. She communed with them; their wisdom inspired her life,
and this wisdom gave her nature a rare beauty.
Every pleasant day Margaret was wheeled from her home in the city down
to the beach, and there for hours she would sit, looking out, far out
upon the ocean, as if she were communing with the ocean spirits that
lifted up their white arms from the restless waters and beckoned her to
come. Oftentimes the children playing on the beach came where Margaret
sat, and heard her tell little stories of the pebbles and the shells, of
the ships away out at sea, of the ever-speeding gulls, of the grass, of
the flowers, and of the other beautiful things of life; and so in time
the children came to love Margaret. Among those who so often gathered to
hear the gentle sick girl tell her pretty stories was a youth of
Margaret's age,--older than the others, a youth with sturdy frame and a
face full of candor and earnestness. His name was Edward, and he was a
student in the city; he hoped to become a great scholar sometime, and he
toiled very zealously to that end. The patience, the gentleness, the
sweet simplicity, the fortitude of the sick girl charmed him. He found
in her little stories a quaint and beautiful philosophy he never yet had
found in books; there was a valor in her life he never yet had read of
in the histories. So, every day she came and sat upon the beach, Edward
came too; and with the children he heard Margaret's stories of the sea,
the air, the grass, the birds, and the flowers.
From her moist eyrie in the surf the old gum boot descried the group
upon the beach each pleasant day. Now the old gum boot had seen enough
of the world to know a thing or two, as we presently shall see.
"That tall young man is not a child," quoth the old gum boot, "yet he
comes every day with the children to hear the sick girl tell her
stories! Ah, ha!"
"Perhaps he is the doctor," suggested the little oyster; and then she
added with a sigh, "but, oh! I hope not."
This suggestion seemed to amuse the old gum boot highly; at least she
fell into such hysterical laughter that she sprung a leak near her
little toe, which, considering her environments, was a serious mishap.
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, my child," said the old gum boot to the
little oyster, "that young man is in love with the sick girl!"
"Oh, how terrible!" said the little oyster; and she meant it too, for
she was thinking of the gallant young perch with green fins.
"Well, I've said it, and I mean it!" continued the old gum boot; "now
just wait and see."
The old gum boot had guessed aright--so much for the value of worldly
experience! Edward loved Margaret; to him she was the most beautiful,
the most perfect being in the world; her very words seemed to exalt his
nature. Yet he never spoke to her of love. He was content to come with
the children to hear her stories, to look upon her sweet face, and to
worship her in silence. Was not that a very wondrous love?
In course of time the sick girl Margaret became more interested in the
little ones that thronged daily to hear her pretty stories, and she put
her beautiful fancies into the little songs and quaint poems and tender
legends,--songs and poems and legends about the sea, the flowers, the
birds, and the other beautiful creations of Nature; and in all there was
a sweet simplicity, a delicacy, a reverence, that bespoke Margaret's
spiritual purity and wisdom. In this teaching, and marvelling ever at
its beauty, Edward grew to manhood. She was his inspiration, yet he
never spoke of love to Margaret. And so the years went by.
Beginning with the children, the world came to know the sick girl's
power. Her songs were sung in every home, and in every home her verses
and her little stories were repeated. And so it was that Margaret came
to be beloved of all, but he who loved her best spoke never of his love
to her.
And as these years went by, the sick little oyster lay in the sea
cuddled close to the old gum boot. She was wearier now than ever before,
for there was no cure for her malady. The gallant perch with green fins
was very sad, for his wooing had been hopeless. Still he was devoted,
and still he came each day to the little oyster, bringing her cool
sea-foam and other delicacies of the ocean. Oh, how sick the little
oyster was! But the end came at last.
The children were on the beach one day, waiting for Margaret, and they
wondered that she did not come. Presently, grown restless, many of the
boys scampered into the water and stood there, with their trousers
rolled up, boldly daring the little waves that rippled up from the
overflow of the surf. And one little boy happened upon the old gum boot.
It was a great discovery.
"See the old gum boot," cried the boy, fishing it out of the water and
holding it on high. "And here is a little oyster fastened to it! How
funny!"
The children gathered round the curious object on the beach. None of
them had ever seen such a funny old gum boot, and surely none of them
had ever seen such a funny little oyster. They tore the pale, knotted
little thing from her foster-mother, and handled her with such rough
curiosity that even had she been a robust oyster she must certainly have
died. At any rate, the little oyster was dead now; and the bereaved
perch with green fins must have known it, for he swam up and down his
native cove disconsolately.
It befell in that same hour that Margaret lay upon her deathbed, and
knowing that she had not long to live, she sent for Edward. And Edward,
when he came to her, was filled with anguish, and clasping her hands in
his, he told her of his love.
Then Margaret answered him: "I knew it, dear one; and all the songs I
have sung and all the words I have spoken and all the prayers I have
made have been with you, dear one,--all with _you_ in my heart of
hearts."
"You have purified and exalted my life," cried Edward; "you have been my
best and sweetest inspiration; you have taught me the eternal
truth,--you are my beloved!"
And Margaret said: "Then in my weakness hath there been a wondrous
strength, and from my sufferings cometh the glory I have sought--"
So Margaret died, and like a broken lily she lay upon her couch; and all
the sweetness of her pure and gentle life seemed to come down and rest
upon her face; and the songs she had sung and the beautiful stories she
had told were back, too, on angel wings, and made sweet music in that
chamber.
The children were lingering on the beach when Edward came that day. He
could hear them singing the songs Margaret had taught them. They
wondered that he came alone.
"See," cried one of the boys, running to meet him and holding a tiny
shell in his hand,--"see what we have found in this strange little
shell. Is it not beautiful!"
Edward took the dwarfed, misshapen thing and lo! it held a beauteous
pearl.
_O little sister mine, let me look into your eyes and read an
inspiration there; let me hold your thin white hand and know the
strength of a philosophy more beautiful than human knowledge teaches;
let me see in your dear, patient little face and hear in your gentle
voice the untold valor of your suffering life. Come, little sister, let
me fold you in my arms and have you ever with me, that in the glory of
your faith and love I may walk the paths of wisdom and of peace._
1887.
* * * * *
The Springtime.
THE SPRINGTIME.
A child once said to his grandsire: "Gran'pa, what do the flowers mean
when they talk to the old oak-tree about death? I hear them talking
every day, but I cannot understand; it is all very strange."
The grandsire bade the child think no more of these things; the flowers
were foolish prattlers,--what right had they to put such notions into a
child's head? But the child did not do his grandsire's bidding; he loved
the flowers and the trees, and he went each day to hear them talk.
It seems that the little vine down by the stone-wall had overheard the
south wind say to the rosebush: "You are a proud, imperious beauty now,
and will not listen to my suit; but wait till my boisterous brother
comes from the North,--then you will droop and wither and die, all
because you would not listen to me and fly with me to my home by the
Southern sea."
These words set the little vine to thinking; and when she had thought
for a long time she spoke to the daisy about it, and the daisy called in
the violet, and the three little ones had a very serious conference;
but, having talked it all over, they came to the conclusion that it was
as much of a mystery as ever. The old oak-tree saw them.
"You little folks seem very much puzzled about something," said the old
oak-tree.
"I heard the south wind tell the rosebush that she would die," exclaimed
the vine, "and we do not understand what it is. Can you tell us what it
is to die?"
The old oak-tree smiled sadly.
"I do not call it death," said the old oak-tree; "I call it sleep,--a
long, restful, refreshing sleep."
"How does it feel?" inquired the daisy, looking very full of
astonishment and anxiety.
"You must know," said the old oak-tree, "that after many, many days we
all have had such merry times and have bloomed so long and drunk so
heartily of the dew and sunshine and eaten so much of the goodness of
the earth that we feel very weary and we long for repose. Then a great
wind comes out of the north, and we shiver in its icy blast. The
sunshine goes away, and there is no dew for us nor any nourishment in
the earth, and we are glad to go to sleep."
"Mercy on me!" cried the vine, "I shall not like that at all! What,
leave this smiling meadow and all the pleasant grass and singing bees
and frolicsome butterflies? No, old oak-tree, I would never go to sleep;
I much prefer sporting with the winds and playing with my little
friends, the daisy and the violet."
"And I," said the violet, "I think it would be dreadful to go to sleep.
What if we never should wake up again!"
The suggestion struck the others dumb with terror,--all but the old
oak-tree.
"Have no fear of that," said the old oak-tree, "for you are sure to
awaken again, and when you have awakened the new life will be sweeter
and happier than the old."
"What nonsense!" cried the thistle. "You children shouldn't believe a
word of it. When you go to sleep you die, and when you die there's the
last of you!"
The old oak-tree reproved the thistle; but the thistle maintained his
abominable heresy so stoutly that the little vine and the daisy and the
violet were quite at a loss to know which of the two to believe,--the
old oak-tree or the thistle.
The child heard it all and was sorely puzzled. What was this death, this
mysterious sleep? Would it come upon him, the child? And after he had
slept awhile would he awaken? His grandsire would not tell him of these
things; perhaps his grandsire did not know.
It was a long, long summer, full of sunshine and bird-music, and the
meadow was like a garden, and the old oak-tree looked down upon the
grass and flowers and saw that no evil befell them. A long, long
play-day it was to the little vine, the daisy, and the violet. The
crickets and the grasshoppers and the bumblebees joined in the sport,
and romped and made music till it seemed like an endless carnival. Only
every now and then the vine and her little flower friends talked with
the old oak-tree about that strange sleep and the promised awakening,
and the thistle scoffed at the old oak-tree's cheering words. The child
was there and heard it all.
One day the great wind came out of the north. Hurry-scurry! back to
their warm homes in the earth and under the old stone-wall scampered the
crickets and bumblebees to go to sleep. Whirr, whirr! Oh, but how
piercing the great wind was; how different from his amiable brother who
had travelled all the way from the Southern sea to kiss the flowers and
woo the rose!
"Well, this is the last of us!" exclaimed the thistle; "we're going to
die, and that's the end of it all!"
"No, no," cried the old oak-tree; "we shall not die; we are going to
sleep. Here, take my leaves, little flowers, and you shall sleep warm
under them. Then, when you awaken, you shall see how much sweeter and
happier the new life is."
The little ones were very weary indeed. The promised sleep came very
gratefully.
"We would not be so willing to go to sleep if we thought we should not
awaken," said the violet.
So the little ones went to sleep. The little vine was the last of all to
sink to her slumbers; she nodded in the wind and tried to keep awake
till she saw the old oak-tree close his eyes, but her efforts were vain;
she nodded and nodded, and bowed her slender form against the old
stone-wall, till finally she, too, had sunk into repose. And then the
old oak-tree stretched his weary limbs and gave a last look at the
sullen sky and at the slumbering little ones at his feet; and with that,
the old oak-tree fell asleep too.
The child saw all these things, and he wanted to ask his grandsire about
them, but his grandsire would not tell him of them; perhaps his
grandsire did not know.
The child saw the storm-king come down from the hills and ride furiously
over the meadows and over the forest and over the town. The snow fell
everywhere, and the north wind played solemn music in the chimneys. The
storm-king put the brook to bed, and threw a great mantle of snow over
him; and the brook that had romped and prattled all the summer and told
pretty tales to the grass and flowers,--the brook went to sleep too. With
all his fierceness and bluster, the storm-king was very kind; he did not
awaken the old oak-tree and the slumbering flowers. The little vine lay
under the fleecy snow against the old stone-wall and slept peacefully,
and so did the violet and the daisy. Only the wicked old thistle
thrashed about in his sleep as if he dreamt bad dreams, which, all will
allow, was no more than he deserved.
All through that winter--and it seemed very long--the child thought of
the flowers and the vine and the old oak-tree, and wondered whether in
the springtime they would awaken from their sleep; and he wished for the
springtime to come. And at last the springtime came. One day the
sunbeams fluttered down from the sky and danced all over the meadow.
"Wake up, little friends!" cried the sunbeams,--"wake up, for it is the
springtime!"
The brook was the first to respond. So eager, so fresh, so exuberant was
he after his long winter sleep, that he leaped from his bed and
frolicked all over the meadow and played all sorts of curious antics.
Then a little bluebird was seen in the hedge one morning. He was
calling to the violet.
"Wake up, little violet," called the bluebird. "Have I come all this
distance to find you sleeping? Wake up; it is the springtime!"
That pretty little voice awakened the violet, of course.
"Oh, how sweetly I have slept!" cried the violet; "how happy this new
life is! Welcome, dear friends!"
And presently the daisy awakened, fresh and beautiful, and then the
little vine, and, last of all, the old oak-tree. The meadow was green,
and all around there were the music, the fragrance, the new, sweet life
of the springtime.
"I slept horribly," growled the thistle. "I had bad dreams. It was
sleep, after all, but it ought to have been death."
The thistle never complained again; for just then a four-footed monster
stalked through the meadow and plucked and ate the thistle and then
stalked gloomily away; which was the last of the sceptical
thistle,--truly a most miserable end!
"You said the truth, dear old oak-tree!" cried the little vine. "It was
not death,--it was only a sleep, a sweet, refreshing sleep, and this
awakening is very beautiful."
They all said so,--the daisy, the violet, the oak-tree, the crickets,
the bees, and all the things and creatures of the field and forest that
had awakened from their long sleep to swell the beauty and the glory of
the springtime. And they talked with the child, and the child heard
them. And although the grandsire never spoke to the child about these
things, the child learned from the flowers and trees a lesson of the
springtime which perhaps the grandsire never knew.
1885.
* * * * *
Rodolph and his King.
RODOLPH AND HIS KING.
"Tell me, Father," said the child at Rodolph's knee,--"tell me of the
king."
"There is no king, my child," said Rodolph. "What you have heard are old
women's tales. Do not believe them, for there is no king."
"But why, then," queried the child, "do all the people praise and call
on him; why do the birds sing of the king; and why do the brooks always
prattle his name, as they dance from the hills to the sea?"
"Nay," answered Rodolph, "you imagine these things; there is no king.
Believe me, child, there is no king."
So spake Rodolph; but scarcely had he uttered the words when the cricket
in the chimney corner chirped loudly, and his shrill notes seemed to
say: "The king--the king." Rodolph could hardly believe his ears. How
had the cricket learned to chirp these words? It was beyond all
understanding. But still the cricket chirped, and still his musical
monotone seemed to say, "The king--the king," until, with an angry
frown, Rodolph strode from his house, leaving the child to hear the
cricket's song alone.
But there were other voices to remind Rodolph of the king. The sparrows
were fluttering under the eaves, and they twittered noisily as Rodolph
strode along, "The king, king, king!" "The king, king, king," twittered
the sparrows, and their little tones were full of gladness and praise.
A thrush sat in the hedge, and she was singing her morning song. It was
a hymn of praise,--how beautiful it was! "The king--the king--the king,"
sang the thrush, and she sang, too, of his goodness,--it was a wondrous
song, and it was all about the king.
The doves cooed in the elm-trees. "Sing to us!" cried their little ones,
stretching out their pretty heads from the nests. Then the doves nestled
hard by and murmured lullabies, and the lullabies were of the king who
watched over and protected even the little birds in their nests.
Rodolph heard these things, and they filled him with anger.
"It is a lie!" muttered Rodolph; and in great petulance he came to the
brook.
How noisy and romping the brook was; how capricious, how playful, how
furtive! And how he called to the willows and prattled to the listening
grass as he scampered on his way. But Rodolph turned aside and his face
grew darker. He did not like the voice of the brook; for, lo! just as
the cricket had chirped and the birds had sung, so did this brook murmur
and prattle and sing ever of the king, the king, the king.
So, always after that, wherever Rodolph went, he heard voices that told
him of the king; yes, even in their quiet, humble way, the flowers
seemed to whisper the king's name, and every breeze that fanned his brow
had a tale to tell of the king and his goodness.
"But there is no king!" cried Rodolph. "They all conspire to plague me!
There is no king--there is no king!"
Once he stood by the sea and saw a mighty ship go sailing by. The waves
plashed on the shore and told stories to the pebbles and the sands.
Rodolph heard their thousand voices, and he heard them telling of the
king.
Then a great storm came upon the sea, a tempest such as never before had
been seen. The waves dashed mountain-high and overwhelmed the ship, and
the giant voices of the winds and waves cried of the king, the king! The
sailors strove in agony till all seemed lost. Then, when they could do
no more, they stretched out their hands and called upon the king to save
them,--the king, the king, the king!
Rodolph saw the tempest subside. The angry winds were lulled, and the
mountain waves sank into sleep, and the ship came safely into port. Then
the sailors sang a hymn of praise, and the hymn was of the king and to
the king.
"But there is no king!" cried Rodolph. "It is a lie; there is no king!"
Yet everywhere he went he heard always of the king; the king's name and
the king's praises were on every tongue; aye, and the things that had no
voices seemed to wear the king's name written upon them, until Rodolph
neither saw nor heard anything that did not mind him of the king.