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PARABLES FROM FLOWERS.
[Illustration: PARABLES FROM FLOWERS.
_Frontispiece._]
PARABLES FROM FLOWERS.
BY
GERTRUDE P. DYER,
AUTHOR OF 'LITTLE POLLIE,' 'ARMOUR-CLAD,' ETC. ETC.
_Doth not thy heart throb with emotions of thankfulness to God for
making the earth so fair, so redolent of beauty in its garniture of
flowers, and for having scattered these silent teachers up and down the
world?_
EDINBURGH:
W. P. NIMMO, HAY, & MITCHELL.
TO
MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS,
MABEL, ELSIE, AND RUBY TARR.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. THE FORGET-ME-NOT--FIDELITY 7
II. THE SNOWDROP--FAITH 22
III. THE FOXGLOVES' STRATAGEM--GRATITUDE 30
IV. THE LITTLE MINER AND HIS FLOWER--TRUST IN GOD 46
V. THE LITTLE SEED--KINDNESS 68
VI. THE CROWN IMPERIAL--HOPE 83
VII. THE TWO LEAVES--DISCONTENT 89
VIII. THE AMBITIOUS WILD-FLOWER--AMBITION 99
IX. THE HONEYSUCKLE AND THE BUTTERFLY--HUMILITY AND PRIDE 115
PARABLES FROM FLOWERS.
PARABLE FIRST.
THE FORGET-ME-NOT--FIDELITY.
In the days of the long-ago, my ancestors did not dwell as we do now--in
brooks or by the banks of shallow streams, but grew in wild luxuriance
beneath the shade of overhanging trees, and under the wayside hedgerows.
We were always a quiet, unassuming race, and, indeed, I am fain to
confess, were not held in more esteem by mortals than are our sweet
cousins whom children call 'Bird's-eyes.' But some one made known to the
world that pathetic 'Legend of the Rhine,' in which we are described,
then people began to perceive that we were pretty, lovely indeed,--and
to make a great fuss about us; but such is the way of the world!
Yet, though that legend is tenderly beautiful and thrilling, it is
almost too romantic to please the taste of simple flowers, therefore I
will tell you the true story how we acquired our name. That shall be my
parable--see what it will teach!
We grew there, unheeded and unsought, on soft mossy banks, not the less
lovely because unknown, and just above our dwelling-place a large oak
spread abroad its leafy branches. It was a favourite tree of the birds,
they felt so secure there, sheltered from prying eyes by its protecting
leaves; besides, its branches were so firm and strong, they resisted
bravely the fury of the storms that swept over them. What bird, then,
would fear to build its nest there? And often have we listened to their
sweet songs as they perched above us, and many times lifted our heads
and gazed upon the happy inmates of those simple homes.
But there was one family among them that interested us even more than
others, though all were dear to us. It was a pair of wrens who had by
some strange accident taken up their abode in our oak, instead of a
yew-tree as they generally do; and not only my family, but the whole
colony of birds, old inhabitants of the tree, many of them, felt great
interest in the new-comers, assisting them with advice, as they were but
young.
Then, when building time came, how kind they all were! indeed, though it
was a busy season with every bird, each anxious to finish its work, yet
I heard an old Rook one day ask little Jenny Wren 'if he should help
her,' as he met her trying to drag a large wisp of straw with all her
tiny strength.
'No, thank you,' she gently replied; 'I must try to do it. We must all
learn to bear our own burdens.'
But many times, however, I have seen the larger and stronger birds bring
materials for making the nest close to the spot they had chosen, to save
the little strangers weary journeys; and at last, after much patient
labour, the home was finished, to the intense delight of the two
builders, for both took their share in the work; but the joy was
greater, when, after some time, three little birds made their appearance
in the compact and cosy nest.
The event caused quite a sensation among the other dwellers in our old
tree. Jays were constantly inquiring how the nestlings were getting on,
an inquisitive Magpie peeped into the nest, trying to get a glimpse of
the pretty ones, and received a sharp peck from the angry father as a
reproof for the intrusion; as to the motherly Rooks, who were supposed
to care for nothing save their own family concerns, they kindly advised
the young parents how to rear the brood, saying, 'Care, care,' was all
that was necessary; nay, it is even recorded, as an undoubted fact, that
an old Owl, who had lived for ages in a hole in the tree, actually
opened her eyes quite wide when the news was first told to her, although
it was broad daylight! You may imagine, then, how happy they were,
surrounded thus by kindness and love; and yet--I suppose it is but right
there are ever shadows as well as sunshine, and, sad though it seems,
every life must have bitters mingled with the sweets; still they were so
joyous in that tiny nest! Why, ah, why was their happiness to be
clouded? Alas, it grieves me even now to tell, though many long years
have since then passed away!
One day the father-bird went from the nest, and never returned!
Long and patiently waited his little mate, hoping each moment to hear
his welcome note, as swiftly he winged his way back to her. But the day
wore on, the evening sun grew golden, then faded in the purple west--but
still he came not! The other dwellers in the oak returned to their
homes, yet they brought no tidings of the wanderer. After a while their
happy voices were hushed in sleep, the Blackbird ceased to warble his
evening hymn, and all were buried in slumber, and at rest!
All? Ah, no! the lonely mourner was waking still, gazing up with sad,
sad eyes at the starry heavens above, asking the night-winds as they
moaned around:
'Will he not return to me?'
Days passed, slowly dragging their length wearily on for the lonely bird
in that desolate nest. Yet, though her heart was breaking, she tended
her tiny nestlings, neglecting none of her daily duties; for his dear
sake she loved them yet the more, hoping as each day came it would bring
him back, and striving to imagine his delight when he returned, and
found his young ones almost fledged. But still the days dawned, the
weary hours went by, the sickness of hope deferred would fall upon her
loving heart, crushing it almost to breaking; yet bravely she struggled
with her woe. It was when the holy stars shone down, gazing pityingly
at her meekly raised eyes, and she was alone in stillness with her great
sorrow, that then would she murmur with a bitter cry,--
'When will he come home to me again?'
Yet still he came not!
Then her brave heart gave way. In vain the other birds tried to comfort
her; she could not be comforted, for he she so dearly loved 'was not.'
'Do not grieve, do not grieve--cheer thee, che-eer thee,' sang the
Robin, as he perched beside her.
Or the Thrush tried to advise, saying, 'Don't fret, don't fret; 'tis a
pity, 'tis a pity!'
But one bright sunny day a Swallow came flying along. He had just
returned from far distant lands, and all the other birds gathered
chittering around him, eager to hear the news he had brought. He told
them of much he had seen whilst on the wing; also that he was the
pioneer, his brothers would soon rejoin him, for Summer was coming; he
had heard her heralds in the fields and groves, had marked her
flower-decked path in forest and in lane. But what was summer to the
heart-broken Wren? There would be no sunshine for her, since _he_ was
not there--he who was her all.
'Oh, Swallow,' she timidly asked, 'have you seen my own love?'
Then the eyes of the Swallow became tear-dimmed, as sadly he replied,--
'Little Jenny Wren, I have!'
'Where--oh, where?' she cried in thrilling accents.
He hesitated a few moments, though to her impatience it seemed hours; he
wished to spare her further agony if he could--but the truth must be
told.
'Tell me, tell me,' she pleaded, impatient at the delay.
'In a prison,' was the reply.
'In a prison!' she repeated, horror-struck at the disclosure; then she
added, 'I will go to him, and share his captivity.'
'Nay, nay,' remonstrated a motherly Sparrow; 'your little
ones--think--think--see--see!'
Sadly she drooped her head upon her breast; her heart was divided
between a mother's duty and a wife's love.
'I will take care of the nestlings,' said a young Linnet; 'they shall
feed with my little ones, I will shelter them under my wings.'
Gratefully the poor wee bird looked at her generous friend; words were
not needed to express her thanks.
'Take me to him,' she piteously asked, turning to the Swallow.
'I shall pass that way to-morrow,' he said, 'for I must go and meet my
comrades, to guide them here. You can go with me; I will take you to
where he is imprisoned.'
The next morning, before the sun had risen, away flew the Swallow, and
with him the little Wren. She heeded not that the valleys were still
shrouded in mist, or that the cold grey dawn yet lingered in the skies;
was not her sunshine coming? should she not soon see him who was her
brightness? The day wore on, and onward still by the Swallow's side,
she, with untiring pinions, winged her way; she suffered not from
noontide heat, she felt not even the pangs of hunger or thirst, for her
heart was filled with hope. But towards evening her pitying guide led
her over a hot, murky town; the very sky above it was hidden by the
thick atmosphere of smoke which seemed completely to envelope it; the
two birds could scarcely breathe, the air was so dense with poisonous
gases.
'It cannot be here?' she gasped, as suddenly the Swallow paused in his
rapid flight.
'See, see!' was his exclamation.
Then, raising her heavy eyes, she saw, suspended from a high window, a
small wire cage, and in it--her long-lost mate!
He was resting on a low perch, with his poor aching head beneath his
wing; his pretty brown feathers were no longer smoothly plumed, but hung
ragged and tattered around his wasted form, so different to the bright,
bonnie bird of the long-ago! But she heeded not the change; to her he
was as beautiful, ay, and more dear than ever, so, flying up, she clung
with eager feet to the cruel bars which kept her from him, and, pressing
her beak as close as possible to the cage, she murmured,--
'I am here, love!'
At the sound of that sweet voice, so well remembered by the captive, he
raised his drooped head, and, gazing at her with all the old loving
tenderness, whispered feebly,--
'Is it you, Jenny? Ah, I knew you would come!'
And every evening found her there. Patiently would she stay near the
prisoner throughout the dark watches of the night, cheering her loved
one because she was near; but when the grey dawn came stealing over the
skies, away she would fly back to the nest in the oak, and during the
day would carefully tend her little ones, fulfilling thus her double
duty as wife and mother. Then when the evening star appeared, telling
her of the gloaming, she would hush her nestlings with a soothing
lullaby, and, when they were sleeping, would swiftly fly to her
imprisoned mate, bearing in her beak a sprig of moss, or a leaf from the
well-remembered spot where they had been so happy in the spring-time of
their life; and when she reached the prison, if her loved one was
grieving, pining for the liberty he had lost, the home ties thus rudely
broken, her sweet voice murmuring, 'I am here, love,' seemed to bring
comfort to that poor failing heart; and as she tenderly pressed her
cool, fresh beak to his, so parched and dry, he would reply, striving to
be gay for her dear sake,--
'Ah, Jenny, you have brought on your wings some sunlight from our old
home, my darling.'
One evening, when as usual she flew to the prison, she found him lying
at the bottom of the cage, speechless and motionless. Frantically she
tore at the cruel bars, beating them with her wings in an agony of
despair.
'My own love, my own love!' she cried aloud in her anguish; 'speak to me
once again!'
Her beloved voice seemed to possess the power to recall him back to
life, for he heard her, though the shadows of death were stealing over
him.
'Jenny, darling,' he feebly whispered, as she bent low to catch the
faintest word, 'they have broken my heart. Ah, why did they keep me thus
captive?'
'Oh, do not die!' she moaned; 'think how lonely I should be in this wide
world without you.'
'If I were but free, we should be so happy again, love,' he said,
gasping painfully for breath as he spoke.
'I will release you,' she cried, and strove with all her strength to
unfasten the prison door, but in vain--it resisted all her efforts.
'What shall I do? what shall I do? He will die, and I cannot help him,'
moaned forth the poor Wren in accents of despair.
'My sweet one,' he murmured, 'do not grieve so bitterly. Death were
better far than life if separated from you; but, before I close my eyes
for ever upon this world which the good God who loveth us hath created
so beautiful, bring me just one spray of those little blue flowers.'
'I know them!' she eagerly cried; 'a cluster grew beneath our nest.'
'Yes,' he continued; 'and when I used to return home I could see them
afar off, and would think, "Jenny is there, and their blue eyes are
looking upon her." Bring me one tiny spray, darling, and if I die when
you are from me, we shall not seem so very far apart, for those sweet
flowers will whisper to me of you.'
She waited no longer, but flew rapidly away to bring the blossoms on
which he wished to look once again; but she had not long gone when a
young girl came to the cage, and saw the poor captive bird as Jenny had
found him--still and motionless as though dying, and her heart was
filled with tender pity, that its brief life should thus be so soon
ended.
'Poor birdie! I fear it is dying,' she said. 'I will unfasten the cage;
perhaps the fresh air will revive him, and bring back his failing
strength.'
And with kindly hands she opened the prison door, thus giving him
liberty.
The cool, fresh air, stirring his drooping feathers, aroused him from
his lethargy; at first he could not believe that the door was open, that
he was free. It was almost too much happiness for the poor sick bird to
bear; yet it was true--freedom was his, and his first thought was of
Jenny.
He would fly to meet her, as he knew she would soon return, bearing with
her the blue flowers he loved, and then, when she saw _him_ coming
towards her,--free, yes, free!--would not all past sorrow be forgotten
in the ever-present joy? So, with a twitter of gratitude to the girl who
had opened his prison door, he fluttered his wings, just to try their
strength, poised a while in the air, then away he flew with unerring
instinct towards his dear home in the old oak tree.
But of Jenny?
With a sad weight upon her poor little heart, crushing it with the iron
grip of despair, she reached the spot where the flowers grew, plucked a
few blossoms from the stem, then away again, without pausing to rest,
bearing the prized flowerets in her beak. She felt not fatigue; though
her weary pinions sometimes faltered, still she heeded it not, still
struggling on, eager to reach where he lay dying. Her only thought was:
'If he were to die, and I not with him.'
But slower and slower grew her flight; strength at last was failing, for
it had been too severely tried; her breath came quick and fast, in
short, fitful gasps, and her heart beat heavily beneath her quivering
breast.
'Oh, but to see him once more!' she moaned, as she felt her weary wings
failed to do her bidding. She tried to fly yet a little farther, in
vain; her tired pinions fluttered for a while, then down she sank,
slowly, slowly, on to the calm bosom of a rippling stream that was
flowing on over its pebbly sands with soothing melody.
'Jenny, Jenny, my own love, where are you? I have sought you so long, my
darling,' she heard the well-known voice exclaiming.
She raised her dying eyes, and saw her loved mate hovering above her in
the summer air.
'I am here, love,' she faintly murmured.
Then with all the old love-light beaming from her soft, gentle eyes, she
turned to gaze at her poor desolate mate, who was rending the air with
his piteous cries, then closed them for ever, with a look of perfect
peace, murmuring softly,--
'Dearest, forget me not.'
And the rippling stream bore her gently away echoing with a plaintive
wail her dying words:
'Dearest, forget me not.'
The poor widowed bird caught the flowers as they were floating away on
the breast of his lost love, and carried them to his now desolate home;
but one little blossom, in tender pity for sweet Jenny Wren, detached
itself from the others to linger still with the poor dead bird; and when
the stream had carefully borne its precious burden to a shady nook,
where she could rest, for ever freed from sorrow and pain, the flower
was carried with her, and, taking root above the spot where she lay
buried, put forth its blue blossoms in loving remembrance of that fond,
faithful heart.
And thus it is how we became dwellers close to tranquil streams, and why
our name is still 'forget-me-not.'
PARABLE SECOND.
THE SNOWDROP--FAITH.
My life has been so tranquil, that I fear it will not possess much
interest; for, when first recollection dawned, I remember finding myself
far down in the earth--a small bulb, not much to look at, I am thinking.
But very happy were the days spent there with my companions. We in our
ignorance deemed the world a dreary place, and wished we could for ever
stay where it was so cosy and warm; but our Mother Earth was carefully
instructing us, teaching us the same precious lessons she unfolds to her
other children, if they will but read the ever-open book, by man called
'Nature.'
I know not how long it was that the Frost King kept the land bound
captive in icy chains, but at last the signal for freedom came. The
trees awoke from their winter sleep, and, casting off their sombre
garments of sheathed leaves, came forth in vestments of tender green;
the bees, too, sent out their pioneers, who hastened back to the hives
with the glad tidings of the sunshine and of awakening flowers. The
birds flew hither and thither on joyous wings, twittering their simple
gratitude to Him who 'heareth the ravens cry;' for they indeed were
thankful that the dark days were past, and that 'the time of the singing
of birds had come.' As to the little brooks and streams, how rejoiced
were they to be free once more! they bounded away over the sandy
shallows or pebbly beds, laughing for very gladness, and kissing the
green banks whose fresh verdure they laved, whilst murmuring to them
their gladsome song:
'I'm free! oh, joy! I am free once again!
I have burst with delight my icy chain,
And gaily I flow to the open sea,
Joyously singing, I'm free! oh, I'm free!
I kiss the green banks as I glide along,
I woo the birds with my peaceful song;
The sunbeams they dance to my joyous strain,
Whilst gaily I fling their rays back again.'
And for us also came the appointed time, when we too had to leave the
home in which we had been so tenderly nurtured; we were to go, ready
prepared to do the work marked out for us.
But I did not wish to go; I feared to face a world unknown to me, and
fain would have lingered in the home so loved.
'Why must I leave you?' I asked of our gentle parent. 'I cannot bear the
separation.'
'My child,' she replied, with something of reproach in her soft voice,
'have you so soon forgotten the lesson I taught you, that He who created
all things, createth nothing in vain? Go forth upon the earth, and speak
in parables of His glorious works.'
'What can I teach?--I, so small, and of no repute!' I asked, still
doubting.
'Some lesson of His goodness to the children of men,' was her reply.
'But everything on earth appears to have its appointed mission; there
seems no work for me,' I urged in excuse.
'God will find something for even you to do,' she said; 'it may be only
a message from Him.'
'A message!' I repeated. 'What could I say to others? Already have all
the flowers their symbols: the Violet is the Hope flower, the
Heart's-ease speaks of Thought; what can we Snowdrops tell?'
Our mother did not answer--she left us to find what lessons we best
could teach.
So day by day we grew, stronger and stronger, gradually becoming better
fitted to perform the work allotted; until at last I appeared above the
ground--a slender green leaf!
Never shall I forget how cheerless looked the earth when first I came
above it, so dull and black, save where a few snowflakes had been
drifted by the wintry winds; all else was bleak and bare. There was not
a gleam of sunshine athwart the leaden sky to cheer us, nor a bird to
meet us with a friendly greeting, for even the robins kept so near the
houses for warmth and shelter, they came not to the spot where we grew,
alone and sad; and as to the trees, they as yet stood silent above us,
only the Holly was still decked with gay scarlet berries, enlivening up
the gloomy landscape with a little bright colour. But the Holly smiled
not on us; armed at all points in his glossy coat of shining mail, he
was so lofty and grand, and we were only--Snowdrops!
But I grew on, cherished by our great Mother Nature, who careth for all
her children, and loves them tenderly, be they humble Daisies or the
queenly Rose; and at last I became a perfect flower, taking my pure
white tints from the snow around me, and borrowing just a faint tinge of
green from the young grass that was now bravely struggling to appear.
By and by, a Blackbird, with golden beak and shining coat, found me out
as he was seeking a convenient tree in which to make a nest, and, bowing
politely, exclaimed,--
'Welcome to you, fair Snowdrop! I am rejoiced to see you, for you bring
us the assurance that spring is on the way, and we shall be glad, for
the winter has been long and dreary.'
Then he having communicated the glad tidings to the other birds, they
also came to greet me, cheering my loneliness with their sweet songs.
Yet still I pined to return to earth again; I cared not to look upward,
but hung my head, murmuring sadly,--
'Oh, Mother Earth, take home thy child! she is so weary of her life
here.'
Was I wrong? Perhaps so, but I owed my existence to that which mortals
deem so cold and dark; I loved it with the affection of a loving child,
and longed to rest again upon the dear bosom that had sheltered me when
I was but a frail bulb.
Besides, it seemed to me that I was doing no good. Why was I sent here,
if only to bloom and then die? I had been told that nothing was created
in vain; was I doing the work for which I had been sent upon the earth?
Whilst thus repining over my useless life, a poet passed by
chance--stay, was it chance? nay, there is no chance! He was one who as
yet had met with but little success; I am told there are many such among
earth's children. We know that it is said:
'Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air;'
yet the sweetness is not _lost_, for it speaks with a perfumed voice to
the creatures of the air; but among mortals, many fade away into utter
oblivion, breathing only their sad, sweet heart-songs to the listening
winds around.
And this poet of whom I speak, he felt within himself the inspiration
of genius, that innate love of the beautiful and true which comes from
God alone; but the world looked coldly on him, and he was struggling
with what seemed endless disappointments, battling with them bravely,
yet almost sinking amidst the strife. His very heart was beginning to
fail him, his noble courage to give way, when he saw me there,
blossoming alone in that quiet nook.
'Oh, God!' he cried, as, with clasped hands and eyes raised heavenward,
he sank beside me on the sod,--'oh, God, forgive me that I should dare
to doubt Thy loving care, when this fragile, fragile flower, sheltered
by Thee, has braved the wintry storms, while the cold winds pass
tenderly over its bowed head. A bruised reed Thou wilt not break; Thou
carest for the lilies of the field,--why then should I fear when
adversity assails me? Art Thou not still above, though heaven seems so
far off, and oh, so cold and pitiless! I will have faith in Thy divine
and fatherly love, and accept the lesson this sweet flower hath taught
me.'
* * * * *
Yes, faith--faith in God, was the parable I was sent to teach, and I
also have learned to know that, though the skies may be dark and the
winds--oh, so cold! yet if we only wait, and trust Him, the sunshine
will come at last, and the breath of heaven never visit us too roughly.
PARABLE THIRD.
THE FOXGLOVES' STRATAGEM--GRATITUDE.
We lived on the garden wall of an old-farmhouse, over which the vines
grew in rare luxuriance, covering it with their climbing tendrils and
leaves; and in the autumn the purple and white grapes peeped from
beneath their leafy shelter, mocking the thirsty throats of the village
lads who passed that way, and who looked longingly up at the ripe
clusters.
It was a very old place, I am told, and had been inhabited by the same
family for many successive generations. Fathers had tilled the soil,
then laid aside the plough for ever. Sons had sprung up to take their
place, and they too, in their turn, were gathered in, when the bearded
grain was ripe for the sickle of the great 'Reaper, whose name is
Death,' leaving the old homestead to others of the same name and race,
who loved the home in which they were born, and wherein those they most
cherished had lived and died.
The Swallows, too, loved it, returning year after year to their nests
under the eaves, and from early dawn 'to dewy eve,' all through the warm
summer days, flew hither and thither with swift, untiring wing, chasing
each other, as it were, or teaching their young to fly. As to the
Robins, they hopped in at the open door under the rustic porch, just as
if they belonged to the place, and were sure of a welcome, which indeed
they were! And that porch--what a cosy corner it was, with seats on
either side, inviting weary feet to rest! the sunbeams were always
playing bo-peep through the leaves which hung clustering around; the
Honeysuckles and Clematis decking it, too, with their blossoms,
scattering their delicious perfume the while. But I always thought the
spot looked brightest when little Susie was there--she who was the very
sunshine of the old home! And how they all loved her, from the
white-headed grandfather down to the little ploughboy, who brought her
all the poor motherless or sick creatures he found on the farm, were it
but a half-fledged bird or a stray kitten, certain of her thanks, and a
sweet smile; and as to her three big brothers, who had such influence
over them as little Susie? for even when they were disputing as to whose
turn it was to ride Brown Bess (the joint property of the children),
Susie was always chosen umpire to decide the important question, and
they abode by her decision.
Why, it was Susie who saved us from being ruthlessly destroyed! for it
happened that one day old Peter was at work in the garden, and, to make
the place 'a bit more tidy,' as he said, was proceeding to cut us off
from the wall.
'They bain't o' much account,' he muttered, sharpening his hook; 'not
loike them there Roses maister sets sich store by, and thinks so much
on.'
Certainly it seemed very sad that, because we were merely 'common
flowers,' our lives were to be cut short long before the appointed time;
we had endeavoured to bloom as brightly as our more refined sisters, and
in sunshine or shower had tried our best to look gay, and, I think, had
succeeded, for we do not shut our petals as if we were sulking when
dark clouds come, but keep them always open. But the fiat had gone
forth--old Peter was the stern arbitrator of our destinies! and, feeling
that our fate was inevitable, we sighed a last long farewell to each
other, just as we saw him raise his sharp hook to cut us down. At that
moment, so 'big with fate' for us, who should come into the garden,
singing for very gladness like the birds themselves, but little Susie;
the sunlight was playing with her waving hair, her eyes sparkled as the
dewdrops in the sun, and her tiny feet skipped lightly along as she came
dancing up the pathway.
That prolonged our lives! Old Peter dropped his hook to turn round and
look at his young mistress.
'What are you going to do, Peter?' she inquired, as she drew near, and
saw him take up his tools to resume work.
'Whoy, lop doun these 'ere things, Miss Zusie,' he replied, pointing at
us contemptuously.
'Oh, please don't destroy them! they are so pretty!' was her eager
exclamation.
'Purty, missie!' the old man repeated, with astonishment; 'whoy, them be
wild loike.'
'But I love them dearly,' she persisted; 'so please leave them there.'
'But the maister?' pursued Peter, rubbing his rough head in his
perplexity; 'he told me to clear roight up.'
Peter, it must be observed, was 'the odd man' about the farm; there is
always one.
'Father will say you did quite right to let them live,' replied the
little lady; 'he likes them as much as I do, for he says he remembers
them always growing here, coming up year after year without troubling
any one to look after them, and making the old wall a very
flower-garden.'
'Well, Miss Zusie, if so be ye sez so, I s'pose I must,' he acquiesced,
though I think he was greatly disappointed that he could not have his
own way about it; so there we were left, and we bloomed more than ever,
striving to do our best in gratitude to the little maiden.
Now, I have noticed, as a rule,--mind, every rule has exceptions,--that
good deeds, like good seed, seldom fall to the ground and wither away.
Both may lie fallow, for a while at least, but the flower comes up after
a while, and 'with what measure ye mete, it is meted to you again.' You
may not have remarked this, perhaps, but the fact holds good, proving
most emphatically the sacred truth, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they
shall obtain mercy.'
Now, when Susie saved our lives, she never thought that simple flowers
could ever repay her kindness, and for some time, it is true, we did
nothing, only strove to make the garden wall look gay with our sturdy
buds and blossoms.
But one day, I remember, Susie sat on the lawn close by the wall on
which we grew, very busy making a smart new dress for her doll, Miss
Arabella, who sat propped up by a work-box at her back, with her arms
straight out, and her toes turned in, but with a sweet smile upon her
waxen face. They were evidently engaged in earnest conversation, for
Susie kept speaking in her own voice for herself, and using a very
shrill falsetto for Arabella, who, by the bye, appeared to reply only in
monosyllables.
In the midst of this very entertaining discourse I heard another voice
exclaiming,--
'Look 'ee 'ere, Miss Zusie, this vowl 'ave airt her vut;' and the small
ploughboy I before mentioned came in at the garden gate, holding a hen
in his arms.
'Oh, give it to me, Joey,' cried the little girl, full of sympathy for
the wounded bird. 'How did it happen? Poor dear, poor dear!'
With that Joey poured forth a long account of the accident, to which she
listened attentively, all the while soothing the lamed hen, and wrapping
it up in her soft frock.
'I will bathe its poor foot in warm water, and try to get it well,' she
said, after thanking Joey for bringing it to her; and she went into the
house, leaving Arabella alone on the lawn, cautioning her, however, 'to
be a good child until mamma returned.'
It was some days before we again saw the hen, and then she was quite
restored, and had been given to Susie as her 'very own' because of the
care she had bestowed upon her; indeed, she had become quite a pet,
actually was allowed to roam about the flower-garden and lawns; and some
one had given her the name of 'Zenobia,'--an inconvenient name to call
when in a hurry, but Susie was very satisfied with it, and so, I
suppose, was the hen, who seemed to love her little mistress, following
her wherever she went, eating from her hand, and even perching on her
shoulder! After some time Zenobia was to be seen walking about, followed
by a family of nine chickens; and really I cannot tell which was most
proud of the young brood, Susie or the hen. Susie called them 'loves'
and 'beauties,' and the hen, she clucked, and made a great fuss over
them, and, as if determined that their bed should be of roses, insisted
on roosting every night under a rose-bush which grew near the garden
gate, instead of the cosy coop with which she had been provided.
Well, one moonlight night we, of course, were awake, though the church
clock had long since struck the hour of midnight; and it was so still,
only the voices of the night murmuring among the trees, though
occasionally we could hear the soft crooning of the hen, as she hushed
her little family to sleep beneath the rose-bush. Suddenly we heard the
sound of stealthy footsteps creeping under the wall.
'It is only Dash, the house dog,' whispered a sister-flower, who grew on
the same stem as myself.
'Dash does not steal along in that crafty manner,' said another.
'Perhaps it is a rabbit,' suggested one, 'or a cat taking a walk.'
'It may be a rat.'
Various conjectures were hazarded by those who grew low down on the
wall, but I was higher up than they, so, looking cautiously over, what
should I see but a Fox creeping along, and scenting his prey, with his
sharp nose close to the ground.
'Good evening!' I called out to him.
He started with alarm, for great rascals are always great cowards.
'Oh, good evening, my friend,' he replied, very blandly. 'Charming
evening this for a walk.'
'Yes,' I answered sharply; 'but rather late for respectable folks to be
abroad!'
'Ah yes, just so,' was his response; 'but, you see, my doctor has
advised me to take quiet rambles.'
'It was not Dr. Quack, was it?' I asked; 'because, poor fellow, he came
to an untimely end the other night,--had his head bitten off, and his
body was then dragged across the yard, as I suppose you already know?'
'Dear me!' he ejaculated, with affected pity, and glancing slyly up at
me out of the corner of his red eyes; 'but how should I know, my
friend?'
'Oh, because some of your family are strongly suspected,' was my reply;
'indeed, our Dash is on the watch, so I would advise you to'--
'Good-night, good-night,' he hurriedly exclaimed. 'I feel the winds are
becoming very chilly.'
So saying, he shuffled off as fast as possible, more especially as at
that moment Dash began barking furiously, as though he scented a foe.
How we laughed to think we had frightened the artful fellow away, and
some of us thought we should never see him again; but we were mistaken,
for, a few nights after, there he was creeping along so stealthily
outside the garden wall.
'What do you want?' I called out to him.
'Nothing, my friend, nothing,' was his answer.
'Well, since we do not keep that article here, you had better seek it
elsewhere,' interposed a brother of mine who is rather saucy.
The Fox paused for a moment, as if hesitating what to say; at length he
began, in a whining tone of voice,--
'My beloved friends, I perceive I must take you into my confidence. The
fact is, my worthy doctor says I am in delicate health, and has
therefore directed me'--
'Well,' I said, seeing that he hesitated; 'what of that?'
'Simply this; he has ordered me to eat only light, digestible food, such
as chicken,' he went on to say.
'Oh, has he?' I remarked; and then I thought to myself, 'Now can your
craftiness be seen through: you are after Zenobia; but Susie saved our
lives, she shall not find the poor despised Fox-gloves ungrateful. We
will save Zenobia!'
However, Mr. Reynard had not guessed our thoughts (for we all thought
alike on the subject), but continued,--
'Now, charming friends, I know you have a most delightful hen in this
garden.'
'Oh yes, and nine such plump chickens!' cried my brother.
'Oh dear, how very nice!' exclaimed the Fox.
'And I have no doubt,' continued my brother, whilst we could hardly
restrain our mirth, 'but that Zenobia would willingly give them up to
you, for the honour of being devoured by so distinguished a personage.'
'Would she really?' he cried, swallowing this piece of flattery as
greedily as he would the chickens.
'Oh yes,' I chimed in; 'but there's one thing I would mention. Grandees
like you must be formally introduced. Zenobia would be horrified were
you to appear before her so unceremoniously; she might even refuse your
request for one of the chickens.'
'What shall I do, then?' he eagerly questioned.
'Why, dress yourself of course, appear _en grande toilette_,' I replied;
'brush up your whiskers a little more, make your coat look glossy, and,
above all, put on a pair of gloves!'
'Gloves!' he repeated. 'I have not a single pair; tell me where I can
purchase them?'
'Leave that to us,' said my brother, bursting with glee. 'Originally,
you must know, we were Fox-glovers, but somehow we have lost our ancient
privilege; therefore have the supreme graciousness to restore it to us,
and we will be only too proud to serve you.'
'Oh, certainly,' assented the Fox, assuming at once an air of patronage
that was highly amusing. 'I take six and three-quarters,' extending his
forepad.
'No, surely not!' protested my merry brother; 'you must be mistaken;
such a pretty little paw as yours cannot possibly require such a large
glove. Allow me to suggest six and a quarter.'
The Fox agreed to the size named.
'If you will condescend to call here to-morrow night about this time,
they shall be ready for you,' one of us declared.
'Thank you,' he said loftily, as though he was conferring a favour upon
us, and off he went, no doubt congratulating himself on his diplomacy.
As to us, we laughed heartily, knowing how the crafty old fellow would
be caught in his own toils.
The next day, when we saw Susie feeding and caressing Zenobia, how we
longed for the power to tell her of the danger that so fearfully menaced
her pet, but we could not; for, though there is a 'language of flowers,'
it does not discourse on such a topic as this, therefore we were
compelled to keep silence; but we were determined to do our best to
guard little Susie's treasure. Night came, and dark and dreary it was
too, with heavy clouds drifting across the moon, almost hiding its
brightness; and it grew so late, past twelve, we began to think Mr.
Reynard suspected us, and would not come. But he did, looking so sleek
and shiny, with his coat all spick and span, being freshly brushed, I
expect.
'Here I am, my friends; it has taken me so long to dress,' he said,
panting with the haste he had evidently made. 'Is Zenobia--what a sweet
name, to be sure!' he added in a fawning voice,--'is she here?'
'Of course she is,' I replied; 'can you not hear her crooning to her
_nine_ children?' with a strong emphasis on the number.
'Sweet, tender creature!' he exclaimed. 'Oh, but to know her yet more
intimately! Let me jump over the gate to her!'
'What! without your gloves on?' cried several of us at once; 'consider
how very vulgar you would look.'
'Dear, dear, I quite forgot,' he ejaculated rather impatiently;
evidently he wanted his supper.
'Here they are,' said my brother; 'pray allow me the honour of putting
them on for you.'
He saw the fox was all impatience; however, he was obliged to consent,
and my brother proceeded forthwith to fit on a pair of Fox-gloves made
expressly by us.
'They are rather a tight fit,' he nervously remarked.
'Rather,' we cried, as my brother held him fast by the paws, and we went
to assist him in keeping the scoundrel a prisoner.
He saw, when too late, the trap into which he had fallen, and struggled
hard to get free, even trying to pull us from off the old wall in his
futile efforts to escape. But we were too securely fixed there for his
strength to be of any avail; our roots were the growth of years, and,
besides, we clasped him so tightly--for unity is indeed strength--that
at last the cowardly fellow roared aloud with mingled pain and fright;
perhaps he thought to startle us, and make us lose our hold. But we knew
better than that--_we_ only gripped him the faster; but the noise
aroused Dash, who came bounding to the spot (he was always unchained at
night), and, flying at Mr. Reynard's throat, he soon pinned him to the
ground.
The farmer and his sons must have heard the cries of the Fox and the
baying of Dash, for presently they came running as fast as possible to
the spot, armed with all sorts of weapons, and soon despatched the
rascal.
And it would have pleased you to have heard the praises bestowed upon
the brave old dog for his courage, which praise he most certainly
deserved; but no one thought of us. However, we had our reward in
feeling that we had done our duty, and tried to repay our debt of
gratitude to little Susie; that was recompense enough for us, nor did we
wish for more, for--
'On their own merits Modest men are dumb;'
and so say we simple Foxgloves.
PARABLE FOURTH.
THE LITTLE MINER AND HIS FLOWER--TRUST IN GOD.
I do not think any of us would care to pass the greater part of our days
down in a coal mine, or even to live in the vicinity of one. For miles
around the country is barren of trees or flowers; even the grass does
not grow there; the very air is dense with black smoke from the numerous
chimneys, so that the sky is hidden, as it were, by a thick, murky veil.
But, if thus dreary by day, how much more dreadful does it look at
night, when the lurid glare from the furnaces lights up the sky with a
red gleam, which can be seen far and wide! it has then in it something
terrible.
As I said just now, not a flower can thrive in such a close and heavy
atmosphere; not even a blade of grass can push its way up through the
coal-encrusted soil which covers the earth. Well may it be called the
'Black Country;' and yet there are brave, good men living, ay, and
working there, day after day descending those dark shafts and in the
underground of the mines living out their hard, laborious lives, braving
dangers innumerable, to provide for the wants of their fellow-men; yet I
wonder how many of us, as we gather round the cosy fireside of home,
ever think of the hardy miners. All honour, then, to that Christian man,
whose noble heart thought so much of them and of the risks they
encounter in the deep mines; his mighty genius studied to avert the
dangers to which they are exposed, and by his clever invention many
thousand lives have been saved. Statues are raised to soldiers and
statesmen, and their deeds are chronicled all over the world, yet the
simple-hearted Cornish chemist has done more for England's glory than
all her greatest warriors or statesmen!
Sometimes, it is true, terrible accidents happen even now, and indeed,
had any one passed through a certain coal district on the day of which
we speak, a scene of desolation and misery would have presented itself;
for there had been a colliery accident!--a fearful explosion in a mine
through some (as yet) unknown cause, and they were now bringing up the
dead and dying. We too often, alas! read these sad accounts in the
newspapers, but cannot fully realize the intense anguish and despair
among the mining population when such a calamity befalls them. Try to
picture, then, the men, women, and even children, who were gathered in
anxious groups around the mouth of the pit, eagerly waiting to see if
any of their kindred were among the hapless victims; and when the brave
rescue party would appear above the shaft, bearing in their arms the
sufferers, wailing cries would rend the very air, as some poor woman
recognised her son or her 'good man' in the crushed and mangled form
they laid so tenderly down!
There was a little cottage standing among others of the same class, but
which from its appearance seemed to betoken the residence of one more
refined than the rest, for snowy curtains draped the windows, the panes
of which were scrupulously clean, and the doorsteps were as white as
hands could make them. Going now towards this cottage, a group of men
might be seen, carefully carrying a heavy burden, over which a sheet
was spread. It was their foreman--a man loved and respected by them all,
and the hearts of these rough colliers beat sadly, as they bore him thus
towards his once happy home!
The rumour of the catastrophe, and of her husband being one among the
many poor sufferers, had burst upon his wife like the surging of an
angry wave, overwhelming her with its force, and she sat with ashen
cheeks and quivering lips, listening with bated breath for that which
she knew must come, the while convulsively clasping in her arms their
only child, their fair-haired Davie. But when at last she heard the
measured tread of those who bore him coming nearer and nearer to her
door, she rose, with a shivering sob, to meet him, as she had ever done,
with a loving smile, though now her heart was full of anguish. And he
knew her, for he put out his poor crushed hand for her to take, faintly
murmuring,--
'My poor, poor girl!'
Tenderly, as with the gentle touch of woman, those rugged men laid him
upon the bed from which he had risen in full health and strength, and
the wife's hand was firm, as softly she removed the garments from his
mangled limbs. Ah, little had she thought, when she bade him 'Good-bye'
that morning, his return would have been thus. He had said to Davie in
his merry way, laying his hand on the boy's curly head,--
'Ah, young man, soon you will be the bread-winner; your old father will
then be able to sit idle by the ingle and smoke his pipe, whilst mother
looks on.'
He had returned to the ingle, but Davie was still a child!
* * * * *
A few anxious days, and all was over; the end had come, and he and his
fellow-sufferers were laid to rest beneath the fresh green turf in a
distant churchyard, and the poor young widow was alone in the wide
world, with only little Davie!
But the poor have no time to spare for mourning or regrets; they must be
up and doing, even though their hearts fail them for very sorrow; yet
none save those who have suffered can know the utter desolation of
heart, crushing the very soul to the earth with despair, when the
father, 'the bread-winner,' is taken from their midst, and those who
are left know not where to look for help or guidance; and so this poor
widow sat by the fire-light, with her boy's hand clasped in hers, gazing
into the glowing embers as if trying to read the future therein. The
past had been very happy, for her girlhood was spent in a far different
sphere, but she had freely given up all for him who was now no more, and
had never repented of the sacrifice made; but, alas! he was gone,
leaving her alone, and her heart was like to break. And, musing thus,
she recalled the tones of the dear voice that had ever comforted her
when in sadness, now silent for ever!--the brave heart so firm of
purpose that had ceased to beat!--and as she thought of him who had been
so kind, so true, her courage gave way, and, burying her face in her
hands, she sobbed aloud, saying,--
'Oh, Davie, Davie! who will care for us now father is gone?'
The child put his arms lovingly around her bowed head, as though it was
his place to be the comforter.
'Mother darling, the Lord will care for us. He is the friend of the
widow and fatherless.'
There was something in the boy's voice that struck the mother's ear, for
she removed her hands from before her face, and, drawing him nearer to
her, gazed earnestly into those clear blue eyes.
Sudden sorrow often changes the entire nature of people, and the events
of the last few days had, as it were, transformed little Davie from a
mere child into a thoughtful boy. Like his namesake of old, 'he was of a
beautiful countenance,' and as he caressingly smoothed his mother's pale
cheeks with his soft, gentle hands, she felt she was not desolate, since
he was left to her. Long they sat in silence. At last the boy said,--
'Mother dear, Mat Morgan says that, as I am now ten years old, it is
time for me to begin work like the other lads about here.'
'How, Davie?' she dreamily questioned, for her thoughts were wandering
far away, so that she scarcely heard what he said.
'In the pit with him,' was the reply; 'he is so kind and good, I know he
will take great care of me.'
'No, no!' she cried, clasping him yet closer to her; 'not in the cruel
mine that has robbed us of father!--no--not there!'
'Nay, mother darling,' the boy gently urged; 'it was God who took father
home--and he was ready to go! Besides,' he continued, with all the
hopefulness of youth, 'I could earn some money every week, and only
think how useful that would be!'
'But your poor father did not wish you to be a miner; he hoped you would
become a great and clever man,' the mother replied.