too had been greedy and sordid; how he had thought of nothing but
eating, and had never once turned his eyes upwards to the blue
heavens. At length, however, a complete change had come over him; and
instead of crawling spiritless about the dirty earth, half dreaming,
he all at once awaked as out of a deep sleep. And now he could rise
into the air; and it was his greatest joy sometimes to play with the
light, and to reflect the heavens in the bright eyes of his wings;
sometimes to listen to the soft language of the flowers, and catch
their secrets. Such talk delighted the child, and his breakfast was
the sweeter to him, and the sunshine on leaf and flower seemed to him
more bright and cheering.
But when the bee had flown off to beg from flower to flower, and the
butterfly had fluttered away to his playfellows, the dragon-fly still
remained poised on a blade of grass. Her slender and burnished body,
more brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue sky, glistened in the
sunbeam; and her net-like wings laughed at the flowers because _they_
could not fly, but must stand still and abide the wind and the rain.
The dragon-fly sipped a little of the child's clear dew-drops and
blue-violet honey, and then whispered her winged words. And the child
made an end of his repast, closed his dark blue eyes, bent down his
beautiful head, and listened to the sweet prattle.
Then the dragon-fly told much of the merry life in the green
wood,--how sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows
under the broad leaves of the oak and the beech trees; or
hunt-the-hare along the surface of the still waters; sometimes quietly
watched the sunbeams, as they flew busily from moss to flower and from
flower to bush, and shed life and warmth over all. But at night, she
said, the moonbeams glided softly around the wood, and dropped dew
into the mouths of all the thirsty plants; and when the dawn pelted
the slumberers with the soft roses of heaven, some of the half-drunken
flowers looked up and smiled, but most of them could not so much as
raise their heads for a long, long time.
Such stories did the dragon-fly tell; and as the child sat motionless,
with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little hand, she
thought he had fallen asleep; so she poised her double wings and flew
into the rustling wood.
II.
But the child was only sunk into a dream of delight, and was wishing
_he_ were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear
more and more, and forever. But at last, as all was still, he opened
his eyes and looked around for his dear guest, but she was flown far
away; so he could not bear to sit there any longer alone, and he rose
and went to the gurgling brook. It gushed and rolled so merrily, and
tumbled so wildly along as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels
into the river, just as if the great massy rock out of which it sprang
were close behind it, and could only be escaped by a break-neck leap.
Then the child began to talk to the little waves, and asked them
whence they came. They would not stay to give him an answer, but
danced away, one over another, till at last, that the sweet child
might not be grieved, a drop of water stopped behind a piece of rock.
From her the child heard strange histories; but he could not
understand them all, for she told him about her former life, and about
the depths of the mountain.
"A long while ago," said the drop of water, "I lived with my countless
sisters in the great ocean, in peace and unity. We had all sorts of
pastimes; sometimes we mounted up high into the air, and peeped at the
stars; then we sank plump down deep below, and looked how the
coral-builders work till they are tired, that they may reach the light
of day at last. But I was conceited, and thought myself much better
than my sisters. And so one day, when the sun rose out of the sea, I
clung fast to one of his hot beams, and thought that now I should
reach the stars, and become one of them. But I had not ascended far,
when the sunbeam shook me off, and, in spite of all I could say or do,
let me fall into a dark cloud. And soon a flash of fire darted through
the cloud, and now I thought I must surely die; but the whole cloud
laid itself down softly upon the top of a mountain, and so I escaped
with my fright and a black eye. Now I thought I should remain hidden,
when all on a sudden, I slipped over a round pebble, fell from one
stone to another, down into the depths of the mountain, till at last
it was pitch dark, and I could neither see nor hear anything. Then I
found, indeed, that 'pride goeth before a fall,' resigned myself to my
fate, and, as I had already laid aside all my unhappy pride in the
cloud, my portion was now the salt of humility; and after undergoing
many purifications from the hidden virtues of metals and minerals, I
was at length permitted to come up once more into the free cheerful
air; and now will I run back to my sisters, and there wait patiently
till I am called to something better."
But hardly had she done when the root of a forget-me-not caught the
drop of water by her hair, and sucked her in, that she might become a
floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue star on the green firmament
of earth.
III.
The child did not very well know what to think of all this; he went
thoughtfully home, and laid himself on his little bed; and all night
long he was wandering about on the ocean, and among the stars, and
over the dark mountain. But the moon loved to look on the slumbering
child, as he lay with his little head softly pillowed on his right
arm. She lingered a long time before his little window, and went
slowly away to lighten the dark chamber of some sick person. As the
moon's soft light lay on the child's eyelids, he fancied he sat in a
golden boat, on a great, great water; countless stars swam glittering
on the dark mirror. He stretched out his hand to catch the nearest
star, but it vanished, and the water sprayed up against him. Then he
saw clearly that these were not the real stars; he looked up to
heaven, and wished he could fly thither. But in the mean time the moon
had wandered on her way; and now the child was led in his dream into
the clouds, and he thought he was sitting on a white sheep, and he saw
many lambs grazing around him. He tried to catch a little lamb to play
with, but it was all mist and vapor; and the child was sorrowful, and
wished himself down again in his own meadow, where his own lamb was
sporting gayly about.
Meanwhile the moon was gone to sleep behind the mountains, and all
around was dark. Then the child dreamed that he fell down into the
dark, gloomy caverns of the mountain; and at that he was so frightened
that he suddenly awoke, just as Morning opened her clear eye over the
nearest hill.
IV.
The child started up, and, to recover himself from his fright, went
into the little flower-garden behind his cottage, where the beds were
surrounded by ancient palm-trees, and where he knew that all the
flowers would nod kindly at him. But, behold, the tulip turned up her
nose, and the ranunculus held her head as stiffly as possible, that
she might not bow good-morrow to him. The rose, with her fair round
cheeks, smiled, and greeted the child lovingly; so he went up to her
and kissed her fragrant mouth. And then the rose tenderly complained
that he so seldom came into the garden, and that she gave out her
bloom and her fragrance the livelong day in vain; for the other
flowers could not see her because they were too low, or did not care
to look at her because they themselves were so rich in bloom and
fragrance. But she was most delighted when she glowed in the blooming
head of a child, and could pour all her heart's secrets to him in
sweet odors.
Among other things, the rose whispered in his ear that she was the
fulness of beauty.
And in truth the child, while looking at her beauty, seemed to have
quite forgotten to go on, till the blue larkspur called to him, and
asked whether he cared nothing more about his faithful friend; she
said that she was unchanged, and that even in death she should look
upon him with eyes of unfading blue.
The child thanked her for her true-heartedness, and passed on to the
hyacinth, who stood near the puffy, full-cheeked, gaudy tulips. Even
from a distance the hyacinth sent forth kisses to him, for she knew
not how to express her love. Although she was not remarkable for her
beauty, yet the child felt himself wondrously attracted by her, for he
thought no flower loved him so well. But the hyacinth poured out her
full heart and wept bitterly, because she stood so lonely; the tulips
indeed were her countrymen, but they were so cold and unfeeling that
she was ashamed of them. The child encouraged her, and told her he did
not think things were so bad as she fancied. The tulips spoke their
love in bright looks, while she uttered hers in fragrant words; that
these, indeed, were lovelier and more intelligible, but that the
others were not to be despised.
Then the hyacinth was comforted, and said she would be content; and
the child went on to the powdered auricula, who, in her bashfulness,
looked kindly up to him, and would gladly have given him more than
kind looks had she had more to give. But the child was satisfied with
her modest greeting; he felt that he was poor too, and he saw the
deep, thoughtful colors that lay beneath her golden dust. But the
humble flower, of her own accord, sent him to her neighbor, the lily,
whom she willingly acknowledged as her queen. And when the child came
to the lily, the slender flower waved to and fro, and bowed her pale
head with gentle pride and stately modesty, and sent forth a fragrant
greeting to him. The child knew not what had come to him; it reached
his inmost heart, so that his eyes filled with soft tears. Then he
marked how the lily gazed with a clear and steadfast eye upon the
sun, and how the sun looked down again into her pure chalice, and how,
amid this interchange of looks, the three golden threads united in the
centre. And the child heard how one scarlet lady-bird at the bottom of
the cup said to another, "Knowest thou not that we dwell in the flower
of heaven?" and the other replied, "Yes, and now will the mystery be
fulfilled."
And as the child saw and heard all this, the dim image of his unknown
parents, as it were veiled in a holy light, floated before his eyes;
he strove to grasp it, but the light was gone, and the child slipped,
and would have fallen, had not the branch of a currant-bush caught and
held him; he took some of the bright berries for his morning's meal,
and went back to his hut and stripped the little branches.
V.
In the hut he stayed not long, all was so gloomy, close, and silent
within; and abroad everything seemed to smile, and to exult in the
clear and unbounded space. Therefore the child went out into the green
wood, of which the dragon-fly had told him such pleasant stories. But
he found everything far more beautiful and lovely even than she had
described it; for all about, wherever he went, the tender moss pressed
his little feet, and the delicate grass embraced his knees, and the
flowers kissed his hands, and even the branches stroked his cheeks
with a kind and refreshing touch, and the high trees threw their
fragrant shade around him.
There was no end to his delight. The little birds warbled, and sang,
and fluttered, and hopped about, and the delicate wood-flowers gave
out their beauty and their odors; and every sweet sound took a sweet
odor by the hand, and thus walked through the open door of the child's
heart, and held a joyous nuptial dance therein. But the nightingale
and the lily of the valley led the dance; for the nightingale sang of
naught but love, and the lily breathed of naught but innocence, and he
was the bridegroom and she was the bride. And the nightingale was
never weary of repeating the same thing a hundred times over, for the
spring of love which gushed from his heart was ever new; and the lily
bowed her head bashfully, that no one might see her glowing heart. And
yet the one lived so solely and entirely in the other, that no one
could see whether the notes of the nightingale were floating lilies,
or the lilies visible notes, falling like dew-drops from the
nightingale's throat.
The child's heart was full of joy even to the brim. He set himself
down, and he almost thought he should like to take root there, and
live forever among the sweet plants and flowers, and so become a true
sharer in all their gentle pleasures. For he felt a deep delight in
the still, secluded twilight existence of the mosses and small herbs,
which felt not the storm, nor the frost, nor the scorching sunbeam,
but dwelt quietly among their many friends and neighbors, feasting in
peace and good-fellowship on the dew and cool shadows which the mighty
trees shed upon them. To them it was a high festival when a sunbeam
chanced to visit their lowly home; whilst the tops of the lofty trees
could find joy and beauty only in the purple rays of morning or
evening.
VI.
And as the child sat there, a little mouse rustled from among the dry
leaves of the former year, and a lizard half glided from a crevice in
the rock, and when they saw that he designed them no evil, they took
courage and came nearer to him.
"I should like to live with you," said the child to the two little
creatures, in a soft, subdued voice, that he might not frighten them.
"Your chambers are so snug, so warm, and yet so shaded, and the
flowers grow in at your windows, and the birds sing you their morning
song, and call you to table and to bed with their clear warblings."
"Yes," said the mouse, "it would be all very well if all the plants
bore nuts and mast, instead of those silly flowers; and if I were not
obliged to grub under ground in the spring, and gnaw the bitter roots,
whilst they are dressing themselves in their fine flowers, and
flaunting it to the world, as if they had endless stores of honey in
their cellars."
"Hold your tongue!" interrupted the lizard, pertly; "do you think,
because you are gray, that other people must throw away their handsome
clothes, or let them lie in the dark wardrobe under ground, and wear
nothing but gray too? I am not so envious. The flowers may dress
themselves as they like for all me; they pay for it out of their own
pockets, and they feed bees and beetles from their cups; but what I
want to know is, of what use are birds in the world? Such a fluttering
and chattering, truly, from morning early to evening late, that one is
worried and stunned to death, and there is never a day's peace for
them. And they do nothing, only snap up the flies and the spiders out
of the mouths of such as I. For my part, I should be perfectly
satisfied, provided all the birds in the world were flies and
beetles."
The child changed color, and his heart was sick and saddened when he
heard their evil tongues. He could not imagine how anybody could speak
ill of the beautiful flowers, or scoff at his beloved birds. He was
waked out of a sweet dream, and the wood seemed to him a lonely
desert, and he was ill at ease. He started up hastily, so that the
mouse and the lizard shrank back alarmed, and did not look around them
till they thought themselves safe out of the reach of the stranger
with the large severe eyes.
VII.
But the child went away from the place; and as he hung down his head
thoughtfully, he did not observe that he took the wrong path, nor see
how the flowers on either side bowed their heads to welcome him, nor
hear how the old birds from the boughs and the young from the nests
cried aloud to him, "God bless thee, our dear little prince!" And he
went on and on, farther and farther into the deep wood; and he thought
over the foolish and heartless talk of the two selfish chatterers,
and could not understand it. He would fain have forgotten it, but he
could not. And the more he pondered, the more it seemed to him as if a
malicious spider had spun her web around him, and as if his eyes were
weary with trying to look through it.
And suddenly he came to a still water, above which young beeches
lovingly intwined their arms. He looked in the water, and his eyes
were riveted to it as if by enchantment. He could not move, but stood
and gazed in the soft, placid mirror, from the bosom of which the
tender green foliage, with the deep blue heavens between, gleamed so
wondrously upon him. His sorrow was all forgotten, and even the echo
of the discord in his little heart was hushed. That heart was once
more in his eyes; and fain would he have drunk in the soft beauty of
the colors that lay beneath him, or have plunged into the lovely deep.
Then the breeze began to sigh among the tree-tops. The child raised
his eyes and saw overhead the quivering green, and the deep blue
behind it, and he knew not whether he were awake or dreaming; which
were the real leaves and the real heavens,--those in the heights
above, or in the depths beneath? Long did the child waver, and his
thoughts floated in a delicious dreaminess from one to the other, till
the dragon-fly flew to him in affectionate haste, and with rustling
wings greeted her kind host. The child returned her greeting, and was
glad to meet an acquaintance with whom he could share the rich feast
of his joy. But first he asked the dragon-fly if she could decide for
him between the upper and the nether,--the height and the depth. The
dragon-fly flew above, and beneath, and around; but the water spake:
"The foliage and the sky above are not the true ones; the leaves
wither and fall; the sky is often overcast, and sometimes quite dark."
Then the leaves and the sky said, "The water only apes us; it must
change its pictures at our pleasure, and can retain none." Then the
dragon-fly remarked that the height and the depth existed only in the
eyes of the child, and that the leaves and the sky were true and real
only in his thoughts; because in the mind alone the picture was
permanent and enduring, and could be carried with him whithersoever he
went.
This she said to the child; but she immediately warned him to return,
for the leaves were already beating the tattoo in the evening breeze,
and the lights were disappearing one by one in every corner.
Then the child confessed to her with alarm that he knew not how he
should find the way back, and that he feared the dark night would
overtake him if he attempted to go home alone; so the dragon-fly flew
on before him, and showed him a cave in the rock where he might pass
the night. And the child was well content; for he had often wished to
try if he could sleep out of his accustomed bed.
VIII.
But the dragon-fly was fleet, and gratitude strengthened her wings to
pay her host the honor she owed him. And truly, in the dim twilight,
good counsel and guidance were scarce. She flitted hither and thither
without knowing rightly what was to be done; when, by the last
vanishing sunbeam, she saw hanging on the edge of the cave some
strawberries who had drunk so deep of the evening red that their heads
were quite heavy. Then she flew up to a harebell who stood near, and
whispered in her ear that the lord and king of all the flowers was in
the wood, and ought to be received and welcomed as beseemed his
dignity. Aglaia did not need that this should be repeated. She began
to ring her sweet bells with all her might, and when her neighbor
heard the sound, she rang hers also; and soon all the harebells, great
and small, were in motion, and rang as if it had been for the nuptials
of their mother earth herself with the prince of the sun. The tone of
the bluebells was deep and rich, and that of the white, high and
clear, and all blended together in a delicious harmony.
But the birds were fast asleep in their high nests, and the ears of
the other animals were not delicate enough, or were too much
overgrown with hair, to hear them. The fire-flies alone heard the
joyous peal, for they were akin to the flowers, through their common
ancestor, light. They inquired of their nearest relation, the lily of
the valley, and from her they heard that a large flower had just
passed along the footpath more blooming than the loveliest rose, and
with two stars more brilliant than those of the brightest fire-fly,
and that it must needs be their king. Then all the fire-flies flew up
and down the footpath, and sought everywhere till at length they came,
as the dragon-fly had hoped they would, to the cave.
And now, as they looked at the child, and every one of them saw itself
reflected in his clear eyes, they rejoiced exceedingly, and called all
their fellows together, and alighted on the bushes all around; and
soon it was so light in the cave that herb and grass began to grow as
if it had been broad day. Now, indeed, was the joy and triumph of the
dragon-fly complete. The child was delighted with the merry and
silvery tones of the bells, and with the many little bright-eyed
companions around him, and with the deep red strawberries which bowed
down their heads to his touch.
IX.
And when he had eaten his fill, he sat down on the soft moss, crossed
one little leg over the other, and began to gossip with the
fire-flies. And as he so often thought on his unknown parents, he
asked them who were their parents. Then the one nearest to him gave
him answer; and he told how that they were formerly flowers, but none
of those who thrust their rooty hands greedily into the ground and
draw nourishment from the dingy earth only to make themselves fat and
large withal; but that the light was dearer to them than anything,
even at night; and while the other flowers slept, they gazed unwearied
on the light, and drank it in with eager adoration,--sun, and moon,
and starlight. And the light had so thoroughly purified them, that
they had not sucked in poisonous juices like the yellow flowers of the
earth, but sweet odors for sick and fainting hearts, and oil of
potent ethereal virtue for the weak and the wounded; and at length,
when their autumn came, they did not, like the others, wither and sink
down, leaf and flower, to be swallowed up by the darksome earth, but
shook off their earthly garment, and mounted aloft into the clear air.
But there it was so wondrously bright that, sight failed them; and
when they came to themselves again, they were fire-flies, each sitting
on a withered flower-stalk.
[Illustration]
And now the child liked the bright-eyed flies better than ever; and he
talked a little longer with them, and inquired why they showed
themselves so much more in spring. They did it, they said, in the hope
that their gold-green radiance might allure their cousins, the
flowers, to the pure love of light.
X.
During this conversation, the dragon-fly had been preparing a bed for
her host. The moss upon which the child sat had grown a foot high
behind his back, out of pure joy; but the dragon-fly and her sisters
had so revelled upon it, that it was laid at its length along the
cave. The dragon-fly had awakened every spider in the neighborhood
out of her sleep, and when they saw the brilliant light they had set
to work spinning so industriously that their web hung down like a
curtain before the mouth of the cave. But as the child saw the ant
peeping up at him, he entreated the fire-flies not to deprive
themselves any longer of their merry games in the wood on his account.
And the dragon-fly and her sisters raised the curtain till the child
had lain him down to rest, and then let it fall again, that the
mischievous gnats might not get in to disturb his slumbers.
The child laid himself down to sleep, for he was very tired; but he
could not sleep, for his couch of moss was quite another thing than
his little bed, and the cave was all strange to him. He turned himself
on one side and then on the other, and, as nothing would do, he raised
himself and sat upright, to wait till sleep might choose to come. But
sleep would not come at all; and the only wakeful eyes in the whole
wood were the child's. For the harebells had rung themselves weary,
and the fire-flies had flown about till they were tired, and even the
dragon-fly, who would fain have kept watch in front of the cave, had
dropped sound asleep.