IN WHOSE LIVES ARE FOUND THE SOURCE AND MAINSPRING OF SOME OF THE
EFFORTS OF THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK IN HIS LATER YEARS
Along an island in the North Sea, five miles from the Dutch Coast,
stretches a dangerous ledge of rocks that has proved the graveyard of
many a vessel sailing that turbulent sea. On this island once lived a
group of men who, as each vessel was wrecked, looted the vessel and
murdered those of the crew who reached shore. The government of the
Netherlands decided to exterminate the island pirates, and for the job
King William selected a young lawyer at The Hague.
"I want you to clean up that island," was the royal order. It was a
formidable job for a young man of twenty-odd years. By royal
proclamation he was made mayor of the island, and within a year, a court
of law being established, the young attorney was appointed judge; and in
that dual capacity he "cleaned up" the island.
The young man now decided to settle on the island, and began to look
around for a home. It was a grim place, barren of tree or living green
of any kind; it was as if a man had been exiled to Siberia. Still,
argued the young mayor, an ugly place is ugly only because it is not
beautiful. And beautiful he determined this island should be.
One day the young mayor-judge called together his council. "We must have
trees," he said; "we can make this island a spot of beauty if we will!"
But the practical seafaring men demurred; the little money they had was
needed for matters far more urgent than trees.
"Very well," was the mayor's decision--and little they guessed what the
words were destined to mean--"I will do it myself." And that year he
planted one hundred trees, the first the island had ever seen.
"Too cold," said the islanders; "the severe north winds and storms will
kill them all."
"Then I will plant more," said the unperturbed mayor. And for the fifty
years that he lived on the island he did so. He planted trees each year;
and, moreover, he had deeded to the island government land which he
turned into public squares and parks, and where each spring he set out
shrubs and plants.
Moistened by the salt mist the trees did not wither, but grew
prodigiously. In all that expanse of turbulent sea--and only those who
have seen the North Sea in a storm know how turbulent it can be--there
was not a foot of ground on which the birds, storm-driven across the
water-waste, could rest in their flight. Hundreds of dead birds often
covered the surface of the sea. Then one day the trees had grown tall
enough to look over the sea, and, spent and driven, the first birds came
and rested in their leafy shelter. And others came and found protection,
and gave their gratitude vent in song. Within a few years so many birds
had discovered the trees in this new island home that they attracted the
attention not only of the native islanders but also of the people on the
shore five miles distant, and the island became famous as the home of
the rarest and most beautiful birds. So grateful were the birds for
their resting-place that they chose one end of the island as a special
spot for the laying of their eggs and the raising of their young, and
they fairly peopled it. It was not long before ornithologists from
various parts of the world came to "Eggland," as the farthermost point
of the island came to be known, to see the marvellous sight, not of
thousands but of hundreds of thousands of bird-eggs.
A pair of storm-driven nightingales had now found the island and mated
there; their wonderful notes thrilled even the souls of the natives; and
as dusk fell upon the seabound strip of land the women and children
would come to "the square" and listen to the evening notes of the birds
of golden song. The two nightingales soon grew into a colony, and within
a few years so rich was the island in its nightingales that over to the
Dutch coast and throughout the land and into other countries spread the
fame of "The Island of Nightingales."
Meantime, the young mayor-judge, grown to manhood, had kept on planting
trees each year, setting out his shrubbery and plants, until their
verdure now beautifully shaded the quaint, narrow lanes, and transformed
into cool wooded roads what once had been only barren sun-baked wastes.
Artists began to hear of the place and brought their canvases, and on
the walls of hundreds of homes throughout the world hang to-day bits of
the beautiful lanes and wooded spots of "The Island of Nightingales."
The American artist William M. Chase took his pupils there almost
annually. "In all the world to-day," he declared to his students, as
they exclaimed at the natural cool restfulness of the island, "there is
no more beautiful place."
The trees are now majestic in their height of forty or more feet, for it
is nearly a hundred years since the young attorney went to the island
and planted the first tree; today the churchyard where he lies is a
bower of cool green, with the trees that he planted dropping their
moisture on the lichen-covered stone on his grave.
This much did one man do. But he did more.
After he had been on the barren island two years he went to the mainland
one day, and brought back with him a bride. It was a bleak place for a
bridal home, but the young wife had the qualities of the husband. "While
you raise your trees," she said, "I will raise our children." And within
a score of years the young bride sent thirteen happy-faced,
well-brought-up children over that island, and there was reared a home
such as is given to few. Said a man who subsequently married a daughter
of that home: "It was such a home that once you had been in it you felt
you must be of it, and that if you couldn't marry one of the daughters
you would have been glad to have married the cook."
One day when the children had grown to man's and woman's estate the
mother called them all together and said to them, "I want to tell you
the story of your father and of this island," and she told them the
simple story that is written here.
"And now," she said, "as you go out into the world I want each of you to
take with you the spirit of your father's work, and each in your own way
and place, to do as he has done: make you the world a bit more beautiful
and better because you have been in it. That is your mother's message to
you."
The first son to leave the island home went with a band of hardy men to
South Africa, where they settled and became known as "the Boers."
Tirelessly they worked at the colony until towns and cities sprang up
and a new nation came into being: The Transvaal Republic. The son became
secretary of state of the new country, and to-day the United States of
South Africa bears tribute, in part, to the mother's message to "make
the world a bit more beautiful and better."
The second son left home for the Dutch mainland, where he took charge of
a small parish; and when he had finished his work he was mourned by king
and peasant as one of the leading clergymen of his time and people.
A third son, scorning his own safety, plunged into the boiling surf on
one of those nights of terror so common to that coast, rescued a
half-dead sailor, carried him to his father's house, and brought him
back to a life of usefulness that gave the world a record of
imperishable value. For the half-drowned sailor was Heinrich Schliemann,
the famous explorer of the dead cities of Troy.
The first daughter now left the island nest; to her inspiration her
husband owed, at his life's close, a shelf of works in philosophy which
to-day are among the standard books of their class.
The second daughter worked beside her husband until she brought him to
be regarded as one of the ablest preachers of his land, speaking for
more than forty years the message of man's betterment.
To another son it was given to sit wisely in the councils of his land;
another followed the footsteps of his father. Another daughter, refusing
marriage for duty, ministered unto and made a home for one whose eyes
could see not.
So they went out into the world, the girls and boys of that island home,
each carrying the story of their father's simple but beautiful work and
the remembrance of their mother's message. Not one from that home but
did well his or her work in the world; some greater, some smaller, but
each left behind the traces of a life well spent.
And, as all good work is immortal, so to-day all over the world goes on
the influence of this one man and one woman, whose life on that little
Dutch island changed its barren rocks to a bower of verdure, a home for
the birds and the song of the nightingale. The grandchildren have gone
to the four corners of the globe, and are now the generation of
workers-some in the far East Indies; others in Africa; still others in
our own land of America. But each has tried, according to the talents
given, to carry out the message of that day, to tell the story of the
grandfather's work; just as it is told here by the author of this book,
who, in the efforts of his later years, has tried to carry out, so far
as opportunity has come to him, the message of his grandmother:
"Make you the world a bit more beautiful and better because you have
been in it."