THE LAST LOAD OF HAY, AND "THE TWO LITTLE BUDS AND THE LIGHTNING."
WHILE these pleasant rambles and excursions were going on, of course
there was no time for sewing. Marian's working-materials were all put
out of sight, and so were those little garments which she intended to
make for the poor widow's children. For two or three days after the
visit to Hareby Wood, there were no long rambles, and the young people
amused themselves at home; so that had Marian been inclined to bestow
even a portion of her leisure upon the work she undertook—voluntarily,
in the first instance—she might have made great progress.
It is the fault of many children that when they commence a thing, they
work very hard indeed for a short time, and then, for want of a little
perseverance, it is left unfinished. This habit of beginning many
things and completing none, was a great failing of Marian's. When they
were at home, Mrs. Ingram took pains to correct this bad habit in her
daughter; and though she kindly allowed her ample time and opportunity
to consider whether she should really like to undertake any fresh piece
of work, yet, when once begun, she did not allow her to throw it aside
until it was finished. And Marian had been daily expecting a reminder
from her mother respecting those little garments, which pressed with
a very heavy weight, considering how small they were, upon the girl's
mind. But not a word was said, either by her or Uncle Paul, although
Marian had found out that he was very keen-sighted with regard to the
faults of children, though so gentle in his rebukes, and anxious to
make the young happy.
Now, Marian felt that she was doing wrong in neglecting to complete
her undertaking; she knew that she was allowing a bad habit to
gain more ground upon her, yet size lacked resolution to conquer
the disinclination to resume her labours. Often when she went into
the fields, she quite dreaded a meeting with the poor woman or her
children, lest their looks should appear to ask why she was so tardy
in fulfilling her promise. But nothing of the kind happened. Mamma
and Uncle Paul never uttered a word on the subject; and Marian, while
wishing that she had never talked about what she meant to do, began
to think at last that her pledge to the poor widow was forgotten by
everybody. She missed the pile of little garments, too, from the top of
the work-basket, but she did not ask for them "then."
She thought to herself: "The first rainy-day that comes, I will begin
to sew again, and it will be time enough to inquire when I want them.
If I say anything now, perhaps I shall have to stay in-doors, and this
is such a lovely afternoon, I 'must' enjoy it. Beside, it is good for
my health to be out in this fresh pure country air."
Whenever people "want" very much to follow Inclination instead of Duty,
they generally find out some way of shewing that it will benefit them
either in mind or body, and poor Marian was no exception from this
rule. Thus the time wore on very pleasantly in a general sense, but
still Marian could not help a feeling of self-reproach that came in the
quiet hours, and reminded her of her unfulfilled promise to the poor
widow, and of her unfinished work.
One lovely afternoon, just after dinner, Uncle Paul said; "Children,
the last loads of hay will be brought home to-night, and there
will be a little rejoicing amongst the work-people. Nothing like a
harvest-home, you know; but still it is the fashion, in this part of
the country, to deck the last wagon with green-boughs, and then the
youngsters ride into the steelyard amongst them, and shout and hurrah.
Now, as I have you young visitors, I should like you to go into the
field, and when the last load is safely in the stack-yard, I daresay
you will have no objection to distribute a few hot buns and some milk
to the haymakers' children. They will come in their holiday-frocks and
pinafores to-day."
Kate and Bernard vowed they should like much to attend to the wants
of Uncle Paul's poorer guests, and thanked him for giving them the
opportunity; but Marian's face was red and hot, and she remained silent.
She was thinking: "Ah, if I had only given a little time, and deprived
myself of an hour or two's amusement each day, the poor widow's
children might have had neat new clothes! As it is, they are all
unmade, and for the present useless."
Most likely Uncle Paul noticed the expression of his niece's face, but
he made no remark about it. He only added: "Make haste, then; get on
your bonnets, and we will go to the field directly that we may have one
more rest under the sweet-scented haycocks, before the last is put upon
the wagon, and brought home into the stack-yard."
Marian was very silent on the way to the field, but all the rest were
as full of spirits as possible. They chose a pleasant spot to sit
in; and the hay was piled so nicely in the form of seats that mamma
declared it made the most delightful of cushions. Bernard and Kate then
ran off towards the work-people, but Marian sat still with her mother
and Uncle Paul, though she was longing to take a fork and help like
them to gather up the hay that remained.
An hour afterwards, Bernard came bounding towards them. "You have lost
your chance of any more haymaking for this year, Marian," he said; "the
wagon is just off with this load, and the remainder, which will not
fill it again, will be the last. I suppose you will come, by and by, to
help to stick the green-boughs on the children's bonnets and hats, for
they all intend to be decorated, I can tell you."
"Bring Kate here, then," replied Uncle Paul; and while the wagon is
away, "I will tell you just a short story."
The announcement of a tale from Uncle Paul was always sufficient to
bring Kate to his side as soon as she could get there. She needed no
second summons to take her place on the scented heap of hay, and then
Uncle Paul told them all about—
"THE TWO LITTLE BUDS AND THE LIGHTNING."
"'I think I shall live to see another day's sunshine!' said a large
blue convolvulus, as she watched the sun sinking in the west. 'It
cannot be true that a flower so beautiful and perfect as I am, can be
intended to last only a single day! To be sure, all the other flowers,
my companions that are still open, tell me that they have lived no
longer than myself. That is likely enough, though; and as we all opened
together this morning, most probably we shall close at the same time,
to re-open when the sun comes round again to the place in which I first
saw him. If I thought I were going to fade and die, I would say a few
warning words to these young buds that I see around me. But it cannot
be. I shall have an opportunity of talking with them to-morrow: another
day's experience will give more weight to my warnings.'
"Just then the evening breeze blew rather chilly across the flower,
and she felt herself beginning to shrink inwards with an involuntary
motion. The movement was a warning, to tell her that life was nearly
ended for her.
"'I am going to sleep!' said she. She did not believe it could be Death
so close at hand, and she so young and beautiful. Alas that it should
be so! The young and the beautiful die as well as the old and withered.
The convolvulus saw all around her the shrivelled forms of numbers of
other kindred flowers, and yet she thought within herself that death
would not touch 'her.' The sun was all the while sinking slowly, and
the breeze blew colder and colder round the frail flower, making the
corolla shrink again.
"'Ah!' said she. 'This going to sleep is not a pleasant sensation.
Perhaps I feel it the more, because it is my first time of closing up.
I shall be stronger and better able to bear it to-morrow.'
"She talked of to-morrow, though she felt that the light of day was
going away from her, and that she was beginning to look like those
other withered-up forms around her, which were a few hours before as
beautiful as herself. So that it was only at the last moment of her
life that she began to imagine it possible that death, and not sleep,
had seized upon her fair form, and faded her lovely hues.
"Then in a voice like a faint sigh—which the wind was obliging enough
to carry to the two buds respecting which she was solicitous—she said:
'When the sun shines upon you next, you will know what life is. You
will enter into its full enjoyment, but your existence depends upon his
presence. When he disappears, you will die as I am dying now, and your
beauty will be gone, never to return. I ought to have known what to
expect, from what has happened to others of my race, but I have lived
my short life as if it were never to end. If the time were to come
again, I would—'
"Here the good-natured zephyr, which had hovered round the dying flower
in order to fulfil her last wishes, and deliver the message with which
she charged him, began to sigh and moan as he wandered in and out of
the leaves. The convolvulus was dead! Faithful to his trust, the wind
told the buds all that their departed relative had said. It was quite
dark while they listened to his sad story; and after they had thanked
him, they asked him to describe the appearance of this life-giving sun,
whose presence would bring the power to see him to themselves.
"'What is the sun like?' asked one of the buds.
"The wind thought it was a queer question, for as the bud had never yet
been opened, it could not know what anything was like.
"'He is like nothing else,' replied the wind softly. 'You will see him
shine out bright and glorious, high up in the sky. His rays will warm
you; and you will gradually increase in strength and beauty, so long as
he shines upon you. Yet do not forget that your existence depends upon
his presence, and that when you lose sight of him, you will die.'
"'What a sad fate!' said both the little buds together. 'Oh, if we
might live a little longer than one short day!'
"The night-dew which lay upon their leaves dissolved into round drops,
and fell as if the plant were in tears at the prospect of death; and
the little buds murmured again, as they swayed themselves to and fro,
to think that they were not longer lived.
"'Take comfort,' said the zephyr kindly; 'you are more fortunate than
you think; you know exactly how long you have to live, and can prepare
accordingly. I can assure you that few are so favoured, though all know
they must die some time.'
"'What! Will all the roses, lilies, pansies, and other flowers whose
scent you have brought us, die too?' asked the buds.
"'Every one!' replied the zephyr. 'Moreover, they are very liable to
die violent deaths. Only this very day, I saw numbers of them severed
from their parent-stems by the gardener's hand, and I know they must
die the sooner for it. He passed all the flowers of your kind without
taking one, because, he said, they would close so soon, it was not
worth while to take them. Thus, you see, the very thing you regret has
its advantages. Every station has some peculiar to itself, if we only
take pains to find them.'
"'But this death must be so terrible!'
"'Not always,' replied the zephyr. 'I have passed in at windows into
the habitations of men, and though I must confess that I have seen many
who were afraid to meet it, I have known others who rejoiced at its
approach. Take comfort, little flowers! In 'your' short life, you may
gladden some eye and heart by your beauty; and if you are the means
of doing that, or of leading any to think of the Great Hand that made
you, you will not have lived in vain. At the worst, remember you share
the common lot. The beasts and birds, worms and insects, 'all die.'
The stately oak may live a thousand years, but must yield at last; and
there are even some amongst the children of men who die as young as the
frailest flower of the field.'
"The little buds were greatly cheered and comforted by the words of the
zephyr, and they thanked him very heartily.
"'I am glad if I have been of service,' the zephyr replied; 'and now I
must away.'
"The buds begged him to stay longer, at least till they could shew
their gratitude by opening their azure cups for him to drink the
morning dew from them. It could not be. The zephyr was obliged to go.
"'I am a great traveller, and roam the earth over,' answered he. 'It is
not often that I stay anywhere so long as I have done with you; but I
am in a soft mood to-night. I must be many a mile away before morning.'
"He sighed as he left them; but duty called, and, whatever his
inclinations might be, he would not allow them to interfere with what
was right. He bade the little buds 'good-night,' said that a brother
of his from the East was about to pay them a visit, but he hoped they
would not see much of him, as he was scarcely to be deemed a desirable
acquaintance.
"Their gentle friend had scarcely made his exit, when the two little
buds became sensible of the arrival of another member of the same
family—a boisterous individual, who saluted them so rudely that
he knocked them one against the other without the least ceremony.
They very heartily wished him a thousand miles away; and no wonder,
considering their peculiar circumstances. The rain began to fall next
in very large drops, which half-drowned the poor little buds, and were
nearly knocking them off their stems. How anxiously they looked for the
appearance of the bright sun! For they began to fear that, if they were
long exposed to such rough usage, they should not survive to see the
light of day. All at once, a brilliant light shone out upon the poor
trembling buds.
"'This is surely the sun!' cried they, for the light was so bright
and dazzling that it darted down the centre of their corollas. Before
the exclamation had all escaped them, they were again left in total
darkness; but a hollow rumbling sound, which shook the very earth in
which they stood, next alarmed them more than the glare had done. Then
one little bud began to doubt whether that could have been the sun.
"'There was light enough, to be sure,' it said, 'but warmth there was
none. It dazzled for a moment, and then disappeared so very suddenly
that I only felt the darkness the more.'
"'Beside,' replied the other, 'when the sun comes, it will remain as
long as our life lasts, and we have not yet grown into perfect life.'
"At this moment, both the buds were startled by another bright flash,
and then another. The pouring rain fell heavily on their tender forms,
and the rumbling noise increased in loudness. The buds shook and
trembled with terror. They knew not what to think, for they had not
been forewarned, and they could not help imagining that if the sun's
presence were to be ushered in thus awfully, they should dread instead
of hoping for his coming.
"A rose that was near at hand, and had overheard the conversation, now
bowed her queenly head—for she pitied the frail buds—to explain matters
to them.
"'These flashes of light,' she said, 'are not caused by the sun's
rays. His presence brings warmth and comfort; but Lightning, as these
flashes are called, often brings destruction. I have seen it dart
through a great tree, and cleave it quite in two, leaving the halves
black, scorched, and withered. But do not be frightened. I cannot say
that I ever knew it attack such humble individuals as yourselves: that
great tree is in far more danger,' and she bent towards an oak in the
neighbourhood.
"The little buds thanked her humbly for the information, and began to
feel the truth of what the zephyr had previously told them—namely, that
every station has its advantages as well as trials. They heard the
rumble of the thunder, and saw the lightning without fear, and, after a
time, both ceased entirely. The boisterous wind took its departure, and
was, followed by a gentler brother from the South, whose company was a
very pleasant change for them.
"By and by, a soft but continuous light reached them, and they felt
constrained to open their corollas to greet it. Then they saw the sun,
and felt its warm-rays shining upon them. The south wind waved them
lightly to and fro, and thus shook off the heavy drops which still
clung to them; and as the sun rose higher, he dried up the rest with
his kindly beams. The buds were now fully expanded into flowers, as
perfect as those which had decked the plant the day before. The rain
had done them no harm, but rather good, and they turned themselves
towards the source of light, conscious of what they owed to him, and
resolved to rejoice in the good they possessed 'while it was theirs,'
yet prepare themselves to resign life without a murmur when called
upon. The flowers were in the full pride of their beauty still, though
it was far past noon, and the sun was beginning to decline, when two
young girls entered the garden, and advanced towards them.
"'See,' said one of the girls, 'what a lovely colour! This blue is
like a reflection from the sky.' As she spoke, she bent over the
twin-flowers in turn, and seemed to be drinking in joy at the sight of
their beauty.
"'They are lovely,' replied her companion; 'and, as you say, they are
as a reflection from the sky, for the same God that made them, spread
that glorious firmament over our heads.'
"'How perfect they are!' said the first speaker, still stooping over
the blossoms. 'Is it not wonderful that these flowers, which are but to
last a single day, and then to die, are endowed with such marvellous
beauty?'
"'It is indeed,' was the answer. 'And surely He who made them had a
purpose in thus forming them. Surely, "we" may learn a lesson from them
also.'
"'What! To admire the wisdom of their Creator and ours?'
"'Everything we see teaches that. But does it not seem, sister, that
these flowers especially remind us that, even as our Creator has
finished with equal pains the stately oak, and the blossom which lives
and dies within a day, so should we perform those duties which are
comparatively trifling in our eyes with as much zeal as we give to the
greater ones.'
"'Doing with our might whatsoever our hand findeth to do,' added the
other sister softly. 'Thanks, little flowers, for the lesson you have
taught us!'
"The two girls passed their hands tenderly over the bright
convolvuluses once more, and then left them, tremulous with delight.
"'Ah,' said they both together, 'what joy it is to think we have not
lived in vain! But this morning, we were lamenting at the thought of
coming death; now, we shall give up life with such different feelings,
for we know that a remembrance of us will remain in the hearts of the
gentle and good! We have done all we could do; "we have sown the seed
of a right thought, and who knows what good actions may spring from
it?"'
"Calmly and quietly, the twin-flowers waited for death; and when the
sun sunk in the west, they closed for ever, gladdened by the knowledge
that they had not lived in vain."
As Uncle Paul ceased, he saw that Bernard's face was grave, and that
down Marian's cheeks the tears were trickling fast, while Kate clung
more closely than common to his side. The story had brought "solemn"
thoughts to them all, but "sad" ones to Marian only.
"I did not wish to make you unhappy, my darlings," said Uncle Paul
tenderly. "But is it not as well to look at both sides of the picture?
Death is as certain to overtake each of us as it is the little flower
which lives but for a day. And yet, while we love to look at all which
belongs to life, we shrink from looking at what is every night brought
a day nearer to each of us. Uncle Paul is growing old, my darlings;
his hair is white. It is summer 'here' now, but for all that, 'he' is
in the winter of life. He does not know whether the season will be a
short or a long one; but he knows it is the last of the four, and that
his spring, summer, and autumn are gone already. He looks back on them,
and often wishes that he had done more and better than he has. So he
preaches to you, children, that you may begin to work while it is yet
your spring-time, and have the less to regret should you live until
life's winter."
There was no answer in words when Uncle Paul finished speaking; but
Kate kissed his cheek again and again, and passed her little fingers
lovingly through his white hair; while Bernard pressed his hand, as
if by way of pledge that his words should not be thrown away. Down
Marian's cheeks the tears now flowed like rain, and Uncle Paul guessed
that conscience was reminding her of a neglected duty. So putting Kate
aside, after a loving caress, he passed his kind arm round Marian, and
said:
"Dear child, I have a word or two to say to you in particular. Shall I
send these others away, and whisper them in your ear only?"
He waited for her reply, and Marian answered in a low voice: "No, dear
Uncle Paul; let them hear what you say to me. Then we shall all learn
something more from your story."
"I was thinking, my darlings," said Uncle Paul, "that when we do a
single kind act, from the mere impulse of a moment, and not habitually
because it is right, we are like the flash of lightning, which dazzles
for a moment, but makes the darkness seem all the greater when it is
gone. For instance, Marian here worked very hard for a little while to
perform an act of kindness. Her gift to the poor widow's children came
upon them as unexpectedly as the flash of lightning, and her promise
of further help raised a degree of hope in their minds, which, not
having been fulfilled, must have caused far greater disappointment than
the mere absence of the promised comforts could have occasioned. The
disappointment was thus the greater darkness that followed the flash of
light and hope. Now, the true and steady charity which springs from the
habitual feeling and principle of right, is just like the bright sun,
whose course is continued, to cheer and bless, from year to year, and
whose mode of noting is only varied for the benefit of what it shines
upon.
"Uncle Paul has done preaching now, children," added the dear old man;
"and see, here comes the empty wagon, in good time, to fetch the last
load of hay!"
Marian dried her tears, and they all rose from the ground to go and
meet the merry group of children who had come in the wagon. Amongst
them Marian distinguished the forms of the poor widow and her little
folks, and she whispered to her uncle: "I am so sorry I have been lazy
and forgetful of my promise, Uncle Paul. I shall be punished by the
sight of those children who might have had their new clothes, if I had
worked in my spare hours half as hard as I did at first."
"They are not ragged, though, Marian," said her uncle.
To the young girl's great astonishment, she saw that the widow's
children were dressed in new frocks and pinafores of the very same
stuff as she had chosen.
"One would think, Uncle Paul," she remarked, "that some good
industrious fairy had taken pity on them, and finished my work."
"It was some one who is both good and industrious, but no fairy,
Marian." Uncle Paul glanced towards Mrs. Ingram as he spoke, and Marian
knew the truth.
"Oh, mother," said she, "I know now why you have spent an hour or two
every day shut up in your own room. You were doing the work which my
hands ought to have finished."
"Yes," interposed her uncle, "mamma has acted the part of the good
fairy this time, and I hope the lesson will not be lost upon you, my
dear. For, remember, through using up the 'fragments' of her time only,
she has been enabled to confer a great benefit on these poor people.
She has joined us in all our excursions and rambles, yet the remnants
of leisure, well used, have sufficed for this work. You may cast aside
fragments of anything else you please, and pick them up afterwards, but
time once thrown away, is gone for ever."
There was no more preaching—as Uncle Paul called his kind
warnings—after this. Bernard, Marian, and Kate found enough to do
in decorating the little children with flowers, and the wagon with
green-boughs; and when the small remaining portion of hay was put
into it, the youngsters all rode home together in triumph. When they
reached Hay-Lodge, the large kitchen was quite a sight. Long tables
were set out, and covered with white cloths, and large cups placed
on them. These, the three children filled with new milk, and as soon
as the spice-buns were drawn hot from the oven, all the young guests
were seated at table, and liberally supplied with them, to their great
satisfaction, by Bernard, Marian, and Kate.
After the meal, they had a hearty romp on the lawn; and at eight
o'clock, each child was supplied with another bun, and sent home in
high glee, and very grateful to Uncle Paul for the treat he had given
them. Only city-children, like the little Ingrams themselves, can
understand how delightful these country scenes are.
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