The Project Gutenberg eBook, Tom, Dot and Talking Mouse and Other Bedtime
Stories, by J. G. Kernahan and C. Kernahan
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Title: Tom, Dot and Talking Mouse and Other Bedtime Stories
Author: J. G. Kernahan and C. Kernahan
Release Date: September 29, 2006 [eBook #19409]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
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TOM, DOT AND TALKING MOUSE
And Other Bedtime Stories
by
J. G. & C. KERNAHAN
Illustrated
[Frontispiece: Tom Lecky]
New York
The Platt & Munk Co. Inc.
Copyright, 1916, by
The Platt & Peck Co.
CONTENTS
The Miller's Mouse
The Old Rocking Horse
The Message of the Lily
Water-Lily's Mission
ILLUSTRATIONS
Tom Lecky . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
Little girls with flowers
Tom dreaming
Mouse at mouse-hole
Mouse at cobweb ladder
Little girls picking flowers
Child with basket of flowers
THE MILLER'S MOUSE
The reason why every one loved Tom Lecky so much was, I believe, that
he was so good-tempered, so cheerful and so unselfish.
Tom was not good-looking, and, indeed, if one were disposed to be
critical in such matters, one could have found fault with almost all
his features except his eyes. These were brown like sealskin, and
nearly always brimming over with merriment. But no one ever thought of
criticising Tom's features, and there really was a common belief among
the villagers that Tom was a handsome fellow. And indeed he was, for
his beautiful unselfish soul gave to his face a beauty which merely
regular features can never do.
Tom Lecky owned a flour-mill, which was situated a little way from
Ellingford, the village where he had been born. He was "well-off," for
the mill brought him a good deal of money. He had no relations, but
hoped to have a very near one--a wife. This was Anne Grey, the
blacksmith's daughter, who was as pretty as she was winsome. She was
fond of pretty things too, flowers especially, so it was Tom's delight
to gratify her fancy.
For this reason he bought Brooks's cottage, which had a lovely garden.
And week by week he purchased this or that to make his cottage pretty
and home-like for his bride. It would be difficult to tell how much
pleasure Tom found in furnishing this cottage. He would wander in the
garden-paths among the rose-bushes, smiling to himself as he thought of
the many surprises in store for Anne. But a surprise was in store for
him which was not at all pleasant. Anne Grey married some one else.
When Tom heard it, he locked up the pretty cottage, put the key in his
pocket, and went to the mill to live. To Anne he spoke no word, though
he saw her with her husband coming from the church. In fact, he spoke
to no one, but did his work at the mill like a man in a dream. Some
there were who tried to break through his stony reserve, but no one
succeeded. Tom Lecky had become hard and soured. He remained alone in
the mill--except for the mice, and for these he set traps. He caught a
great many, and plunged them, trap and all, into a bucket of water.
When he found a trap with a mouse in it he would look at the little
creature beating itself against its prison, turning rapidly round,
forcing its pointed nose between the wire bars, while its long tail
hung down through the bars on the other side. He would watch the
bright little eyes almost start from their sockets in fear and agony,
and yet no feeling of sorrow or pity came into his heart for the tiny
captive, and after a time with a smile on his face he would drown the
little creature. Could this be the Tom Lecky who had had almost the
tenderness of a woman at the sight of pain?
Tom's "living-room" was in the basement of the mill. In it were a
table, a chair, a bed, and a cupboard. There was also a hanging
bookshelf, with a row of books on it, which Tom never opened now.
Through the ceiling of this room descended a ladder white with flour.
If you climbed this ladder you found yourself in a room smothered with
flour-dust, and your ears were almost deafened by the sound of the
machinery overhead which the wind-impelled mill-wheel kept in motion,
while the descending stream of ground flour travelled unceasingly down
from the grinding-wheel to the bin below. There was a ladder from this
room to the one above where the machinery was. There was also a room
over this from which you could get outside and regulate the small
spiny-looking wheel at the top so as to gain all the force of the wind.
All these rooms were festooned with cobwebs quite white with flour.
The spiders were white, too, which made them look larger. Even the
mice caught in the traps were white with flour.
Now at eight o'clock every evening Tom sat down at the round wooden
table, and ate his bread and cheese by the light of a tallow candle
inserted in the neck of a bottle. And every night at this time there
crept out from a crevice near the cupboard a tiny brown mouse, covered
with flour-dust. This little mouse seemed eager and hungry, but it
never ventured near the traps where the alluring cheese smelt so
deliciously. It would wait for Tom to drop a crumb, and then would
dart after it and frisk away into its hole, to return and watch again
for another crumb. This happened night after night, till Tom began to
watch for the little creature with some eagerness. The sound of its
tiny scampering feet on the floor would call up a feeling of pleasure
like that which one feels when the knock of a dear friend is heard on
the door. But Tom was bitter for all this, and at times he had a
savage hope that the little mouse would after all be lured into one of
the traps. He did not want to feel tender or kindly any more to
anything. He wanted to feel cruel and heartless, because his
tenderness had cost him so much pain.
[Illustration: Little girls with flowers]
One autumn evening, when the air was still, and a sweet afterglow
rested on the sky like an echo of the sunset, Tom sat thinking in his
chair. It was then that he saw something which he never forgot. He
saw his small friend watching one of the traps in which another mouse
had just been caught. "Now it will shun me," thought Tom. "It has
seen what the traps are for." But the tiny brown creature did not run
away, as might have been expected, but crept up to the miller as
trustfully as ever; indeed, more so, for it came upon the table and
nibbled at a piece of bread close to Tom's hand. Then Tom arose, and
went towards the trap, and, instead of drowning the captive, opened the
door and set it at liberty. From that time he set no more traps. And
he fell to thinking with shame that he had not given even a "Good-day"
to those who had brought their corn to him to grind, and that when he
passed through the village he had spurned children and dogs who had
once been favourites of his, and had come to him with the confidence of
old playmates. He remembered that some he had known and cared for had
passed through sickness and trouble, and he had not gone to cheer them
with a single word. And all this because he was unhappy.
And as he pondered with ever-increasing shame, the mouse crept up again
and nibbled at his bread. "In spite of what this mouse has seen, it
can still trust me," he thought, "and I, because one deceived me, have
mistrusted all the world!"
Then he got up and put on his hat, and went out into the twilight. A
little breeze had sprung up, and the trees seemed to be whispering
together. He seemed to know what they said, though he could not have
put it into words. He felt as if his old happiest self were rising
once more from the tomb in which his resentment had buried it. It was
not the light-hearted self which had once been, but it was the old
loving, unselfish Tom for all that. He wandered on aimlessly at first,
but afterwards with definite intentions. He would go to Brooks's
cottage. He could bear to do so now. He would see how the neglected
garden had done without him, and perhaps to-morrow put it to rights.
When Tom reached the garden gate (it was a tall wicket-gate through
which you could get a peep at the garden) he undid the padlock, and in
the half-light saw a tall holly-hock stretching itself across the
entrance as if barring the way. "The garden is ours--mine and the rest
of the flowers," it seemed to say. "Why do you come to disturb our
peace?--you who have forsaken us."
And the miller's heart answered, "If one who has forsaken you should
come back, would you not receive him?" And then there came into his
mind a glad thought. Anne Grey might some day turn to him in trouble,
and then he would help her, and never--certainly never--reproach her.
This thought warmed his heart as he passed into the garden. How sweet
was the breath of the flowers! How their delicate shapes outlined
themselves in the twilight! There was the little arbor over which Tom
had trained the honeysuckle and blush-roses. He had often fancied Anne
sitting there in the long summer afternoons sewing and singing to
herself. Now the trailers of the rose half hid the entrance, and a bat
flew out at the sound of Tom's step. Night moths flitted hither and
thither, and winged beetles made the air vibrate with their drowsy
buzzing. The stars began to peep out one after another, and a hush
seemed to fall on the garden as if the flowers were asleep.
Then Tom stooped his tall form under the rose-trailers and entered the
arbor. There was a table in it, and a sort of fixture-seat all round.
Tom had made it himself at leisure moments. "If we have little ones,"
he had said to himself, "there will be a seat for them all." Now he
sat in the arbour alone, and the rose-trailers moved in and out with a
rustling sound.
The sounds and scents made Tom quite drowsy, and he presently imagined
he really saw and heard things which never could have happened. But
they were so beautiful that he liked to think them real even afterwards.
The table in the centre of the arbour was fixed, and upon it Tom leaned
his arms. So he could see the glimmer of the sky between the branches,
and one single bright star that looked, as he thought, kindly on him.
He gazed and gazed at the star, and at the outlined branches, and at
the peep of sky, till all his heart seemed to open to good--and that is
to God. He gazed till self was forgotten in a beautiful dream. Ah!
happiness, he saw, did not consist in self-gratification, but in giving
up for others. Then he closed his eyes like a child who has wept but
is comforted; and it was then that he heard the little brown mouse
talking with the flowers. Now the mouse was at the mill, as we know,
so this was very odd.
[Illustration: Tom dreaming]
"Why is the miller so sad?" asked a tall lily.
"First of all," said the mouse, "because Anne Grey is married to some
one else, but most of all because he has made so many others bear his
sorrow."
"And did making others bear his sorrow make his pain less?" the
sunflower asked.
"No," said the mouse, "it made it more; for he had to feel cruel as
well as unhappy."
Then a tiny late linum-flower spoke.
"I have not lived a long while," said the linum-flower; "I came out
late. I don't quite understand it, but I think it must be best to wait
for one's joy. It may be the miller is to have more joy because he has
to wait."
Then a yew-tree spoke.
"You are right, little linum-flower; my relations in the graveyard have
told me as much. They hear what the dead say at midnight. It is those
who wait who get the truest joy!"
Then the miller heard a voice which was not like the others. It was a
baby-voice with tears in it. "I is hungry," it said; and Tom started
up, his eyes wide open, and in the star-glimmer he saw a tiny child
looking at him. Yes, he was awake, and the child was a real child.
"I comed in here," said the little one, "betause the gate was open."
The miller took the little one in his arms and kissed it.
"So you are hungry," he said caressingly. "Well, I must take you home.
What is your name?"
"Dot," said the child; "and home is goned away on wheels, and uncle
don't want me no more."
"Uncle," repeated Tom reflectively. "Then have you no mother or
father, little one?"
"Never had none of these things," said Dot positively. "Some of the
other children had, though," she added, as if for the sake of accuracy.
"What other children?" Tom asked with interest.
"Them as was with us in the van," said Dot.
"Did you live in a van, Dot?" inquired Tom.
"Yes," said the child, "the van as has runned away. There's baskets
and chairs and things all over the top of it. Uncle said he was agoing
to leave me somewhere, and now he's done it."
"How old are you, Dot?"
The child shook her head. "I didn't have no birfdays," she said
wistfully. "Ned and Polly and Jim did, but not me."
"Little Dot," cried Tom, hugging the small creature, "so they wanted to
get rid of you, did they! Well, you shall come home with me; and, Dot,
you shall begin to have birthdays to-morrow!"
"And some bread and dripping to-night--all across the loaf?" Dot asked
anxiously.
"Yes, Dot, lots of times across the loaf if you want it."
"I will sell feather brushes for you," said Dot with enthusiasm.
Tom laughed. He had never laughed before all the summer through.
When Tom and Dot reached the mill it was quite dark, and Dot had to
stand still in the doorway while the miller lit his candle. When the
candle was lit the first thing Dot saw was the little brown mouse
scudding across the table. She clapped her hands with delight, for she
was not a bit afraid of mice. But the noise she made frightened the
mouse, and it ran into its hole and never came out again all that night.
[Illustration: Mouse at mouse-hole]
Tom slept on a heap of flour bags, for you see he had tucked Dot up
snugly in his bed; but he slept soundly and well, for it is not so much
the kind of bed we lie on, as the thoughts we lie down with, that give
us pleasant sleep, and of all thoughts the best is that of having done
some good and unselfish action in the day.
Dot proved uncommonly useful next morning. Tiny creature though she
was, she was quite learned in domestic affairs. She lit the fire and
tidied up the room before Tom was even awake. Indeed, when he did
wake, it was to see her perched on his chair peeping into the cupboard
to find the breakfast service. Tom's breakfast service was not
extensive. It consisted of a huge cup and saucer a good deal chipped,
two plates and a jam pot, this last article doing duty as a sugar-basin.
Dot was evidently well used to make-shifts, for she even invented a new
one. Upon the mantelshelf was a curious old vase with a griffin's head
surrounding it. It was shaped like a jug, so Dot took it down and
washed it, saying to herself, "This will make a fine milk-jug."
"A fine milk-jug?" yawned the miller from his flour-bag couch. "Ah, to
be sure! children want milk to drink." And with this he threw on his
clothes, and hastily washed himself in a water-butt which stood near
the mill steps. Then he called to Dot. "Come, little one, bring your
milk-jug; we will go to the farm for milk for your breakfast."
"But we want to _fetch_ the milk in a _can_," objected Dot.
Tom scratched his head in a bewildered way for a moment, then a happy
thought struck him. "My beer-can will do, won't it?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Dot seriously, "only first it must be scrubbed."
So Tom scrubbed the can obediently, and when it shone sufficiently the
two started off to a neighbouring farm to buy the milk.
On the way from the farm a strange thing happened. Tom and Dot were
trudging merrily along a little lane, when they perceived a woman
crouching under a hedge, holding in her arms a bundle wrapped in a
shawl. The woman might have escaped notice, perhaps, had not a cry
proceeded from the bundle. Tom had of late heard so many cries in his
heart, that his ear readily lent itself to one from outside. He came
up to the woman, therefore, at once and said, "You have a little one
wrapped in that, haven't you? Is it hungry? If it is, here is some
milk."
At first the woman did not raise her head. It was hidden in the shawl
which covered the infant, so the miller repeated his question. Then
the woman looked up, and the eyes which met Tom's were those of Anne
Grey. She knew Tom at once, but it was with no smile of pleasure that
she greeted him. Her words, too, when they came, were hard and cold.
She only said, "So, Tom Lecky, you see what I have come to; rejoice in
it!"
"Does the little one want food?" Tom asked again, without noticing in
any way the words or the tone of the woman.
"And if it does?" said Anne, with a bitter little laugh.
"Why, if it does, I'm ready to give it some," said Tom, passing his
coat-sleeve before his eyes for a moment. Then removing it suddenly he
smiled into the woman's face--an April sort of smile, which scarcely
knows whether to cloud over or to beam out with full warmth--and said,
"And if you want anything I can give, it is yours for the taking."
The woman burst into tears, and the child, which was scarcely more than
a baby, cried to bear her company. It was then that little Dot came
forward and took the shawled bundle in her own baby arms, and commenced
to feed it from the milk-can.
"How is it you are so early?" inquired Tom anxiously, for he knew that
Anne's new home was many miles away.
"I have been here all night," she made answer.
"Anne, the cottage is still there, and the bit of furniture in it; go
there, Anne--go now."
So Anne went after all to the cottage, which had been so long prepared
for her, but it was not with Tom. He stayed at the mill with little
Dot. And every night, when the child lay sleeping, the brown mouse
crept out to bear the miller company. It was about this time that Tom
thought the mouse began to talk to him as it had talked with the
flowers in the garden the night he had found Dot.
"Miller," said the mouse, "is it not small things which make one happy?"
"Some things may content one, but it takes great ones to make one
happy," said he.
"Contentment is happiness," said the mouse.
Now while the mouse was speaking, the candle, which was, as we have
said, in the neck of a bottle instead of a candlestick, went out, and
dropped right to the bottom of the bottle. There was a tiny spark seen
for some time through the green glass, and by its light the miller saw
many strange things, and the mouse was mixed up with them all.
The first thing he saw was a misty little ladder, made apparently of
the cobwebs which festooned the mill. The ladder reached from the
table right up through the floor and through the next floor, and from
thence right up through the roof. A star was seen gleaming on its top.
Up this strange ladder the little mouse ran, and the miller saw it by
the light of the tiny spark, which somehow shot out upward rays which
lit the ladder from top to bottom. When the mouse reached the top a
tiny creature floated down from the star and presented it with a gift.
This the mouse brought down and laid on the table before the miller.
At first he thought it was sparks from the candle, but as he looked
closer he found glittering words were formed by them; but they were in
a language he could not read.
[Illustration: Mouse at cobweb ladder]
"What is the language?" he asked the mouse.
"The language of the eyes," answered the mouse.
"Read it to me," said the miller.
And the mouse read: "Tom, I am sorry--I am lonely; my husband and
parents are dead. Tom, have you forgotten the old days?"
"It must be Anne's eyes which say this," cried the miller. "Yes, I
might have read it all along."
Then the filmy ladder disappeared, and in the green light rose the
little garden where the spring flowers were growing now. Within the
arbour where Tom had gone to sleep one night sat Anne, her hands
engaged in knitting, her eyes looking far away.
"Mouse, what is she thinking?" asked the miller. "You seem to know
everything."
"Her eyes are talking," said the mouse.
"And what do they say?"
"They say, 'The miller only pities me; he no longer loves me.'"
"Ah, the eyes are wrong," cried Tom. "I will go to her and tell her
so."
"Not yet," said the mouse. "Wait."
And then among the flowers there appeared a little child, and the child
spoke low to the flowers.
"Listen," said the mouse.
"Oh, flowers, I have no father," murmured the child.
"Stop," cried the miller, "I must go."
And as he said this the light went quite out, and in the dim starlight
which shone through the window he saw the mouse nibbling a crust of
bread near his elbow. But for this little rustling sound, and Dot's
breathing, all was silent. Yet there were voices in the miller's heart
which made themselves heard well enough. One was the voice of Hope,
the other the voice of Love.
So next day, when the sun was setting, Tom put on his best clothes,
and, taking Dot by the hand, walked towards Brooks's cottage. When
they reached it, Anne's little child stood in the gateway.
"Little one," said Tom, stooping and kissing the child, "is mother in
the garden?"
The child pointed to the arbor.
"Stay together, children," said the miller; and then he entered the
arbor.
* * * * * *
"What did I tell you?" said the mouse. The miller was in the old room
at the mill for the last night.
"It matters little what you told me," said the miller--"you _taught_ me
so much."
Now from this time the mouse spoke no more to Tom, though he often saw
the little brown creature. It is only to the lonely and sorrowful that
mice and trees and clouds and wind talk much. And the miller was
happy, for had not Anne consented to marry him, and was not the
wedding-day no farther distant now than to-morrow?
Anne visited the mill with her husband a week later, and she said,
"There are many mice here. Why don't you set traps for them?"
"I cannot do _that_," said the miller. "One mouse has taught me more
than all the books I have read. The mice are welcome to what they take
of the grain."
And Anne questioned no more. It was enough for her that she and Tom
were together. So I suppose the little brown mouse, or at least its
descendants, still live on unmolested at the mill.
THE OLD ROCKING-HORSE
He was a very old rocking-horse indeed. His first master, sunny-headed
little Robbie, had grown into a man with a beard, and had given his old
playmate to his sister's children.
These children had in their turn grown into great schoolboys, so the
old horse, like the other toys, was left forsaken in the big nursery at
the top of the house. Broken-down furniture and old magazines had
found their way there, together with travelling-trunks and
portmanteaux. Spiders had spun their webs over the windows, and dust
lay thick on everything.
When little Basil found his way into the old nursery it seemed to him
like an enchanted palace. The spiders and dust only made him think
that somewhere he would find the "sleeping beauty." The litter of toys
and paper and boxes suggested hidden treasure. Once in this room of
delightful possibilities, he did not care how long his mother and aunt
continued their wearisome talks downstairs of what they called "old
times." He stretched himself on a faded couch while he considered
where to begin his operations, and stared at the deeply-cut initials on
the mantelshelf, and regretted that the chimney-piece in the nursery at
home, being stone, did not lend itself to similar delights. With a
sigh he rolled over, and the rocking-horse met his gaze. He looked at
it so long that his eyes blinked. Older people would have said that
just then the old horse _creaked_--as old things have a way of doing.
But children understand these things better than old folks who have
grown dull. Basil knew quite well that the old horse had _sighed_, and
he asked him what was the matter.
"I was only wishing some one would smarten me up a bit," said the
horse. "My left eye is in that box with the tin soldiers. My tail is
tied to a stick in that cupboard where the tools are--a bit of glue
would stick both in. And one stirrup is nailed to the table-drawer for
a handle. It could be got off, and tied to my saddle-strap with a bit
of string. My mane is gone for ever. Johnny put it on a mask for
whiskers one Guy Fawkes' day, and Herbert threw it in the bonfire. I
don't suppose any of the nails can be got out that Tom knocked into my
sides; they are in too tight. Nor can the buttons and marbles be got
out of my inside that Johnny put in through the hole in my neck. But I
might be smartened up a little!"
"Oh, if that is all you want I dare say I can help you," said Basil,
jumping up and running to the cupboard. "Here's your tail, anyway! and
here's a bottle of liquid glue too. Now I'll look for your eye."
"You know," went on the old horse, "I heard the mother saying the other
day that she would send me back to my old home if I were not so shabby."
Basil, who had found the missing eye, was now fixing it in its place
with plenty of glue, which ran down and dropped off the horse's nose.
Basil was sure he saw a tear drop from the other eye.
"Does it hurt?" he asked sympathetically.
"Oh, I don't mind that," said the horse. "It is like old times to be
hurt by a little boy; besides, one must always suffer if one would look
fine."
"Yes; nurse says something like that when I cry while she combs my
hair," said Basil.
"Robbie didn't cry to have his hair combed," said the horse shortly.
"He didn't even cry when the soap was in his eyes. By now he has grown
into a brave man! When he fell off me and made his leg bleed he said
it was nothing, and just got on me again. But he did cry when he
parted from me."
"Well, he was a coward _once_, anyway."
"No, he wasn't," snorted the horse. "It isn't cowardly to cry because
you are leaving some one you love."
"All the same, don't toss your head like that, or your eye will drop
out again," cried Basil warningly. "But you may go on telling me about
Robbie."
"I was his dearest friend," went on the horse. "He told me all about
his troubles, and showed me all his new things; and he used to learn
his lessons sitting on my back. When he had a piece of cake he used to
push a bit in through the hole in my neck, and rock me to make it drop
into my stomach."
"Oh! then the hole has been there a long time."
"Yes; Robbie made it to feed me through; those other boys only put
buttons and marbles in, and old nails. Robbie always gave me a bit of
cake with the biggest plum in it. When he was ill he asked for me, and
the mother had me put by the bedside, and I watched him night and day.
His little hand grew so thin and pale, and he used to slip it out from
under the quilt to stroke me."
"There! your tail's in now," cried Basil. "So now I will see if I can
get the stirrup off the drawer; then I'll sponge you a bit."
"If you could only make me look nice they would send me back for
Robbie's boy, and I should see Robbie again before I die. You are a
kind little boy, and Robbie will love you."
"Tell me some more. You look ever so much better already," said Basil,
tugging away at the stirrup. "And I dare say when you get back to
Robbie he will have you painted up, and then you will feel just like
you used to feel."
"Yes," said the old horse; "he will have me done up like new, and he
will tell his little boy to love me for his sake, and all my happy days
will begin again. Often at night I have listened to the wind roaring
in the chimney and have shivered with cold, and have thought how Robbie
would have put a rug over me if he were here."
Just then the gong sounded for luncheon. "I must go now," said Basil,
"but I will come up again and finish you."
* * * * * *
"Auntie," Basil began, when he was seated at the table, "I have been
mending up the old rocking-horse; won't you send it to Uncle Robbie's
boy?"
Basil was too wise to repeat all the old horse had told him, for he
knew that grown-up people never understand that toys talk to the
children.
"Yes, I think I will," auntie replied.
* * * * * *
The gas was lit in the entrance-hall of a big house in a country town.
A little white-frocked child raced to the door to meet a tall, handsome
man who had just entered.
"Papa! papa! the old wocking-horse is tum--it was youse when you was
ickle boy; tum and see it."
The father perched his little son on his shoulder and mounted the
stairs to the nursery, where the firelight danced on the walls.
The old rocking-horse was waiting, almost faint with joy; he was soon
to see his beloved master, to feel his caress.
The father placed his son on the floor, and advanced to his old
playmate.
"What an old scarecrow!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Whatever could your
aunt have been thinking of to send it! We will despatch it to be
chopped up for firewood, and buy you a new one."
So the old horse was carried off to the back yard.
But nobody knew that his heart was broken!
THE MESSAGE OF THE LILY
"Little flower, little flower," said the birdie, "why are you so silent
and sad?"
"I am not sad, sweet sister," whispered the flower gently; "ah! no, but
I have seen an angel. Yestere'en, as I slept, my birdie, being all
aweary with gazing up into your bird-land home among the branches, and
watching the merry sunlight come and go, and strike shafts of golden
flame among the green, I dreamt of heaven and of the holy angels; and
lo! when I awoke, one there was who stood beside me, beautiful even as
is the sunlight or the dawn, and her voice, when she spoke, was low and
tender, like the restful ripple of the rain. And to the flowers, as
you know, my birdie, the hearts of the pure lie ever open and unsealed,
and I saw into her heart, that the thought of it was white and spotless
as a lily, and I saw that her thought was a prayer, and that she said,
'Dear Lord, I thank Thee for making this little flower so fair and
lovely, and I ask Thee that I may be, in heart, as pure and holy as
she!'"
MORNING
"Wake up, little flower, and hear what I have to tell you," said the
bird gaily, "for I, too, have seen your angel--and angel is she none,
but the fairest maiden from the town beyond the hillside."
And to her the flower made low reply:
"Can any one as fair as she be found out of heaven? And, moreover, I
looked into her heart, and saw that the thought of it was white, and
pure as the morning."
[Illustration: Little girls picking flowers]
"It is only the flowers that can see into hearts," said the bird
gravely; "but this I know, that your angel is of earth, not heaven."
So saying, she spread her silken wings and flew away.
But the flower said, "Is there, in all heaven, anything more fair than
a maiden?"
NOON
"I would not pluck you to please my idle fancies, dear blossom," said
the maiden gently, "for I cannot bear to see the wild flowers wither
and fade! But I know of one who lies ill and dying, to whom the scent
and sight of a wild flower may bring some passing moment of peace.
Tell me, then, you who are so pure and lovely, will not you spare a
space of your slender life, that so you may make happy the heart of a
sorrowing one?"
Then the flower said, "Dear maiden, I will"; but inasmuch as it spake
not the maiden's language, it breathed forth all its perfume, like
sweet music, in consent. And, though the maiden knew not that the
flower had heard her words, and had answered her, yet at heart she was
strangely though sweetly saddened. "Even in heaven I should long for
the earth-flowers!" she said, as she drank in the fragrance. "Is there
anything, in all heaven, more fair than a flower?"
* * * * * *
Then the maiden plucked the flower, and bore it away from the birds and
the sunshine, away from the wind and the trees, to a squalid court in a
great city, where a dying woman lay, haggard and wan, upon a bed. And
as the flower looked into the soul of the dying woman, its fair leaves
seemed to wither and wilt, as though some foul breath had come forth
upon it, for therein it could see nothing because of the blackness and
the sin. And at first the flower shrank into itself, and would fain
have gathered up its perfume, but it thought of the prayer in the
maiden's heart, and, opening out its snowy petals to their full, it
breathed forth a fragrance which filled the foul room as with music and
light. And as the dying woman looked upon the flower, she thought of
the white lilies which she had gathered and placed upon her dead
mother's bosom--many, ah! so many weary years ago; and she thought of
the days when she too was pure and beautiful, and had knelt at that
mother's knee, to whisper, after her, the hallowed words to the Father
in heaven.
Then the flower saw that in the woman's heart there was some strange
and sudden commotion, as though the light were seeking to win in its
way, and to drive out the darkness and sin.
And, folding her wasted hands together, the dying woman turned to the
light, and said, "Dear Lord Jesus, make me--even me--white and pure as
this lily, and wash away all my sins in Thy precious blood. Amen."
And when the dawn came, the flower lay withered and drooping; but, ere
it died, it saw into the woman's heart that it was white and pure as
the snow-flake.
And there passed from that room a shining angel, _and lo! on her bosom
lay a little flower_.
WATER-LILY'S MISSION
"Come away, beautiful flower," said the kingfisher; "do not waste your
beauty in this melancholy mere; float away down the gleaming river
where tall bulrushes grow and where you shall find companions."
But the water-lily said, "No, I cannot go, for up in yonder tower is a
prisoner, and I cheer his lonely days. He watches me and smiles, and
forgets that he is a captive. I cannot leave one so unhappy."
"As you like," said the kingfisher, "but you would not catch me
spending my life under those barren walls," and away flew the
kingfisher.
A swallow came and wheeled round and round the tower. "Swallow,"
called the water-lily, "come to me." And the swallow came twittering
down.
"I am in a great hurry," he said; "what do you want?"
"Bite through my stem, swallow, and carry me up to the grating in the
tower, and place me on that window-sill."
"But you will die--and you are so beautiful," said the swallow, looking
regretfully at the lily.
"Ah, some deaths are better than living," said the water-lily.
So the swallow plucked the water-lily and carried her up to the
prisoner's window. A thin hand passed through the bars and took the
flower. The captive pressed her passionately to his lips, and his
tears fell fast on the waxen petals. As the tears fell the water-lily
revived.
"How beautiful you are," said the captive, and he took his tin mug of
water from a shelf and tenderly placed her in it so she would not die.
Just then a jailer entered, "Ho, ho!" he said, "how did you come by
that; it will just do for my button-hole." And he seized the
water-lily and placed it in his coat.
The poor prisoner fell upon his knees and begged hard that the flower
might be left to him. "Let me have a few days' joy," he pleaded. "The
flower will soon die, and you are free, and can gather the flowers when
you will."
But the rough jailer only laughed, and departed to his own pleasant
room, leaving the captive in tears.
[Illustration: Child with basket of flowers]
"Look here," said the jailer to his little daughter, "there is a flower
I have just taken away from the prisoner in the tower. I don't know
how he got it, but he cried like a baby when I took it away."
"Poor prisoner!" said the little girl, with tears in her own eyes.
"Nay, my little maid, do not weep," said the jailer, taking the child
in his arms.
But the little one hid her face against her father's breast and sobbed.
"See, my Lily, I will take his flower back to him, only do not cry so,"
said the jailer.
"Father, may I take it to him?" said the little girl, raising her
tear-stained face to her father's, and gazing at him eagerly.
"Won't it do if I take it?" asked the jailer.
"Oh, _please_ let me take it," said the child.
The rough jailer had such tenderness for his child that it was
difficult for him to refuse her anything. So it was that when the
prisoner lifted his weary head as he heard his door open, he beheld a
beautiful child with blue eyes and yellow hair, and in her hand
stretched out to him was the water-lily.
"Oh, but it is an angel!" cried the prisoner, a smile lighting his
haggard face. "An angel from heaven; I must be going to die."
"No, poor man, it's little Lily," said the child, and she slid a round
arm about his neck. "I am so sorry for you!"
The prisoner burst into passionate weeping, and kissed the small hand
that lay upon his shoulder.
The jailer blew his nose like a trumpet.
"You may be called anything," said the prisoner, "but you are surely an
angel."
From this time Lily came to see her prisoner every day, and he grew
almost gay.
In the meantime the water-lily drooped and died, but she was happy, for
she had fulfilled her mission.
The prisoner took the dead flower and laid it on his heart. "Poor
little dead flower," he said, "it was you who brought me my little
comforter."
As he said these words he fancied he felt the dead flower move; but it
might have been the beating of his own heart.
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