It was the birthday of the little Prince:--only one year since he had
opened his baby-eyes on life--and the day of his anniversary dawned
radiantly.
Then, suddenly, athwart the sunshine and the promise, like the cloud in
a perfect sky in a day of June, the shadows gathered and darkened.
The child was stricken.
"There is no hope," they said; and before the day had closed the little
dimpled hands were folded over his marble breast, the long dark lashes
peacefully swept the violet eyes that would never again unclose; and the
tiny restless feet were still--oh, God, how still!--while, on the
baby-brows that would never know the weight of the crown he was born to
bear, the smile of a cherub crowned him with the promise of fairer Life.
The nobles, the soldiers, the courtiers, the people, they came and
looked, often with silent tears, as he lay in state, in the light of
countless tapers, on his mound of flowers--offerings not only from royal
terraces--for his mother had willed it so--but the gifts which his
people had brought, lay there together, rare exotics and the flowers of
the field and forest, crushed and mangled, perchance, in some toil-worn
hand when they came from far.
How little he seemed to have carried the hope of a kingdom!--how strong,
to have swept it away with the mere folding of his baby-hand!--how
mighty, to have crushed all dreams of happiness, forever, within his
mother's breast!