with reluctance; yet still he bore his disappointment so cheerfully and
bravely, they could not help sympathizing with him, promising to help in
the good work next time. Even the Sparrow who had jeered somewhat at him
was really sorry, and consoled him so kindly, that he went to sleep with
his head tucked under his wing, in a far happier frame of mind than he
could have supposed possible, after such a grievous sorrow.
And the seed?
As it was being jostled on the top of the packing-case, it thought to
itself:
'There's an end to me, I suppose. I shall be shrivelled up to nothing
for want of nourishing earth, and shall do good to no one. What a pity
that dear little Sparrow's kind intention was frustrated by that
meddlesome and inquisitive bird! I am sure I would have done my duty to
the utmost, and realized his wish by growing as fast as possible, and
looking cheerful and gay when in flower. Well, well, it is no use being
unhappy; I must only wait patiently, hoping that a chance of doing good
may occur. Who knows what may happen?'
And at that very moment, the truck the man was wheeling gave a lurch,
and in consequence the tiny seed rolled along until it slipped down a
crevice in the lid, and found a comfortable resting-place inside amongst
some soft hay with which the case was packed.
'This is cosy,' it remarked, nestling in the warmth; 'perhaps after all
I am reserved for some good purpose. I had become desponding, but there
is always a brightness behind the darkest cloud.'
So it cuddled down contentedly, not knowing or heeding whither it was
taken, only resting satisfied with the reflection that whatever happened
was for the best. And so the packing-case was put on board one of the
great ships in the docks, and in a few days away sailed the ship,
packing-case, and little seed, far over the ocean, leaving England many
thousand miles behind.
Not having been to Australia, we cannot describe what the little seed
next beheld. But when the sun once again shone upon it, it was in a very
different country to this dear land of ours.
The case had been emptied of its contents, and the hay and straw with
which it had been packed was thrown aside upon the ground, and there lay
the seed, so tiny that it was quite unheeded, indeed it is to be doubted
whether it was even seen; but the loving God, who has created nothing in
vain, had still a use for the small grain. A soft wind came and carried
it to some moist earth, into which it sank, thankful for the rest and
quiet after the past turmoil.
But its work was not finished.
By and by came up a little slender green shoot, then a leaf or two, and
after a while, in due season, some pretty bell-shaped flowers, almost
white, with just a tinge of delicate purple, made their appearance, and
there they swayed in the breeze--English Wood Anemones in a distant
land.
And in this distant land a young English girl had her home; and bright
and beautiful it was, with huge trees and gorgeous flowers, unheard of
and unseen in the country village from which she had come. But, bright
and beautiful as her new home was, she often sighed for the green
hedgerows and sweet wayside flowers of dear old England; not that she
murmured because God had sent her thither, only the love of her old home
and old home memories yet lingered in her heart.
Think, then, what her joy was, when, one day as she wandered alone,
gazing on gorgeous blossoms rich in brilliant colours, down at her feet
she spied, waving its delicate-tinted elf-bells in the warm, soft
breeze, the Wood Anemone.
Could it be possible? That well-known English flower blooming there! How
could it have come across the ocean?
Ah, how often had she seen it at home--for England is ever home to those
who are far away--seen it in the early spring days clustering thickly in
the woods and copse, heralding the cuckoo, and bringing with it a
promise of summer days to come.
'Dear, dear little flower!' she cried, kneeling down and kissing, in
excess of joy, its delicate petals. 'Welcome a thousand times, for you
bring with you memories from the old land. I will not gather your
pretty flowers, nor take them away to myself, but will leave you here,
so that others, perhaps more home-sick than I, will take heart, and be
cheered by your soothing though silent message.'
And the young girl was right.
Others passing by--some poor wanderers, footsore and weary--were cheered
by the bonnie wild-flower, which, happy in giving happiness to others,
swayed its tiny bells as it danced in utter gladness, whispering to the
wild bees who also came to visit it,--
'I thought at one time, when the Sparrow let me fall, that there was no
more use for me in the world, that my work was finished; but God had
still a mission for me, and I have done what others equally small can
do--given happiness, and cheered those who came across my path. It is
not much to do,' it continued meekly, 'not great and glorious deeds at
which the world stands amazed; but it was all I could do, and was the
work He meant for me--we must not despise the day of small things. The
acorn is very small, yet look at the oak. A gentle word, a bright
smile, is not hard to bestow, but oh, the blessing they can be to hearts
pining perhaps for kindness!'
* * * * *
So the Sparrow's good intention was carried out after all.
PARABLE SIXTH.
THE CROWN IMPERIAL--HOPE.
Have you ever seen a Crown Imperial, that lovely flower which comes in
the early spring-time, just after the Snowdrops have gone? You will not
find it in _new_ gardens, I fear; but in those delightful shady nooks
and corners where the old-fashioned flowers seem to come and go just as
they please, there it is to be found, coming up year after year in all
its beauty, and yet, though so lovely, meekly drooping its velvet
petals, upon which tear-drops are ever resting.
It has been said that it droops thus in humiliation, because its pride
was once rebuked; but I do not think that aught so lovely could be
unduly proud! Even the acknowledged queen of the garden, the stately
Rose, is gentle in her beauty; and 'Consider the lilies,' though
'Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed' like them, yet how meekly
they bloom beneath our feet!
Then shall the Crown Imperial tell its tale to you, and see what lesson
we can learn from it? No, an old yew tree shall relate the story. Listen
to what it says:--
'Many, many years have I stood on this spot, from the time that I was a
tiny sapling until now, when my branches spread far and wide, covering
the earth beneath with shadow. Summer sunshine has touched with its
fiercely scorching breath, and winter snows have shrouded me in fleecy
garments, but the old yew tree has weathered so far the storms of life,
growing year by year more twisted and gnarled as time passed on. I have
seen the song-birds come and depart; some have even built their nests
within my leafy branches. I have watched sweet flowers blossom, then
fade, but among the many lovely flowerets I have loved--for the old dry
tree has a tender heart, my children--there was one whose very
gentleness made me love it even yet more dearly. It was a Crown
Imperial.
'The spring was commencing to gladden the earth when first I perceived
it, forcing its way timidly through the soft grassy lawn of an old, old
garden. Who had placed the parent bulb beneath that turf was never
known, for the owners of the estate had passed with their generation
from the land, and strangers had come to reside in the ancient
homestead, but there was this fragile plant, outliving, as it were,
those who had planted it, and coming up, year after year, to gladden
other eyes than those which had first beheld its beauty--like good
actions and gentle words--imperishable!
'So day by day I watched it grow, stronger and stronger, higher and
higher, and, as it grew, spreading gradually its beautiful, shining
leaves; but when it had reached its full height, behold, it was crowned
with a diadem of the softest green--an emerald crown worthy the brow of
a queen!
'Then by degrees I saw its blossoms begin to unfold, the velvet petals
richer far than the feeble looms of man can weave; but, as they
unclosed, to my intense surprise, they were not uplifted to the
sunshine and blue sky, but meekly bowed--drooping earthward.
'"They will gaze upward by and by," I said to myself, "and, when they
know and feel the power of their beauty, will court the admiration they
are sure to win."
'But I was wrong.
'Pride had no place within their lowly hearts--never were their flowers
lifted up--their glances were ever bent in sweet humility towards the
green sod from which they had sprung, and, as I gazed upon them, I saw
that on each lovely petal there ever rested a tear.
'"Why this sadness?" I mused. "Surely so lovely and guileless a flower
can know no sorrow, since sorrow often goes hand in hand with sin; this
Crown Imperial must surely be as faultless as it is beautiful!"
'Yet I hesitated to ask the reason; there was a gentle and reserved
timidity about it, that checked all questionings. The cause of this
unspoken grief would be revealed to me sooner or later, I felt
convinced.
'The days passed on with sunshine and shadows, and, as the hours fled, I
saw with regret that stern Time had relentlessly breathed with his
withering breath upon my much-loved flower! Gradually and slowly its
blossoms pined, the lovely colours faded,--almost imperceptibly, 'tis
true, still they faded,--its fresh green crown became less purely
bright, and I knew with anguish my sweet one was dying.
'Then, and not till then, did it raise its faint eyes heavenward--they
were tearless now. I could restrain my wonder no more.
'"Why, oh, why wert thou weeping and gazing ever earthward when in thy
peerless beauty, sad and disconsolate--and now that thou art fading from
us thou art happy?" I asked in my sorrowful regret; perhaps reproach was
mingled with my complaint.
'"Is it not ever so?" the gentle flower replied. "Whilst burdened with
Life's sorrows, our eyes are tear-dimmed. The cares of this world press
heavily upon our hearts, so that we scarce can lift our thoughts from
this earth--cold and weary though it is--to gaze upward. It is only when
we are passing from all shadows into the Divine Light that we can look
heavenward, yet even then the tear-drops linger. But when earthly
sojourners have passed through the dark valley into the Eternal
Brightness, then, and only then, will they be freed from anguish; then,
and only then, will eyes be no longer dimmed by sorrow--for God Himself
shall wipe away all tears!"'
PARABLE SEVENTH.
THE TWO LEAVES--DISCONTENT.
Once upon a time, as the good old fairy tales always begin, there grew
by the side of a little brook a large Oak tree.
The brook was a bright, sunlit stream, gliding along so cheerfully to
join the river, between grassy banks, kissing the willows which bent
down towards it, or whispering softly to the blue Forget-me-nots; and so
clear was it, you could see the smooth pebbles lying at the bottom, and
the fish skimming along gaily, as if there were no such things in the
whole world as fishing-rods.
All through the day it rippled merrily, catching every ray of sunlight
that flickered through the trees or the blue sky above; but if an angry
black cloud ever chanced to see itself reflected in its clear mirror,
it scudded away as if ashamed of looking so dark.
But at night, when the holy stars were shining, ah, how softly the
little brook murmured to them! you could almost fancy it did not babble
so loudly as in the day-time, for fear lest it should wake the sleeping
flowers on its mossy banks.
It was a happy little stream, so calm, so placid, no angry ripples ever
disturbed its pure surface, over which the Swallows lightly skimmed. And
it meandered along for many miles; sometimes you would lose sight of it
altogether, then out it would come from some quiet, grassy nook, gaily
sparkling, and glide with a merry sound, as if laughing, towards the
steady rushes, and they would sway to and fro at its approach, dancing
to its rippling music.
But, as I was saying, a sturdy Oak grew by the side of the brook; it had
sprung from an acorn many hundred years ago, now it was very old. Wintry
storms had vainly tried to subdue it; many a time they had bent its
branches, plucked at its roots, but fruitless was their fury, for the
noble tree firmly held its place, rearing its proud head more loftily
than ever; and so the storms, finding their power availed them nought,
passed away over the land, howling with rage at their failure.
Then, oh, how the birds loved the clear old tree! Summer after summer
did they return to build nests among its moss-grown branches; and the
branches, glad that the songsters had come back again, would put forth
green leaves to hide them from prying eyes, so that they could rest
there securely. Can you wonder, then, that they sang sweet songs of
gratitude to it, and that the little brook should murmur her sweet
melody as she glided along at its feet?
On the opposite bank grew an Aspen.
It was not so old as the Oak, who had seen it grow up from a mere
sapling; still they had been neighbours for many years, and the graceful
Aspen looked with love and reverence upon her aged friend's sturdy face
and form. Often, in the calm summer nights, the Oak would talk to her of
the days of the long-ago; you would have thought it was merely the
breeze sighing amidst the branches, but it was the voice of the Oak
telling of the past.
Many of the birds imagined the Aspen to be a weak, trembling tree,
quivering always with fear at the slightest wind that ruffled its
branches.
'Scarcely safe to build a nest in!' so said an old motherly Rook, who
had reared many a brood.
But the fairies who danced beneath its shade on bright moonlight nights
knew better; they knew that the fragile-_looking_ tree never trembled
with fear; they had often seen it meekly bend beneath the sway of the
fierce wintry blasts, knowing full well whose hand guided the storm; and
when the summer came they knew that then it quivered with happiness at
being created on so fair an earth, and that its leaves only shook with
quiet laughter as it listened to the merry chatter of the brook.
Well--winter had passed with his frosts and snows, and spring was
scattering her flowers everywhere. The Cuckoo was calling aloud,
'Cuckoo, cuckoo,' all day long, never heeding the young folks who mocked
his song; even the Swallows had returned from the warm, sunny South, and
were for ever skimming over the brook, just dipping their wings into its
limpid waves, then off again with the joyous 'Twit, twit, twit.' The
meadows, too, were yellow with buttercups, in which the cows waded
knee-deep. Talk of the Field of the Cloth of Gold! Francis the First
would have been a clever man could he have made such an one!--no earthly
king could create golden fields like these.
All nature was rejoicing in earth's brightness, and our old friends the
Oak and the Aspen as much as any. They had put forth their fresh green
leaves, and beneath their shade many a tired traveller rested from the
noonday sun, thanking them both in his heart for the welcome shelter.
During the winter the Oak had not been idle, for it had extended its
branches far and wide; one, indeed, stretched right across the brook, in
fact, almost touched its opposite neighbour, and the Aspen welcomed it
gladly. You would have thought it great happiness to live in such a
lovely spot, I know, but there is never perfect bliss, and if little
folks _will_ be discontented, they make the prettiest place appear
wretched and miserable.
Now, among the leaves of the Oak there was one that was always restless
and fidgety. In vain the sweet birds perched near and sang to him, and
the gentle brook murmured tales of other scenes--he never seemed happy.
The fairies, too, as I before said, danced by moonlight at the very
foot of the parent tree, yet even that brave sight gave him no pleasure,
though his brother and sister leaves would clap their tiny hands in
ecstasy.
'It disturbed his sleep,' he said. 'Why could they not dance in the
day-time?--not when all respectable leaves and flowers were sleeping!
making such a noise, especially that mischievous Puck!'
And, unfortunately, he grew on the branch nearest to the Aspen, and his
constant grumbles made them quiver with sorrow and pain at such
incessant complainings. As to his own relatives, they would not listen,
but frisked about merrily enough when the zephyrs came and played with
them.
'Alas!' said he one day to a little Aspen leaf that grew on a branch
close by, and who had patiently borne with his ungrateful complaints;
'how sad is our lot! Here we are always attached to the same place, in a
state of cruel bondage; everything around us moves: the birds, happy in
their liberty, fly here and there, singing ever their songs of joy; even
the beasts of the forests are free--whilst we--ah me!--we never lose
our galling chains but in dying!'
'Why do you murmur thus?' asked the Aspen leaf in a sweet, tremulous
voice; 'why are you not contented?'
'Oh, it is all very well for you to preach contentment,' it pertly
replied, turning up its point with contempt. 'I am a leaf of intellect.
I hate this aimless, monotonous life; it does very well for such silly,
trembling things as you and yours,--not for me!'
For a moment the little Aspen leaf felt its pride wounded by the
contemptuous speech of its neighbour, and was strongly disposed to
answer in the same strain; but fortunately, a fairy who chanced to be
passing at the time laid her silver wand lightly on its lips, so with a
smile she merely said,--
'Yes, I know I am timid, and cling to my parent tree for security and
protection. What would you do if you were free? We are so happy here, I
would not leave my home; the soft breezes are ever among us with
cheerful stories of the countries they have visited to amuse us; and as
to the birds, why, all the day long they are singing their sweetest
melodies to gladden our hearts and cheer us.'
'I have heard their songs until I am quite tired of their sameness,' was
the ungrateful response; 'besides, in a few months the cold winds will
be here, and then we shall fall to the ground and be trodden under
foot--that will be the end of us. So I am determined to see something of
the world before that time comes. I shall go off with the first north
wind that visits us--so I tell you. You will not reason me out of my
plan.'
'Oh, stay, stay with us!' cried the trembling listener; 'you cannot
surely know the sorrow you would cause, nor the troubles you would have
to endure. It is true we leave our kind branches but to die, but we are
not carelessly trodden on; the rustling of we poor faded leaves beneath
man's feet recall to his mind pure and holy thoughts of the unknown
future, filling his heart with unuttered prayers to the Great Power who
changeth not. Then, if we poor leaves can teach a lesson, we have not
lived in vain. Do not murmur at your humble fate, dear friend, but stay
with us, contented with your simple destiny and the goodness of God.'
The Aspen leaf ceased speaking, overcome by its emotion, whilst the
little grumbler, silenced, but not convinced, turned sulkily away. It
did not relish the kind advice of its true friend, nor did it at all
intend to follow it, but still it settled down on its tiny twig so very
quietly, that all its relatives firmly believed it had given up its
foolish scheme of imaginary happy freedom; but they were mistaken, for a
few days after a north wind came quite unexpectedly upon them. It bent
the Aspen tree almost to breaking, still the loving little leaves clung
trembling to their parent, feeling that their very safety rested on
their keeping close to it. Then, finding its strength was in vain, away
the north wind rushed to the sturdy old Oak, swaying its branches wildly
about, and even making them crack in its fierce rage.
But the Oak reared its proud head defiantly, and its leaves hung tightly
on--all save one. Alas! with a mocking laugh at his friends' and his
brothers' fears, he threw himself into the arms of the cruel north wind,
who bore him swiftly away, and ere the night came the foolish leaf lay
faded and dead.
As he was whirled away, a sad, sad moan sighed through the branches of
the old Oak. 'Twas a cry of anguish for its wilful child.
* * * * *
The bright summer was gone.
One by one the leaves were falling. With a gentle rustle they fell from
their parent trees, and lay in their faded beauty upon the earth.
The little Aspen leaf lingered, but one day a soft, sweet zephyr came
and gently released her, and she fluttered slowly down to the calm bosom
of the little brook, who had, alas! seen many flowers bloom and die.
Tenderly the stream bore it away to a grassy nook on its banks, and
there it placed the tiny leaf, alone in its quiet rest.
PARABLE EIGHTH.
THE AMBITIOUS WILD-FLOWER--AMBITION.
'Who'll buy my roses? they're lovely and fair,
They're Nature's own bloom, and are fed on fresh air.'
So sang a little girl, as she walked along a shady lane, carrying a
basket of those glorious flowers which she was taking to a friend as a
birthday gift; and so on she went, singing her song of Roses, sweet
Roses, little thinking that others were listening to her melody (besides
the birds), or that her simple words would raise angry feelings in the
very flowers themselves.
'Oh yes!' exclaimed a small Wild-flower--its name I will not tell; 'oh
yes!' she repeated, waiting until the singer was out of hearing; 'always
Roses, or Violets, or Lilies--no one ever composes songs about--_us_--we
are only common flowers.'
'Don't say so,' interposed Pimpernel, 'because that is not true. There
is a poem on a Daisy that will ever be remembered, and I have heard some
children sing a pretty one about Buttercups and Daisies, besides.'
'Oh, of course you uphold these song-makers, because your name has
appeared in print,' she interrupted, with a toss of her bonnie petals;
'but no one has ever noticed me.'
'Nonsense!' said Ragged Robin, who, having been of a wandering
disposition, had seen and heard a great deal in his time; 'why, there is
one poet who says,--
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its fragrance on the desert air."
Therefore, if you are not mentioned by name, you certainly must be
included among these unknowns who are born to blush unseen.'
'I don't want to be included among these "unknowns" then,' exclaimed the
Flower angrily. 'I am sure I am'--she hesitated a moment--'quite as
lovely as a Rose, or any other garden beauty;' but she could not help
hanging her head for very shame whilst uttering this piece of
self-conceit.
'Oh! oh! oh!' were the exclamations to be heard on all sides.
'So I am,' she persisted, going on now in sheer desperation, having
proceeded too far to retract. 'My petals are delicately fair, with just
a faint rosy blush, my pistils and stamens of a tender yellow, and my
form, if fragile, is very graceful--so there!'
You may imagine the laughter that ensued as she ended with that emphatic
'so there!' laughter which could not be suppressed, although she plainly
showed her anger at their behaviour; they could not help it, so
flower-bells shook and leaves fluttered with mirth, even Quaker grass
quivered with merriment.
'I would advise you to be more contented,' said a Honeysuckle, as she
looked down upon the ambitious little Flower from her own elevated
position; 'let me tell you it is not always those who are highest up in
the world are the happiest; they feel the cold winds quite as keenly,
perhaps more so.'
'Ah, but I want to live in a conservatory or a greenhouse. I feel I am
fitted for that position,' grumbled the other; 'in such a place I
should be more seen, and consequently more admired and appreciated.'
'What vanity!' sneered wild Vetch, who was somewhat ambitious also,
seeing he tried to climb up as high as he could.
An angry retort was on the lips of the one addressed, but Honeysuckle
interposed, by saying kindly,--
'Well, well, we shall see,--perhaps your position may be altered one
day, and then you will be able to show us how you bear prosperity. Many
flowers I have known transplanted to conservatories, thinking they would
prove to be exotics, but I have heard that they generally withered in
the heated atmosphere to which they were removed, and did not come to
perfection when taken from their native soil.'
'I am sure I should enjoy the change,' was the answer vouchsafed to this
friendly warning. 'I know I am not in my proper sphere; such beauty as
mine was never surely intended by Nature for a hedgerow.'
'We shall see!' cried several Blossoms, who felt indignant at her
contemptuous way of speaking. 'Your parents were no doubt'--
'Exotics, I am convinced,' she said.