"Did you never hear what he did when he was a gay young page in the
service of our last king, Frederick William?"
[Illustration: THE TWO COMRADES.]
"Not I," replied Strasse, seating himself; for he was weary with the
struggle of the day, and glad to warm himself for awhile beside the red
glowing fagots. "Tell me the tale of his youth. It may serve to while
away a few weary minutes; for as my turn for duty will soon come, it is
not worth while to lie down and sleep."
"Helden, like most of our Prussian youth of gentle blood, was brought
up at a military academy. There he formed a warm friendship with a
lad of somewhat lower rank and much poorer family than his own. They
were never separated, Carl and he—studies, sports, hopes, pleasures,
everything they had in common. Never did brothers cling more closely
together than they. When the youths left the academy, their paths
divided. Helden, who had relatives of rank, became a page at the court
of the king; Carl, who had neither money nor interest, entered the
ranks of the army. But the tie was not broken between them, as with
most men it would have been. The page, midst the splendours of a court,
remained true to the friendship of his boyhood.
"Carl was of a somewhat wild and reckless nature. Perhaps it stung
his pride to find himself in a position so much below that of his
late companions. Be that as it may, he had not been a month in the
army before he got into serious disgrace—overstayed leave, was out of
barracks till midnight, and was sentenced to receive a public flogging.
You know, Strasse, with what terrible severity that punishment is
inflicted in the army. To many it is equal to a sentence of death—to
Carl it was far worse than death! The agony might be great, but it was
the shame that was intolerable! The very horror of the idea of a public
flogging threw the young soldier into a fever, and threatened to turn
his brain."
"I do not marvel at that," observed Strasse, as he stretched his hands
to the warming blaze.
"Helden heard of the sentence passed upon his friend, and resolved
to make every effort to save him. He drew out a simple but touching
petition to the king, and ventured himself to present it—a task
requiring some courage, for you know the character of Frederick
William, and his excessive severity in whatever related to the
discipline of his army."
"It was something like presenting a petition to a lion to spare the
prey under his paw," observed Strasse, with a smile.
"And the king received it much as the lion might have done," rejoined
Von Orlich. "He was roused to one of his storms of fury, tore the
petition in pieces, and Helden was fortunate enough to escape with
nothing worse than a torrent of abuse."
"So Carl underwent his sentence, of course?" asked Strasse.
"Hear to the end," replied his comrade. "Any one but Helden would have
given up in despair all further attempt to rescue his friend, but, true
as steel as he was, he resolved to make yet another. Helden drew out
a second petition; and on the night before the morning on which the
flogging was to take place, he went to the antechamber with it in his
pocket, with the intention of presenting it to the monarch."
"He was a bold youth," remarked Strasse. "When we recall how nearly our
late king put to death his own son and heir for a very trifling cause,
one cannot but marvel at the perseverance of Helden."
"The king," continued Von Orlich, "was engaged, till far into the
night, in secret conference with one of his ministers. Helden, full
of deep anxiety, remained in the ante-room waiting. So long had he to
wait, so weary he grew, less perhaps from the lateness of the hour than
the wear upon his own spirits, that sleep overcame the poor youth.
The king, happening to come out of his cabinet, found his page in
deep slumber in an arm-chair, with what looked like a second petition
sticking half out of his pocket.
"'If that audacious young scapegrace dare to pester me again with his
petitions, he shall get something sharper than words.' Such, I suspect,
was his majesty's thought when, without awakening the page, curiosity
made him draw forth the scroll. Perhaps, however, his countenance
changed when his eye glanced over the strange petition which it
contained. It was very brief, but to the purpose; and was, as well as
I can remember, in these words: 'Sire, if the sentence passed on Carl
must be executed, I entreat your majesty's permission to suffer instead
of my friend.'"
[Illustration: THE KING TAKING THE PETITION.]
"A strange petition, indeed," exclaimed Strasse. "What said the king to
the offer?"
"Stern and rigid as he was," replied Von Orlich, "such generous
friendship, such brave self-devotion, could not but touch his heart. I
know not how long Helden slumbered. He was startled from his sleep by
the sound of the bell rung by the king in his cabinet.
"'Now for the effort!' thought Helden, as he sprang forward with a
beating heart to obey the desired and yet dreaded summons.
"He found the king sitting alone, looking more than usually stern.
Helden received some trifling order from the monarch, who then motioned
to him to retire.
"'Now, or never!' said Helden to himself. 'The day will soon dawn, and
at sunrise poor Carl is to suffer.'
"'Why do you delay?' asked the king very harshly, fixing his freezing
gaze on the page.
"'Sire, pardon!' exclaimed Helden, and bending his knee, he drew forth
a scroll, and presented it to his sovereign.
"'Will you stand by the consequences?' demanded the king, without
touching the paper.
"'I will, sire,' replied the generous friend.
"'Read the contents, then, young man!' said the king.
"Helden opened the scroll, and started to his feet with an exclamation
of joyful surprise. The paper contained, not his own generous offer,
but a full free pardon for his friend, drawn out and signed by the
monarch himself!"
"God had touched the king's heart," observed Strasse.
"Be that as it may," said Von Orlich, "Carl was saved from a punishment
which would have driven him mad. And he lived to pay back this day part
of the debt of gratitude which he owed to the best of friends!"
"What!" exclaimed Strasse in surprise. "You yourself are the Carl of
whom you speak?"
"Ay; I have struggled upwards in life, won honours—" a star was
glittering on his breast—"I have gained the wealth and position which
are the prizes held out by war. But were the king to make me a duke,"
continued Von Orlich with emotion, "the pleasure and the honour would
be small compared to what I felt to-day in proving my gratitude to the
man who once offered to suffer in my stead!"
"It is strange," observed Strasse with a thoughtful sigh, as he looked
into the flickering fire, "how apt we are to reserve all our gratitude
for our fellow-man, forgetful of the Friend who not only offered to
suffer, but actually did suffer in our stead! You braved fire and
sword for one who had loved and saved you; shall our love be cold, and
our courage faint, only when our debt is infinite, and our benefactor
divine?"
Von Orlich made no reply; but as he silently gazed up into the blue
starry heavens, almost for the first time in his life, the heart of the
war-worn veteran rose in thanksgiving to God!
XI.
THE THICKET OF FURZE.
[Illustration]
"WHAT a plague lessons are?" exclaimed Rosey, with a long weary yawn,
as she bent over her French exercises, wishing from her heart that
grammar had never been invented.
"Work on, little one!" said her brother George, who had overheard the
exclamation. "Remember that it is doubly your duty to be steady and
industrious while mamma is away."
"It is so difficult!" sighed the child.
"Many a duty is difficult," answered the elder brother, "but that is
no reason for shirking it. Attending to little duties while we are
young helps us to perform great ones when we are old. Do your lessons
bravely, dear Rosey, and if they be finished by twelve, you shall have
a little story to reward your diligence."
The word "story" called up a dimple upon Rosey's round cheek. She
turned with more resolution to her tiresome lesson, and the task was
ended by twelve.
"Now for my story," cried the child, bringing her little chair close to
her brother, and resting her arm on his knee, as—looking up gaily into
his face—she claimed the fulfilment of his promise.
George looked into the fire for a few moments, as if to draw some ideas
from the cheerful blaze, stirred it, and then leaning back on his
chair, began the following little tale:—
"Methought I lay down and slept, and dreamed; and in my dream I beheld
a path through a verdant meadow, along which many a child gaily
tripped, gathering the lovely wild flowers that grew on either side.
But at one end of the meadow the path was crossed by a thicket of sharp
prickly furze, and the name of the thicket was Difficulty. The bushes
grew so thick and close, that I wondered whether any child would be
able to pass them; and I sat me down to watch how the little travellers
would get through the Difficulty in their way."
"I suppose that I was one of the little travellers," laughed Rosey,
"and the furze-bushes were my horrid French verbs!"
"There are a great many 'Difficulties' in a child's life," replied
George with a smile: "some find it difficult to rise early, some to be
punctual or neat, some to control their tempers, others to be generous
and kind. There are plenty of furze-bushes in our path, but we must
not, like lazy cowards, suffer them to stop us in our onward course."
"Please tell me about the children in your dream," said Rosey.
"The first who reached the thicket was a little girl, with ruddy
cheek and curly hair, who had been one of the gayest of the gay, as
she went dancing through the flowery mead. But as soon as she came to
Difficulty, all the cheerfulness fled from her face, she shrank from
the first touch of the prickles as if she had expected that life was to
be all sunshine and flowers, and sitting down on the grass by the side
of the path, she burst into a flood of tears."
"Oh, the cowardly little creature!" cried Rosey.
"Then there came up to the spot a young boy, whose appearance to me
was not pleasing. He never looked straight before him, but had a kind
of cunning side glance, which made me fancy him less open and frank
than a Christian boy ought to be. He made no attempt to push through
the thicket, but went creeping along the edge of it, hoping to 'creep
round' Difficulty instead of passing straight onwards. I watched him
to see if he would succeed in his aim, but he had not gone many steps
before his feet stuck fast in a bog, and it was only by violent and
painful efforts that he could struggle out again, to return to the
point whence he had started, with his shoes all clogged with clay, his
time lost, and his object not gained."
"I suppose that he was a lazy boy," remarked Rosey; "putting off does
not help us over our difficulties. I have sometimes tried that plan of
creeping round, and I always stuck in the bog!"
"Then," pursued George, "a boy with firm step and resolute air came up
to the thicket. I saw something like a smile on his face as he looked
at the Difficulty before him. He set his teeth hard together, clenched
his hands, and then with bold determination made a dash at the thicket.
On he went, that stout-hearted lad, dashing aside the prickles, pushing
forward as if he scarcely felt the scratches upon his bleeding hands.
Trampling down, struggling through Difficulty, he was soon safe and
triumphant on the opposite side!"
Little Rosey clapped her hands. "He was a fine fellow!" cried she. "I
think that Nelson and Wellington went dashing through difficulties like
that. But I can't do so," added the child more gravely; "I have not
that bold, strong spirit. I am afraid that I am most like the little
cowardly girl who cried when she saw the thicket."
"Is not that because you do not look upon your childish troubles as a
means of testing your patience and obedience; is it not because you do
not seek for help from above, even in the little trials of your life?"
"They seem such trifles to look at in that way," said Rosey, gazing
thoughtfully into the fire.
"A writer has said that 'trifles form the sum of human things;' and
the life of a child, more especially, is made up of what we call
trifles. Yet children, as well as those who are old, are required to
glorify God; and as they can do no 'great' thing for him, it is by
their cheerful obedience, diligence, and sweet temper, that they must
show their gratitude and love. And does not this thought, dear Rosey,
make the performance of simple daily duties a bright and a holy thing?
If what we do, we do as 'unto the Lord,' feeling that His eye is upon
us, and seeking in all things to please Him, we find pleasure even in
irksome tasks, sweetness in what otherwise would be bitter."
Rosey looked as if she scarcely understood the words of her brother,
so, to make their meaning clearer, George went on with his tale:—
"There was one other child whom I saw in my dream advancing towards
the thicket Difficulty. I felt sorry for the little girl, for she was
feeble and pale, and as she moved over the grass, I saw that she was
both lame and barefoot!
"'Alas!' thought I. 'If she can scarcely make her way along the smooth
and pleasant path, how will she ever struggle through the prickly furze
before her!'"
[Illustration: THE LAME GIRL.]
"Perhaps the same thought was in the mind of the little traveller, for
she paused before the thicket, and looked forwards with a scared and
troubled air. Then she clasped her hands, and raised her eyes towards
the soft blue sky above her, and all trace of fear or care left her
smiling face. What was my surprise to see two beautiful little wings,
glittering like gold in the sunlight, and bright with the rainbow's
tints, gradually unfold from her shoulders! The child shook them
for a few moments, as if to try their powers, and then rising above
earth, and all its thorns, she gently flew over the painful place, and
alighting safely on the ground beyond, looked back with a bright and
thankful smile on the Difficulty which she had passed."
"Oh!" exclaimed Rosey. "What would I not give to have such beautiful
wings!"
"Those wings, dear Rosey, are 'faith' and 'love,' which lift us above
the world, which bear us onward in a heavenly course, which make us
find our chief delight in doing the will of our heavenly Father."
"I have not these wings!"
George drew his little sister closer to him, and bending down his head
towards her, whispered, "'Ask and ye shall receive.' God only can cause
those wings to grow, by the power of his Holy Spirit; He can give them
strength to bear us unharmed over all the rough places of life; and the
waters of the river of death shall not wet even the soles of the feet
of those who pass their depths, buoyed up on the glorious pinions of
'faith' and 'love!'"
XII.
THE BOY AND THE BIRD'S NEST.
[Illustration]
"MARY, my love, all is ready; we must not be late for the train," said
Mr. Miles, as, in his travelling dress, he entered the room where sat
his pale, weeping wife, ready to start on the long, long journey, which
would only end in India.
The gentleman looked flushed and excited; it was a painful moment for
him, for he had to part from his sister, and the one little boy whom he
was leaving under her care. But Mr. Miles's chief anxiety was for his
wife; for the trial, which was bitter to him, was almost heart-breaking
to her.
The carriage was at the door, all packed, the last band-box and shawl
had been put in.
Eddy could hear the sound of the horses pawing the ground in their
impatience to start. But the clinging arms of his mother were round
him—she held him close to her embrace, as if she would press him into
her heart, and the ruddy cheeks of the boy were wet with her falling
tears.
"O Eddy!—my child—God bless you!" she could hardly speak through her
sobs.
"My love, we must not prolong this," said the husband, gently trying to
draw her away. "Good-bye, Lucy—good-bye, my boy—you shall hear from us
both from Southampton."
The father embraced his sister and his son, and then hurried his wife
to the door.
Eddy rushed after them through the hall, on to the steps, and Mrs.
Miles, before entering the carriage, turned again to take her only son
into her fond arms once more.
Never could Eddy forget that embrace—the fervent pressure of the lips,
the heaving of his mother's bosom, the sound of his mother's sobs.
Light-hearted boy as he was, Eddy never had realized what parting
was till that time, though he had watched the preparations made for
the voyage for weeks—the packing of those big black boxes that had
almost blocked up the hall. Now he felt in a dream as he stood on the
steps, and through tear-dimmed eyes saw the carriage driven off which
held those who loved him so dearly. He caught a glimpse of his mother
bending forward to have a last look of her boy before a turn in the
road hid the carriage from view; and Eddy knew that long, long years
must pass before he should see that sweet face again.
"Don't grieve so, dear Eddy," said Aunt Lucy, kindly laying her hand on
his shoulder; "you and I must comfort each other."
But at that bitter moment Eddy was little disposed either to comfort
any one or to receive comfort himself. His heart seemed rising into
his throat; he could not utter a word. He rushed away into the woods
behind the house, with a longing to be quite alone. He could scarcely
think of anything but his mother; and the poor boy spent nearly an hour
under a tree, recalling her looks, her parting words, and grieving over
the recollection of how often his temper and his pride had given her
sorrow. He felt, in the words of the touching lament,—
"And now I recollect with pain
How many times I grieved her sore;
Oh, if she would but come again,
I think I would do so no more!
"How I would watch her gentle eye
'Twould be my joy to do her will;
And she should never have to sigh
Again for my behaving ill!"
But boys of eight years of age are seldom long unhappy. Before an
hour had passed, Eddy's thoughts were turned from the parting by his
chancing to glance upwards into the tree whose long green branches
waved above him. Eddy espied there a pretty little nest, almost hidden
by the foliage. Up jumped Eddy, eager for the prize; and in another
minute he was climbing the tree like a squirrel. Soon he grasped and
safely brought down the nest, in which he found, to his joy, three
beautiful eggs!
"Ah! I'll take them home to—" Eddy stopped short; the word "mother"
had been on his lips; it gave a pang to the boy to remember that the
presence of his gentle mother no longer brightened that home—that she
already was far, far away. Eddy seated himself on a rough bench, and
put down the nest by his side; he had less pleasure in his prize since
he could not show it to her whom he loved.
[Illustration: EDDY AND THE NEST.]
While Eddy sat thinking of his parent, as he had last seen her, with
her eyes red and swollen with weeping, his attention was attracted by a
loud pitiful chirping, which sounded quite near. Though the voice was
only the voice of a bird, it expressed such anxious distress, that Eddy
instantly guessed that it came from the poor little mother whose nest
he had carried away. Ah! What pains she had taken to form that delicate
nest!—How often must her wing have been wearied as she flew to and fro
on her labour of love! All her little home and all her fond hopes had
been torn from her at once to give a little amusement to a careless but
not heartless boy.
No; Eddy was not heartless. He was too full of his own mother's sorrow
when parting from her loved child to have no pity for the poor little
bird, chirping and fluttering over the treasure which she had lost.
"How selfish I have been!—How cruel!" cried Eddy, jumping up from his
seat. "Never fear, little bird! I will not break up your home; I will
not rob you of your young. I never will give any mother the sorrow felt
by my darling mamma."
Gently he took up the nest. It was no easy matter to climb the tree
again with it in his hand, but Eddy never stopped until he had replaced
the nest in its own snug place, wedged in the fork of a branch. Eddy's
heart felt lighter when he clambered down again to his seat, and heard
the joyful twitter of the little mother, perched on a branch of a tree.
And from that day it was Edith's delight to take a daily ramble to that
quiet part of the wood, and have a peep at the nest, half hidden in its
bower of leaves. He knew when the small birds were hatched; he watched
the happy mother when she fed her little brood; he looked on when she
taught her nestlings to take their first airy flight. This gave him
more enjoyment than the possession of fifty eggs could have done. Never
did Eddy regret that he had showed mercy and kindness, and denied
himself a pleasure to save another a pang.
XIII.
SENDING HORSES TO TRAVELLERS.
[Illustration]
"POOR old Matthew!" said Lucy. "I hear that he is almost dying with
cold!"
Ben was amusing himself with spinning on the table four bright
half-crowns, with which his grandfather had presented him that morning,
but he stopped for a moment to listen to his sister's account of the
sufferings of his aged neighbour, and in a tone of pity said, "I'm sure
that I wish that he were better off, he is such a good old man!"
"He had nothing but a crust all yesterday," said Lucy.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Ben, balancing his coin between his finger and
thumb. "I wish that he had had as good a dinner as I!" Twirl, twirl,
went the half-crown, looking like a half transparent ball, as it spun
rapidly round; then gradually its shape altered, it sank lower and
lower, then rattled down to its old position on the table.
[Illustration: BEN AND THE HALF-CROWNS.]
"I wish that some one would help him!" said Lucy, glancing at the money.
"So do I, with all my heart!" replied Ben, in a manner that told pretty
clearly that his charity would not go beyond his good wishes.
There was a pause, which was first broken by Lucy. "I read such a funny
account, in a book about Thibet," said she, "of a curious piece of
superstition, that I put mark in the place, just that I might read it
to you; I thought that it would make you laugh."
"Let's have it!" cried Ben, pocketing his half-crowns, for he dearly
loved anything funny.
So Lucy opened a volume of Huc's "Travels," and read the following
account of the strange ideas of a young student of medicine at
Kounboum:—
"One day," writes the missionary Huc, "he proposed to us a service of
devotion in favour of all the travellers throughout the whole world.
'We are not acquainted with this devotion,' said we; 'will you explain
it to us?' 'This is it: You know that a good many travellers find
themselves from time to time on rugged toilsome roads, and it often
happens that they cannot proceed by reason of their being altogether
exhausted. In this case we aid them by sending horses to them.' 'That,'
said we, 'is a most admirable custom; but you must consider that poor
travellers such as we are not in a condition to share in the good work.
You know that we possess only a horse and a little mule, which require
rest in order that they may carry us to Thibet.' He clapped his hands
together, and burst into a loud laugh. 'What are you laughing at? What
we have said is the simple truth; we have only a horse and a little
mule.' When his laughter at last subsided, 'It was not that which I
was laughing at,' said he; 'I laughed at your mistaking the sort of
devotion I mean. What we send to the travellers are paper horses.' And
therewith he ran off to his cell, and presently returned, his hands
filled with bits of paper, on each of which was printed the figure of
a horse, saddled and bridled, and going at full gallop. 'Here, these
are the horses we send to the travellers! To-morrow we shall ascend
a high mountain, and there we shall pass the day, saying prayers and
sending off horses.' 'How do you send them to the travellers?' 'Oh, the
means are very easy. After a certain form of prayer, we take a packet
of horses, which we throw up into the air; the wind carries them away,
and by the power of Buddha they are then changed to real horses, which
offer themselves to travellers.'"
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Ben, when she had finished. "I never heard
anything so odd in my life. We have nothing in England like these paper
horses."
"Well, I could not quite say that," observed Lucy; "there was something
that reminded me of them just now."
"What was that?" said Ben, glancing up at his sister.