of the congregation, and the tones floated over the street, into the
house, where the Jewish girl attended to her work, diligent and faithful
in her calling. "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy," this was her
law; but her Sabbath was a day of labor to the Christians, and only in
her heart could she keep it holy; and that was not enough for her. But
when the thought arose in her soul, "What matters it before God about
days and hours?" and on the Sunday of the Christians her hour of
devotion remained undisturbed. If, then, the organ's peal and the
psalm-tunes reached over to her, where she stood in the kitchen, even
this became a quiet and consecrated spot. She would read then the
treasure and peculiar property of her people, the Old Testament, and
this alone; for she kept deep in her heart what her father had told the
teacher and herself when she was taken from the school--the vow made to
her dying mother, "that Sarah should not be baptized, not forsake the
faith of her fathers." The New Testament was, and should remain forever,
a sealed book to her; and yet she knew much of it; it shone to her
through the recollections of childhood.
One evening she sat in a corner of the parlor, and heard her master
reading aloud. She might listen, she thought, for this was not the
gospel; nay! 'twas out of an old story-book he read: she might stay. And
he read of a Hungarian knight, taken captive by a Turkish pasha, who had
him yoked with oxen to the plow; and he was driven with lashes, and had
to suffer pain and ignominy beyond endurance.
But at home the knight's wife sold all her jewels, and mortgaged castle
and lands, and his friends contributed large sums, for enormous was the
ransom demanded; still it was raised, and he was delivered out of
thraldom and disgrace. Sick and suffering, he came to his home. But
soon resounded far and near the summons to war against the foe of
Christianity. The sick man heard the call, and had neither peace nor
rest any longer; he was placed on his charger; the blood came again to
his cheeks, his strength seemed to return, and he rode forth to victory.
The very pasha who had him yoked to the plow, and made him suffer pain
and scorn, became his captive. He was carried home to the castle
dungeon, but before his first hour there had elapsed the knight came,
and asked the prisoner, "What dost thou think awaiteth thee?"
"I know," said the Turk; "retribution."
"Yes, the Christian's retribution," said the knight. "Christ taught us
to forgive our enemies, to love our fellow-men. God is love! Depart in
peace to thy home and thy dear ones, and be gentle and good to those who
suffer."
Then the prisoner burst into tears.
"How could I believe such a thing could be possible? Torments and
sufferings I looked forward to as a certainty, and I took poison, which
must kill me; within a few hours I shall die. There is no remedy. But
before I die make known to me the faith that embraces such an amount of
love and mercy; it is great and divine! In it let me die; let me die a
Christian!" and his prayer was granted.
This was the legend, the history which was read; they all listened to it
with attention, but deepest sank it into the heart of her who sat alone
in the corner--the servant maid--Sarah, the Jewess. Heavy tears stood in
her black sparkling eyes while she sat here, as once on the
school-bench, and felt the greatness of the gospel. The tears rolled
down her cheeks.
"Let not my child become a Christian!" were the mother's last words on
her dying bed, and they rang through her soul with those of the law,
"Honor thy father and thy mother!"
"Still I have not been baptized! they call me 'the Jewess'; the
neighbors' boys did so, hooting at me last Sunday as I stood outside the
open church door, and looked in where the altar-lights burned and the
congregation sang. Ever since my school-days, up to this hour--even
though I have tried to close my eyes against it--a power from
Christianity has like a sunbeam shone into my heart. But, my mother, I
will not give thee sorrow in thy grave! I will not betray the vow my
father made to thee; I will not read the Christian's Bible. Have not I
the God of my fathers? On Him let me rest my head!"
And years rolled by.
The husband died, the wife was left behind in hard plight. Now she could
no longer afford to have a maid; but Sarah did not forsake the widow;
she became her help in distress, and kept the household together; she
worked till late in the night, and got bread for the house by the labor
of her hands. There were no near relatives to help a family where the
mother grew weaker each day, lingering for months on a bed of sickness.
Sarah, gentle and pious, watched, nursed, and worked, and became the
blessing of the poor home.
"There lies the Bible," said the invalid; "read to me this wearisome
evening; I sadly want to hear God's word."
And Sarah bowed her head; she folded her hands round the Bible, which
she opened, and read aloud to the sick woman; now and again the tears
welled forth, but her eyes shone clearer, even as the darkness cleared
from her soul. "Mother, thy child shall not receive the baptism of the
Christians, shall not be named in their communion; in this we will be
united here on earth, but above this there is--is a greater unity--even
in God. 'He goes with us beyond the grave'; 'It is He who pours water
upon him that is thirsty, and floods upon the dry ground.' I understand
it! I do not know myself how I came to it! through Him it is--in
Him--Christ!"
And she trembled as she named the holy name; a baptism of fire streamed
through her, stronger than her frame could bear, and she bent down, more
powerless even than she by whom she watched.
"Poor Sarah!" they said; "she is worn out with labor and watching."
They took her to the hospital for the poor; there she died; thence she
was borne to her grave; not to the Christians' graveyard; that was not
the place for the Jewish girl: no, outside, by the wall, her grave was
dug.
And God's sun, which shone upon the graves of the Christians, shines
also upon that of the Jewish girl; and the hymns which are sung by the
graves of the Christians resound by her grave beyond the wall; thither,
too, reaches the promise: "There is resurrection in Christ, in Him, the
Saviour, who said to his disciples, 'John truly baptized with water; but
ye shall be baptized with the Holy Ghost.'"
THE STORY OF A MOTHER
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
A mother sat by her little child: she was very sorrowful, and feared
that it would die. Its little face was pale, and its eyes were closed.
The child drew its breath with difficulty, and sometimes so deeply as if
it were sighing; and then the mother looked more sorrowfully than before
on the little creature.
Then there was a knock at the door, and a poor old man came in, wrapped
up in something that looked like a great horse-cloth, for that keeps
warm; and he required it, for it was cold winter. Without, everything
was covered with ice and snow, and the wind blew so sharply that it cut
one's face.
And as the old man trembled with cold, and the child was quiet for a
moment, the mother went and put some beer on the stove in a little pot,
to warm it for him. The old man sat down and rocked the cradle, and the
mother seated herself on an old chair by him, looked at her sick child
that drew its breath so painfully, and seized the little hand.
"You think I shall keep it, do you not?" she asked. "The good God will
not take it from me!"
And the old man--he was _Death_--nodded in such a strange way, that it
might just as well mean _yes_ as _no_. And the mother cast down her
eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Her head became heavy: for three
days and three nights she had not closed her eyes; and now she slept,
but only for a minute; then she started up and shivered with cold.
"What is that?" she asked, and looked round on all sides; but the old
man was gone, and her little child was gone; he had taken it with him.
And there in the corner the old clock was humming and whirring; the
heavy leaden weight ran down to the floor--plump!--and the clock
stopped.
But the poor mother rushed out of the house crying for her child.
Out in the snow sat a woman in long black garments, and she said, "Death
has been with you in your room; I saw him hasten away with your child:
he strides faster than the wind, and never brings back what he has taken
away."
"Only tell me which way he has gone," said the mother. "Tell me the way,
and I will find him."
"I know him," said the woman in the black garments; "but before I tell
you, you must sing me all the songs that you have sung to your child. I
love those songs; I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your
tears when you sang them."
"I will sing them all, all!" said the mother. "But do not detain me,
that I may overtake him, and find my child."
But Night sat dumb and still. Then the mother wrung her hands, and sang
and wept. And there were many songs, but yet more tears, and then Night
said, "Go to the right into the dark fir wood; for I saw Death take that
path with your little child."
Deep in the forest there was a cross road, and she did not know which
way to take. There stood a Blackthorn Bush, with not a leaf nor a
blossom upon it; for it was in the cold winter time, and icicles hung
from the twigs.
"Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?"
"Yes," replied the Bush, "but I shall not tell you which way he went
unless you warm me on your bosom. I'm freezing to death here; I'm
turning to ice."
And she pressed the Blackthorn Bush to her bosom, quite close, that it
might be well warmed. And the thorns pierced into her flesh, and her
blood oozed out in great drops. But the Blackthorn shot out fresh green
leaves, and blossomed in the dark winter night: so warm is the heart of
a sorrowing mother! And the Blackthorn Bush told her the way that she
should go.
Then she came to a great Lake, on which there were neither ships nor
boat. The Lake was not frozen enough to carry her, nor sufficiently open
to allow her to wade through, and yet she must cross it if she was to
find her child. Then she laid herself down to drink the Lake; and that
was impossible for any one to do. But the sorrowing mother thought that
perhaps a miracle might be wrought.
"No, that can never succeed," said the Lake. "Let us rather see how we
can agree. I'm fond of collecting pearls, and your eyes are the two
clearest I have ever seen: if you will weep them out into me I will
carry you over into the great greenhouse, where Death lives and
cultivates flowers and trees; each of these is a human life."
"Oh, what would I not give to get my child!" said the afflicted mother;
and she wept yet more, and her eyes fell into the depths of the Lake,
and became two costly pearls. But the Lake lifted her up, as if she sat
in a swing, and she was wafted to the opposite shore, where stood a
wonderful house, miles in length. One could not tell if it was a
mountain containing forests and caves, or a place that had been built.
But the poor mother could not see it, for she had wept her eyes out.
"Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little child?" she
asked.
"He has not arrived here yet," said an old gray-haired Woman, who was
going about and watching the hothouse of Death. "How have you found your
way here, and who helped you?"
"The good God has helped me," she replied. "He is merciful, and you will
be merciful too. Where shall I find my little child?"
"I do not know it," said the old Woman, "and you cannot see. Many
flowers and trees have faded this night, and Death will soon come and
transplant them. You know very well that every human being has his tree
of life, or his flower of life, just as each is arranged. They look
like other plants, but their hearts beat. Children's hearts can beat
too. Think of this. Perhaps you may recognize the beating of your
child's heart. But what will you give me if I tell you what more you
must do?"
"I have nothing more to give," said the afflicted mother. "But I will go
for you to the ends of the earth."
"I have nothing for you to do there," said the old Woman, "but you can
give me your long black hair. You must know yourself that it is
beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair for it, and
that is always something."
"Do you ask for nothing more?" asked she. "I will give you that gladly."
And she gave her beautiful hair, and received in exchange the old
Woman's white hair.
And then they went into the great hothouse of Death, where flowers and
trees were growing marvellously intertwined. There stood the fine
hyacinths under glass bells, some quite fresh, others somewhat sickly;
water snakes were twining about them, and black crabs clung tightly to
the stalks. There stood gallant palm-trees, oaks, and plantains, and
parsley and blooming thyme. Each tree and flower had its name; each was
a human life: the people were still alive, one in China, another in
Greenland, scattered about in the world. There were great trees thrust
into little pots, so that they stood quite crowded, and were nearly
bursting the pots; there was also many a little weakly flower in rich
earth, with moss round about it, cared for and tended. But the sorrowful
mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard the human heart
beating in each, and out of millions she recognized that of her child.
"That is it!" she cried, and stretched out her hands over a little
crocus flower, which hung down quite sick and pale.
"Do not touch the flower," said the old dame; "but place yourself here;
and when Death comes--I expect him every minute--then don't let him pull
up the plant, but threaten him that you will do the same to the other
plants; then he'll be frightened. He has to account for them all; not
one may be pulled up till he receives commission from Heaven."
And all at once there was an icy cold rush through the hall, and the
blind mother felt that Death was arriving.
"How did you find your way hither?" said he. "How have you been able to
come quicker than I?"
"I am a mother," she answered.
And Death stretched out his long hands toward the little delicate
flower; but she kept her hands tight about it, and held it fast; and yet
she was full of anxious care lest he should touch one of the leaves.
Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt that his breath was
colder than the icy wind; and her hands sank down powerless.
"You can do nothing against me," said Death.
"But the merciful God can," she replied.
"I only do what He commands," said Death. "I am his gardener. I take all
his trees and flowers, and transplant them into the great Paradise
gardens, in the unknown land. But how they will flourish there, and how
it is there, I may not tell you."
"Give me back my child," said the mother; and she implored and wept. All
at once she grasped two pretty flowers with her two hands, and called to
Death, "I'll tear off all your flowers, for I am in despair."
"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are so unhappy, and now
you would make another mother just as unhappy!"
"Another mother?" said the poor woman; and she let the flowers go.
"There are your eyes for you," said Death. "I have fished them up out of
the Lake; they gleamed up quite brightly. I did not know that they were
yours. Take them back--they are clearer now than before--and then look
down into the deep well close by. I will tell you the names of the two
flowers you wanted to pull up, and you will see what you were about to
frustrate and destroy."
And she looked down into the well, and it was a happiness to see how one
of them became a blessing to the world, how much joy and gladness she
diffused around her. And the woman looked at the life of the other, and
it was made up of care and poverty, misery and woe.
"Both are the will of God," said Death.
"Which of them is the flower of misfortune, and which the blessed one?"
she asked.
"That I may not tell you," answered Death; "but this much you shall
hear, that one of these two flowers is that of your child. It was the
fate of your child that you saw--the future of your own child."
Then the mother screamed aloud for terror.
"Which of them belongs to my child? Tell me that. Release the innocent
child! Let my child free from all that misery! Rather carry it away!
Carry it into God's kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my entreaties, and
all that I have done!"
"I do not understand you," said Death. "Will you have your child back,
or shall I carry it to that place that you know not?"
Then the mother wrung her hands, and fell on her knees, and prayed to
the good God.
"Hear me not when I pray against Thy will, which is at all times the
best! Hear me not! hear me not!" And she let her head sink down on her
bosom.
And Death went away with her child into the unknown land.
THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
It was terribly cold; it snowed and was already almost dark, and evening
came on, the last evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a poor
little girl, bareheaded and barefoot, was walking through the streets.
When she left her own house she certainly had had slippers on; but of
what use were they? They were very big slippers, and her mother had used
them till then, so big were they. The little maid lost them as she
slipped across the road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly
fast. One slipper was not to be found again, and a boy had seized the
other, and run away with it. He thought he could use it very well as a
cradle, some day when he had children of his own. So now the little girl
went with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the
cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and a bundle of
them in her hand. No one had bought anything of her all day, and no one
had given her a farthing.
Shivering with cold and hunger she crept along, a picture of misery,
poor little girl! The snowflakes covered her long fair hair, which fell
in pretty curls over her neck; but she did not think of that now. In all
the windows lights were shining, and there was a glorious smell of
roast goose, for it was New Year's Eve. Yes, she thought of that!
In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the
other, she sat down, cowering. She had drawn up her little feet, but she
was still colder, and she did not dare to go home, for she had sold no
matches, and did not bring a farthing of money. From her father she
would certainly receive a beating, and besides, it was cold at home, for
they had nothing over them but a roof through which the wind whistled,
though the largest rents had been stopped with straw and rags.
Her little hands were almost benumbed with the cold. Ah, a match might
do her good, if she could only draw one from the bundle, and rub it
against the wall, and warm her hands at it. She drew one out. R-r-atch!
how it spluttered and burned! It was a warm bright flame, like a little
candle, when she held her hands over it; it was a wonderful little
light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she sat before a great
polished stove, with bright brass feet and a brass cover. How the fire
burned! how comfortable it was! but the little flame went out, the stove
vanished, and she had only the remains of the burned match in her hand.
A second was rubbed against the wall. It burned up, and when the light
fell upon the wall it became transparent like a thin veil, and she could
see through it into the room. On the table a snow-white cloth was
spread; upon it stood a shining dinner service; the roast goose smoked
gloriously, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more
splendid to behold, the goose hopped down from the dish, and waddled
along the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little
girl. Then the match went out, and only the thick, damp, cold wall was
before her. She lighted another match. Then she was sitting under a
beautiful Christmas tree; it was greater and more ornamented than the
one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's.
Thousands of candles burned upon the green branches, and colored
pictures like those in the print shops looked down upon them. The little
girl stretched forth her hand toward them; then the match went out. The
Christmas lights mounted higher. She saw them now as stars in the sky:
one of them fell down, forming a long line of fire.
"Now some one is dying," thought the little girl, for her old
grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now dead,
had told her that when a star fell down a soul mounted up to God.
She rubbed another match against the wall; it became bright again, and
in the brightness the old grandmother stood clear and shining, mild and
lovely.
"Grandmother!" cried the child, "O! take me with you! I know you will go
when the match is burned out. You will vanish like the warm fire, the
warm food, and the great, glorious Christmas tree!"
And she hastily rubbed the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to
hold her grandmother fast. And the matches burned with such a glow that
it became brighter than in the middle of the day; grandmother had never
been so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and
both flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high, and up
there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care--they were with God.
But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the poor girl with red
cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the Old
Year. The New Year's sun rose upon a little corpse! The child sat there,
stiff and cold, with the matches, of which one bundle was burned. "She
wanted to warm herself," the people said. No one imagined what a
beautiful thing she had seen, and in what glory she had gone in with her
grandmother to the New Year's Day.
FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT
Prune thou thy words; the thoughts control
That o'er thee swell and throng:--
They will condense within thy soul,
And change to purpose strong.
But he who lets his feelings run
In soft luxurious flow,
Shrinks when hard service must be done,
And faints at every woe.
Faith's meanest deed more favor bears,
Where hearts and wills are weigh'd,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour, and fade.
_--J. H. Newman_
CONTENTMENT
My mind to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I find,
As far exceeds all earthly bliss
That world affords, or grows by kind:
Though much I want what most men have,
Yet doth my mind forbid me crave.
Content I live--this is my stay;
I seek no more than may suffice:
I press to bear no haughty sway;
Look--what I lack, my mind supplies!
Lo! thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my mind doth bring.
I see how plenty surfeits oft,
And hasty climbers soonest fall;
I see how those that sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all;
These get with toil, and keep with fear:
Such cares my mind could never bear.
I laugh not at another's loss;
I grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly wave my mind can toss;
I brook that is another's pain.
I fear no foe: I scorn no friend:
I dread no death: I fear no end.
Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek no more:
They are but poor, though much they have,
And I am rich, with little store.
They poor, I rich: they beg, I give:
They lack, I lend: they pine, I live.
I wish but what I have at will:
I wander not to seek for more:
I like the plain; I climb no hill:
In greatest storm I sit on shore,
And laugh at those that toil in vain,
To get what must be lost again.
--This is my choice; for why?--I find
No wealth is like a quiet mind.
_--Unknown_
THE SEARCH FOR PEACE
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And ask'd, if Peace were there?
A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No:--
Go seek elsewhere."
I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace's coat:
I will search out the matter.
But while I look'd, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.
Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,
The Crown Imperial: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.
But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
What show'd so well.
At length I met a reverend good old man:
Whom when for Peace
I did demand, he thus began:
"There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.
"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.
But after death, out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat:
Which many wondering at, got some of those
To plant and set.