"LOVE!" said the little Thrush, as he warbled to his mate on the spring
morning, and the Mother, as she sang soft lullabies to her babe. And
all the Creatures said—
"Amen! LOVE makes us musical. In Storms and Sunshine, Suffering and
Joy, Action, Union, Life, LOVE is the music at the heart of all. LOVE
makes us musical," said all the Creatures.
And from the multitude before the throne, who, through fires of
Tribulation and Storms of conflict, had learned the new song, and
from depths of Darkness and the silence of Isolation had been brought
together in the Light of Life to sing it, floated down a soft "Amen,
for GOD is LOVE."
The Acorn.
—————
"WHEN will my training begin?" said the acorn to itself, as it unfolded
its delicately-carved cup and saucer on the branch of an old oak on
the edge of a forest. "I understand I am to be an oak one day, like
my father. All the acorns say that is what we are to be, but there
certainly seems little chance of it at present. I have been sitting
here for no one knows how many days, and I feel no change, except that
I look less pretty than I did when I was young and green, and begin to
feel rather dry, and shrivelled, and old. At this rate, I do not see
much chance of my becoming an oak, or anything else but an old, dry
acorn. When will my training begin?"
As it meditated thus, a strong breeze sighed mournfully through the
autumn woods, and shook down many brown leaves from the old oak, and
with them the acorn.
"This will hinder my progress again," thought the acorn, "for it
is evident such a downfall as this can have nothing to do with my
education. When will my training begin?"
A day or two afterwards, a drove of hogs was turned into the forest,
and they began grunting and grubbing among the dead leaves for acorns.
Many of its brethren did our acorn see ruthlessly hurried into those
voracious snouts. It kept very quiet under the dead leaves to avoid
a similar fate, but it thought—"This is a sad delay. It is too plain
that being trampled on and tossed about in this way can teach no one
anything. When will my training begin?"
Meanwhile, the swine rummaged among the dead leaves, and trod them
under foot, and tossed the decaying mould hither and thither with their
snouts and feet, until one of them by accident rolled our acorn down
a little hill, where it lay buried under some stray leaves many yards
from the edge of the forest, in the outskirts of a park. There it lay
unobserved all the rest of the winter.
Even this was a pleasant change after having been tossed about and
trodden under foot so long, but in its fall its shrivelled brown skin
had cracked, and the acorn thought—"This is a sad disaster. How ever am
I to grow into an oak when I am so crushed and cracked that scarcely
any one would recognise me for an acorn? When will my training begin?"
All the winter the rain pattered on it, and sank it deeper and deeper
under the dead leaves and under the earth-clods, until all its acorn
beauty was marred and crushed out of it, and it fell asleep in the
dark, under the cold, damp earth; and the snows came and folded it in
under their white, eiderdown pillows. At last, the warm touch, that
comes to all sleeping nature in the spring, came softly on it, and it
awoke.
"What a pity," it said, "I should have lost so much time by falling
asleep! I can scarcely make out what I am like, or where I am. What a
sad waste of time! It is clear no one can go on with his education in
sleep. When will my training begin?"
With these thoughts, it stretched out two little green things on each
side of it, which felt like wings; and tried to peep out of its hole.
And, to its delight, it succeeded, and, with a few more efforts, even
contrived to keep its head steadily above ground, and look around it.
"There is my father, the old oak," it said. "He looks quite green
again. But I am a long way off from him, and how very small and close
to the ground! When shall I begin to be like him?"
But meantime it was very happy. It felt so full of life, although so
small; and the sun shone so graciously on it, and all the showers and
dews seemed so full of kindly desires to help and nourish it. And
more and more little green leaves expanded from its sides, and more
and snore little busy roots shot down into the earth, and the leaves
breathed and drank in the sunshine, and the roots were great chemists
and cooks, and concocted a perpetual feast for it out of the earth and
stones.
But it thought sometimes, "This is all exceedingly pleasant, and I am
very happy; but, of course, this is not education; it is only enjoying
myself. When will my training begin?"
The next spring, the early frosts had much more power over it in its
detached, exposed situation than over the saplings in the shelter
of the forest. And it saw the trees in the wood growing green, and
tempting the song-birds beneath their leafy tents, whilst the sap
still flowed feebly upward through its tiny cells, and its twigs and
leaf-buds were still brown and hard.
"This must be a great hindrance to me," it thought—"this, no doubt,
will retard my education considerably. What a pity I stand here so
detached and unprotected! When will my training begin?"
But in the late spring came some days of black east wind and bitter
frost, and it saw the more forward leaves in the wood turn pale and
shrivel before they unfolded, and then fall off; nipped and lifeless,
to join the old dead leaves of the past autumn, whilst its own little
buds lay safe within their hard and glossy casings, protected by one
enemy against a worse. And when the east wind and the black frosts were
gone, the little sapling shot up freely.
In that summer, and the next, and the next, it made great progress. But
in the fourth autumn, a great disappointment awaited it. The owner of
the park in which it grew came by, and stood beside it, and said to his
forester—
"That sapling is worth preserving, it is so vigorous and healthy; and,
standing in this detached position, it will break the line of the wood,
and look well from my house. We will watch it, and set a fence around
it to guard it from the cattle. But it has thrown out a false leader.
Take your knife and cut this straggling shoot away, and next year, I
have no doubt, it will grow well."
Then the forester applied his knife carefully to the false leader, and
cut it off. But the sapling, not having understood the master's words,
nor observed with what care and design the knife was applied, felt
wounded to the core.
"My best and strongest shoot," it sighed to itself. "It was a cruel
cut. It will take me a long time to repair that loss. T am afraid it
has lost me at least a year. When will my training begin?"
But the next year the master's words were fulfilled.
Thus years passed on. And slowly, twig by twig, and shoot by shoot, the
sapling grew. Sunbeams expanded its leaves; rains nourished its roots;
frosts, checking its early buds, hardened its wood; winds swaying it
hither and thither, as if they were determined to level it, only rooted
it more firmly. And year by year the top grew a little higher, and the
wood a little firmer, and the trunk a little thicker, and the roots a
little deeper; but so slowly, that summer by summer it said—
"This is very pleasant; but it is only breathing, and being happy. It
certainly cannot be the discipline which forms the great oaks. When
will my training begin?"
And autumn by autumn, as the sap flowed downward, and the buds ceased
to expand, and the branches grew leafless and dry, it thought—
"This is a sad loss of time. Now I am falling into torpor again, and
shall make not an inch of progress for six long months. When will my
training begin?"
And winter by winter, as the winds bent it to and fro, and made its
branches creak, and threatened its very existence, and the heavy snows
sometimes broke its boughs—
"These are sore trials. I may be thankful if I barely struggle through
them! In days like these existence is an effort, and endurance the
utmost one can attain. When will my training begin?"