butterfly had also forgotten them, for it was there no more. Larger
and more beautiful butterflies were flying about there, higher up in
the air. There was the magnificent Apollo-bird, with large white wings
and scarlet eyes; also the Antiopa, with its beautiful blue and white
velvet band on the edge of its dark velvet dress; and farther on the
dear little blue glittering Zefprinner, and many others.
Karine gathered flowers, and then went into the hay-field to work;
still, it often happened that she and her little brother went
supperless to bed. But then their father played on the violin, and
made them forget that they were hungry, and its tones lulled them to
sleep.
One day, when Karine was passing by the nettles, she stopped, rejoiced
to see them again. She saw that the nettles were a little bent down,
and, upon examination, found a number of small green caterpillars,
resembling those which we call cabbage-grubs, and they seemed to enjoy
eating the nettle leaves as much as the old countess did her nettle
soup. She saw that they covered the exact spot where she had made a
mark, and that the leaf was nearly eaten up by the caterpillars, and
Karine immediately thought that they must be the butterfly's children.
And so they were, for they had come from its eggs.
"Ah!" thought Karine, "if my little brother and I, who sometimes can
eat more than our father and mother can give us, could become
butterflies, and find something to eat as easily as these do, would it
not be pleasant?" She broke off the nettle on which the butterfly had
laid its eggs,--but this time she carefully wound her handkerchief
round her hand,--and carried it home.
On her arrival there, she found all the little grubs had crawled away,
with the exception of one, which was still eating and enjoying
itself. Karine put the nettle into a glass of water, and every day a
fresh leaf appeared. The caterpillar quickly increased in size, and
seemed to thrive wonderfully well. The child took great pleasure in
it, and wondered within herself how large it would be at last, and
when its wings would come.
But one morning it appeared very quiet and sleepy, and would not eat,
and became every moment more weary, and seemed ill. "O," said Karine,
"it is certainly going to die, and there will be no butterfly from it;
what a pity!"
It was evening, and the next morning Karine found with astonishment
that the caterpillar had spun round itself a sort of web, in which it
lay, no longer a living green grub, but a stiff brown chrysalis. She
took it out of the cocoon; it was as if enclosed in a shell. "It is
dead," said the child, "and is now lying in its coffin! But I will
still keep it, for it has been so long with us, and at any rate it
will be something belonging to my old favorite." Karine then laid it
on the earth in a little flower-pot which stood in the window, in
which there was a balsam growing.
The long winter came, and much, very much snow. Karine and her little
brother had to run barefooted through it all. The boy got a cough. He
became paler and paler, would not eat anything, and lay tired and
weary, just like the grub of the caterpillar shortly before it became
a chrysalis.
The snow melted, the April sun reappeared, but the little boy played
out of doors no more. His sister went out again to gather nettles and
blue anemones, but no longer with a merry heart. When she came home,
she would place the anemones on her little brother's sick-bed. And as
time went on, one day he lay there stiff and cold, with eyes fast
closed. In a word, he was dead. They placed him in a coffin, took him
to the churchyard, and laid him in the ground, and the priest threw
three handfuls of earth over the coffin. Karine's heart was so heavy
that she did not heed the blessed words which were spoken of the
resurrection unto everlasting life.
Karine only knew that her brother was dead, that she had no longer
any little brother whom she could play with, and love, and be loved by
in return. She wept bitterly when she thought how gentle and good he
was. She went crying into the meadows, gathered all the flowers and
young leaves she could find, and strewed them on her brother's grave,
and sat there weeping for many hours.
One day she took the pot with the balsam in it, and also the
chrysalis, and said, "I will plant the balsam on the grave, and bury
the butterfly's grub with my dear little brother." Again she wept
bitterly while she thought to herself: "Mother said that my brother
lives, and is happy with God; but I saw him lying in the coffin, and
put into the grave, and how can he then come back again? No, no; he is
dead, and I shall never see either of them again."
Poor little Karine sobbed, and dried her tears with the hand that was
free. In the other lay the chrysalis, and the sun shone upon it. There
was a low crackling in the shell, and a violent motion within, and,
behold! she saw a living insect crawl out, which threw off its shell
as a man would his cloak, and sat on Karine's hand, breathing, and at
liberty. In a short time wings began to appear from its back. Karine
looked on with a beating heart. She saw its wings increase in size,
and become colored in the brightness of the spring sun. Presently the
new-born butterfly moved its proboscis, and tried to raise its young
wings, and she recognized her nettle butterfly. And when, after an
hour, he fluttered his wings to prepare for flight, and flew around
the child's head and among the flowers, an unspeakably joyful feeling
came over Karine, and she said, "The shell of the chrysalis has burst,
and the caterpillar within has got wings; in like manner is my little
brother freed from his mortal body, and has become an angel in the
presence of God."
In the night she dreamed that her brother and herself, with
butterfly's wings, and joy beaming in their eyes, were soaring far,
far away, above their earthly home, towards the millions of bright
shining stars; and the stars became flowers, whose nectar they drank;
and over them was a wondrous bright light, and they heard sounds of
music,--so grand and beautiful! Karine recognized the tones she had
heard on earth, when their father played for her and her little
brother in their poor cottage, when they were hungry. But this was so
much more grand! Yet it was so beautiful, so exceedingly beautiful,
that Karine awoke. A rosy light filled the room, the morning dawn was
breaking, and the sun was looking in love upon the earth, reviving
everything with his gentleness and strength.
Karine wept no more. She felt great inward joy. When she again went to
visit the nettles, and saw the little caterpillars crawling on the
leaves, she said in a low voice, "You only crawl now, you little
things! By and by you will have wings as well as I, and you know not
how glorious it will be at the last."
_From the Swedish._
[Illustration]
LITTLE ARTHUR'S PRAYER.
The little school-boys went quietly to their own beds, and began
undressing and talking to one another in whispers; while the elder,
amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another's beds, with
their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed
with the novelty of his position. The idea of sleeping in the room
with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before, and was
as painful as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take his
jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it came, and then
he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of his bed,
talking and laughing.
"Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands?"
"Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring; "that's your
washhand-stand under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to
go down for more water in the morning if you use it all." And on he
went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds
out to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing
for a moment on himself the attention of the room.
On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and
undressing, and put on his night-gown. He then looked round more
nervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys were already in
bed, sitting up with their chins on their knees. The light burned
clear, the noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little
lonely boy; however, this time he did not ask Tom what he might or
might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done
every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the
cry and beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in
agony.
[Illustration]
Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that
his back was towards Arthur, and he did not see what had happened,
and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys
laughed and sneered, and a big brutal fellow who was standing in the
middle of the room picked up a slipper, and shied it at the kneeling
boy, calling him a snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole,
and the next moment the boot he had just pulled off flew straight at
the head of the bully, who had just time to throw up his arm and catch
it on his elbow.
"Confound you, Brown; what's that for?" roared he, stamping with pain.
"Never mind what I mean," said Tom, stepping on to the floor, every
drop of blood in his body tingling; "if any fellow wants the other
boot, he knows how to get it."
What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the
sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and
the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the
old verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out the candle in
another minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door
with his usual "Good night, genl'm'n."
There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken
to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the
pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of
memories which chased one another through his brain, kept him from
thinking or resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and he
could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed and rushing about
the room. Then the thought of his own mother came across him, and the
promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel
by his bedside, and give himself up to his Father, before he laid his
head on the pillow, from which it might never rise; and he lay down
gently, and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen
years old.
It was no light act of courage in those days for a little fellow to
say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later, when
Arnold's manly piety had begun to leaven the school, the tables
turned; before he died, in the schoolhouse at least, and I believe in
the other houses, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom had come to
school in other times. The first few nights after he came he did not
kneel down because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was
out, and then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one
should find him out. So did many another poor little fellow. Then he
began to think that he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and
then that it did not matter whether he was kneeling, or sitting, or
lying down. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will
not confess their Lord before men; and for the last year he had
probably not said his prayers in earnest a dozen times.
Poor Tom! the first and bitterest feeling which was like to break his
heart was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which
he loathed was brought in and burned in on his own soul. He had lied
to his mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it?
And then the poor little weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost
scorned for his weakness, had done that which he, braggart as he was,
dared not do. The first dawn of comfort came to him in vowing to
himself that he would stand by that boy through thick and thin, and
cheer him, and help him, and bear his burdens, for the good deed done
that night. Then he resolved to write home next day and tell his
mother all, and what a coward her son had been. And then peace came to
him as he resolved, lastly, to bear his testimony next morning. The
morning would be harder than the night to begin with, but he felt that
he could not afford to let one chance slip. Several times he faltered,
for the Devil showed him first, all his old friends calling him
"Saint," and "Squaretoes," and a dozen hard names, and whispered to
him that his motives would be misunderstood, and he would only be left
alone with the new boy; whereas it was his duty to keep all means of
influence, that he might do good to the largest number. And then came
the more subtle temptation, "Shall I not be showing myself braver than
others by doing this? Have I any right to begin it now? Ought I not
rather to pray in my own study, letting other boys know that I do so,
and trying to lead them to it, while in public at least I should go on
as I have done?" However, his good angel was too strong that night,
and he turned on his side and slept, tired of trying to reason, but
resolved to follow the impulse which had been so strong, and in which
he had found peace.
Next morning he was up and washed and dressed, all but his jacket and
waistcoat, just as the ten minutes' bell began to ring, and then in
the face of the whole room he knelt down to pray. Not five words could
he say,--the bell mocked him; he was listening for every whisper in
the room,--what were they all thinking of him? He was ashamed to go on
kneeling, ashamed to rise from his knees. At last, as it were from his
inmost heart, a still small voice seemed to breathe forth the words of
the publican, "God be merciful to me a sinner!" He repeated them over
and over, clinging to them as for his life, and rose from his knees
comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole world. It was not
needed; two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his
example, and he went down to the great school with a glimmering of
another lesson in his heart,--the lesson that he who has conquered his
own coward spirit has conquered the whole outward world; and that
other one which the old prophet learned in the cave at Mount Horeb,
when he hid his face, and the still small voice asked, "What doest
thou here, Elijah?" that however we may fancy ourselves alone on the
side of good, the King and Lord of men is nowhere without his
witnesses; for in every society, however seemingly corrupt and
godless, there are those who have not bowed the knee to Baal.
He found, too, how greatly he had exaggerated the effect to be
produced by his act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a laugh
when he knelt down, but this passed off soon, and one by one all the
other boys but three or four followed the lead.
"_School-Days at Rugby._"
FAITH AND HER MOTHER.
Aunt Winifred went again to Worcester to-day. She said that she had to
buy trimming for Faith's sack.
She went alone, as usual, and Faith and I kept each other company
through the afternoon,--she on the floor with her doll, I in the
easy-chair with Macaulay. As the light began to fall level on the
floor, I threw the book aside,--being at the end of a volume,--and,
Mary Ann having exhausted her attractions, I surrendered
unconditionally to the little maiden.
She took me up garret, and down cellar, on top of the wood-pile, and
into the apple-trees; I fathomed the mysteries of Old Man's Castle and
Still Palm; I was her grandmother; I was her baby; I was a rabbit; I
was a chestnut horse; I was a watch-dog; I was a mild-tempered giant;
I was a bear, "warranted not to eat little girls"; I was a roaring
hippopotamus and a canary-bird; I was Jeff Davis, and I was Moses in
the bulrushes; and of what I was, the time faileth me to tell.
It comes over me with a curious, mingled sense of the ludicrous and
the horrible, that I should have spent the afternoon like a baby and
almost as happily, laughing out with the child, past and future
forgotten, the tremendous risks of "I spy" absorbing all my present,
while what was happening was happening, and what was to come was
coming. Not an echo in the air, not a prophecy in the sunshine, not a
note of warning in the song of the robins that watched me from the
apple-boughs.
As the long, golden afternoon slid away, we came out by the front gate
to watch for the child's mother. I was tired, and, lying back on the
grass, gave Faith some pink and purple larkspurs, that she might amuse
herself in making a chain of them. The picture that she made sitting
there on the short dying grass--the light which broke all about her
and over her at the first, creeping slowly down and away to the west,
her little fingers linking the rich, bright flowers, tube into tube,
the dimple on her cheek and the love in her eyes--has photographed
itself into my thinking.
How her voice rang out, when the wheels sounded at last, and the
carriage, somewhat slowly driven, stopped!
"Mamma, mamma! see what I've got for you, mamma!"
Auntie tried to step from the carriage, and called me: "Mary, can you
help me a little? I am--tired."
I went to her, and she leaned heavily on my arm, and we came up the
path.
"Such a pretty little chain, all for you, mamma," began Faith, and
stopped, struck by her mother's look.
"It has been a long ride, and I am in pain. I believe I will lie right
down on the parlor sofa. Mary, would you be kind enough to give Faith
her supper and put her to bed?"
Faith's lip grieved.
"Cousin Mary isn't _you_, mamma. I want to be kissed. You haven't
kissed me."
Her mother hesitated for a moment; then kissed her once, twice; put
both arms about her neck, and turned her face to the wall without a
word.
"Mamma is tired, dear," I said; "come away."
She was lying quite still when I had done what was to be done for the
child, and had come back. The room was nearly dark. I sat down on my
cricket by her sofa.
"Did you find the sack-trimming?" I ventured, after a pause.
"I believe so,--yes."
She drew a little package from her pocket, held it a moment, then let
it roll to the floor forgotten. When I picked it up, the soft,
tissue-paper wrapper was wet and hot with tears.
"Mary?"
"Yes."
"I never thought of the little trimming till the last minute. I had
another errand."
I waited.
[Illustration]
"I thought at first I would not tell you just yet. But I suppose the
time has come; it will be no more easy to put it off. I have been to
Worcester all these times to see a doctor."
I bent my head in the dark, and listened for the rest.
"He has his reputation; they said he could help me if anybody could.
He thought at first he could. But to-day--"
The leaves rustled out of doors. Faith, up stairs, was singing herself
to sleep with a droning sound.
"I suppose," she said at length, "I must give up and be sick now; I am
feeling the reaction from having kept up so long. He thinks I shall
not suffer a very great deal. He thinks he can relieve me, and that it
may be soon over."
"There is no chance?"
"No chance."
I took both of her hands, and cried out, "Auntie, Auntie, Auntie!" and
tried to think what I was doing, but only cried out the more.
"Why, Mary!" she said; "why, Mary!" and again, as before, she passed
her soft hand to and fro across my hair, till by and by I began to
think, as I had thought before, that I could bear anything which God,
who loved us all,--who _surely_ loved us all,--should send.
So then, after I had grown still, she began to tell me about it in her
quiet voice; and the leaves rustled, and Faith had sung herself to
sleep, and I listened wondering. For there was no pain in the quiet
voice,--no pain, nor tone of fear. Indeed, it seemed to me that I
detected, through its subdued sadness, a secret, suppressed buoyancy
of satisfaction, with which something struggled.
"And you?" I asked, turning quickly upon her.
"I should thank God with all my heart, Mary, if it were not for Faith
and you. But it _is_ for Faith and you. That's all."
When I had locked the front door, and was creeping up here to my room,
my foot crushed something, and a faint, wounded perfume came up. It
was the little pink and purple chain.
"_The Gates Ajar._"
THE OPEN DOOR.
Poor Mrs. Van Loon was a widow. She had four little children. The
eldest was Dirk, a boy of eight years.
One evening she had no bread, and her children were hungry. She folded
her hands, and prayed to God; for she served the Lord, and she
believed that he loved and could help her.
When she had finished her prayer, Dirk said to her, "Mother, don't we
read in the Bible that God sent ravens to a pious man to bring him
bread?"
"Yes," answered the mother, "but that's long, long ago, my dear."
"Well," said Dirk, "then the Lord may send ravens now. I'll go and
open the door, else they can't fly in."
In a trice Dirk jumped to the door, which he left wide open, so that
the light of the lamp fell on the pavement of the street.
Shortly after, the burgomaster passed by. The burgomaster is the first
magistrate of a Dutch town or village. Seeing the open door, he
stopped.
Looking into the room, he was pleased with its clean, tidy appearance,
and with the nice little children who were grouped around their
mother. He could not help stepping in, and approaching Mrs. Van Loon
he said, "Eh, my good woman, why is your door open so late as this?"
Mrs. Van Loon was a little confused when she saw such a well-dressed
gentleman in her poor room. She quickly rose and dropped a courtesy to
the gentleman; then taking Dirk's cap from his head, and smoothing his
hair, she answered, with a smile, "My little Dirk has done it, sir,
that the ravens may fly in to bring us bread."
Now, the burgomaster was dressed in a black coat and black trousers,
and he wore a black hat. He was quite black all over, except his
collar and shirt-front.
"Ah! indeed!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "Dirk is right. Here is a
raven, you see, and a large one too. Come along, Dirk, and I'll show
you where the bread is."
The burgomaster took Dirk to his house, and ordered his servant to put
two loaves and a small pot of butter into a basket. This he gave to
Dirk, who carried it home as quickly as he could. When the other
little children saw the bread, they began dancing and clapping their
hands. The mother gave to each of them a thick slice of bread and
butter, which they ate with the greatest relish.
When they had finished their meal, Dirk went to the open door, and,
taking his cap from his head, looked up to the sky, and said, "Many
thanks, good Lord!" And after having said this, he shut the door.
_John de Liefde._
[Illustration]
THE PRINCE'S VISIT.
It was a holiday in the city, for the Prince was to arrive. As soon as
the cannon should sound, the people might know that the Prince had
landed from the steamer; and when they should hear the bells ring,
that was much the same as being told that the Mayor and Aldermen and
City Councillors had welcomed the Prince, by making speeches, and
shaking hands, and bowing, and drinking wine; and that now the Prince,
dressed in splendid clothes, and wearing a feather in his cap, was
actually on his way up the main street of the city, seated in a
carriage drawn by four coal-black horses, preceded by soldiers and
music, and followed by soldiers, citizens in carriages, and people on
foot. Now it was the first time that a Prince had ever visited the
city, and it might be the only chance that the people ever would get
to see a real son of a king; and so it was universally agreed to have
a holiday, and long before the bells rang, or even the cannon sounded,
the people were flocking into the main street, well dressed, as indeed
they ought to be, when they were to be seen by a Prince.
It was holiday in the stores and in the workshops, although the
holiday did not begin at the same hour everywhere. In the great
laundry it was to commence when the cannon sounded; and "weak Job," as
his comrades called him, who did nothing all day long but turn the
crank that worked a great washing-machine, and which was quite as
much, they said, as he had wits to do, listened eagerly for the sound
of the cannon; and when he heard it, he dropped the crank, and,
getting a nod from the head man, shuffled out of the building and made
his way home.