The Angel Children

C >> Charlotte M. Higgins >> The Angel Children

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So Cybele sat down upon the floor, and, taking the tambourine, sang and
played the softest and sweetest airs she could remember; and, as she
played, it seemed as though new tones, and words even, were given to
speak out of it.

She astonished herself, and a kind of sorrowful ecstasy came into her
soul. She played on, and on, and forgot that the day was passing off, in
which she was to earn so many bright pennies, in order to bring home the
kind physician who was to make the dear aunt well at once. She went to
the far-off land, and sang of the vineyards and the soft, warm air; of
the gently-moving waters, and the fragrant blossoms around the banks of
the lakes. O, the moon rose up before her, and she drank from its loving
beams; the stars sent down their misty light, as if shrouded because of
their great beauty! Once in that land, how had she forgotten all things
else! A holy inspiration had come down over her; an angel of light
appeared to her enchanted eyes, beckoning her to rest her head upon his
bosom.

"Fear not!" he said, "for I will yet take you to the lovely gardens
where your mother dwells."

But, when she eagerly stretched out her arms and cried, "Take me now,"
he disappeared, and she found the song stayed upon her lips, the room
hushed, and only the glory, which the angel's presence had shed about,
still lingered there. The holy stillness came into her heart also, and
she sat quietly upon the floor a long time; and when, at last, she rose
and went up to her aunt's bedside, she found the brow she kissed was
cold, the hand she clasped was chilly; and, in looking with fear upon
the aunt's face, she found the dews of death resting there.

The aunt was dead! Those songs, which flowed so easily from Cybele's
lips, had become the requiem of the dead, and those soft tones had been
the last sigh of a passing soul.

Cybele knew that when the angel had over-shadowed her, as she sang, he
had borne hence her aunt's spirit.

But, O, it was so hard to be left all alone! And when the people from
the other room came in and prepared her aunt for the burial; when they
took her from the bed and put her in the rude coffin, the child's heart
felt like breaking, and, had it not been for the words the angel had
spoken to her when he came to bear hence the dear aunt, she would have
wept without ever smiling again.

Then they carried away the coffin into a dismal place, where was neither
green grass nor pleasant brook, nor even a flower, might it be ever so
little; and there was a row of square, black doors against the walls,
one of which they opened, and shoved the coffin into a dark place.

O, it was so dreary a place, with the high fence all about it, and the
cold, dismal, gray clouds above! It did not seem to Cybele that she
could leave the aunt there. Could she only lie away in the beautiful
land where the mother slept, where the birds rested their wings upon the
lemon-trees, and the blue sky smiled in quiet peacefulness!

But the people who stood around could not understand her grief, and so
they hurried her from the yard and locked up the gate.

That night Cybele lay alone upon the bed on which her aunt had died, and
the lonely grief came so fast upon her that she could not sleep, and the
morning found her weary and heart-broken.

Then there came into her room a coarse man, who told her she must go
out, for she could no longer live there; that she might be allowed to
take her tambourine with her, but all the rest,--and there was little
enough, the two chairs, the bed, the kettle and the few things in the
cupboard,--were his, to pay for the rent of the room and he told her, if
she brought a few pennies to the people who lived in the next room, when
night was come, they would take care of her.

Now the man had no sooner spoken these words, than Cybele decided to
have nothing to do with the people in the next room, for she could not
love them. The father and mother were so coarse and cross, and the boys
were so rude and big;--they had often refused to help her aunt, and
while she was sick they had never come with kind words to smooth her
pillow. Even after she had died, they had but come to put her in a rude
coffin, and carry her to a dismal place, from which they thrust out the
only heart who yearned for her.

So Cybele did not think of going to them. She tied the large silk
handkerchief over her head, which had served her for a bonnet since she
had left Italy, and, taking her dear tambourine in her hand, and the
poor, neglected brooms, she went away out of the rooms where she had
lived so long, where she had seen the angel, and where her aunt had
died. Then, after standing upon the sill of the door a few moments,
looking down the long staircase, out into the world to which she was
going, she raised her gray eyes, and sweetly said, as though replying to
the angel's admonition, "I'm not afraid." Ah, dearest one, you need not
fear when the heavenly Father is so near unto your heart!

Without more hesitation she said "Good-by" to the room, and quickly sped
down the staircase out into the world, while thus she talked to her
tambourine:

"Don't you be afraid either, dear little Tambourine!" and she held it
tenderly in her arms; "nor you, dear Brooms! We shall have happy times
together yet. Only think of the beautiful tunes I'll play on you, and
how the children will clap their hands when they hear your bells! No,
don't be in the least afraid; I'll play on you as I never have before
since once,"--here the little lip quivered in spite of itself,--"only
try and play real pretty--do, so I shan't ever be lonesome with thinking
of the lovely gardens at home! Ah, Tambourine! Tambourine! you and I are
all alone!" Just then, a sweet tone came from the bells of the
tambourine, and comforted Cybele's heart.

She wandered up the streets, and stopped to look in upon the windows of
the toy-shops; but the toy-carts, and those wonderful witches, who would
always stand on their heads, had no charm for her longer. Her heart was
saddened, and when she tried to strike out gay tunes, they would not
come--only sad ones, and sad words from her lips. The children pitied
her grave looks, and, when they could not persuade her to dance for
them, they would leave her in silence.

When she looked about her and saw all the children, how they were never
alone, that their eye's danced, and their voices were mirthful, she
would ask herself why she, too, was not happy. Then courage would come
to her, and she would strike a gay air, and call the children to her
side; but, when she had finished, she was glad to creep away by
herself, and lean her head upon her tambourine to weep. Then, when the
voice of the angel sounded in her heart, she would raise her head to
reply, meekly, "No, I'm not afraid."

It chanced, one day, that she wandered into the obscure corner of a
church. It was evening service, and at first she was only glad to get
away from the cold, biting air; but she had not been there long before a
strange feeling of gladness rose up in her heart. The organ awoke from
its stillness, and the tones gladdened her as the tambourine, dear as it
was, had never done. The hazy light poured in through the windows, and
lit up the faces of the scattered worshippers with seraphic beauty, and
it gave golden edges to the spotless robe of the priest in the chancel,
played upon his white, flowing hair, and shone upon his uplifted
countenance. The priest spoke out blessed words of the Father in heaven,
how he calls the tired and weary to come and be folded up in his arms;
how he even says, "Suffer little children to come unto mo, and forbid
them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." These words fell into
the parched heart of little Cybele, and ran all along there in low
sobs, and, stretching up her tiny arms, she murmured:

"Take me, take me now,--I want to come!" And she began to think of the
angel who had said to her:

"Fear not, for I will yet take you to the lovely gardens where your
mother dwells."

The organ ceased, the priest went out from the chancel, one by one the
people passed out from the church, the sexton closed up the doors and
went away, and Cybele sat in her corner, longing to see again the angel
who was so often in her thoughts, until the hazy light had faded away in
the darkness.

Then the moon rose, and streamed into the church, down the long aisles,
and up into the chancel; and from the window above the place where the
priest had spoken those holy words there flooded a glory of light, while
the columns and galleries stood still in their deepened shadows. It was
so holy a calm as to fill Cybele with a joyful awe. The tambourine slid
from her lap; she crossed her hands upon her breast, and bent forward
her head with closed eyes. Low notes of the sweetest music swelled on
the air; louder they grew; until they seemed like the voices of those
rejoicing for deliverance from great sorrow. Louder, louder yet the
voices of angels mingled with them. As Cybele looked up there she saw
great bands of holy angels rejoicing over her; among them the very one
whose words of consolation had been with her so many days. Quickly to
him she stretched out her arms, and he reached low down and raised her
up to him. And they soared up, up to the region of the sun and the moon,
hearing about them the soft voices of loving angels; the air was loaded
with the perfumes of celestial flowers, while every angel they met gave
them a word of welcome.

The angel did as he had promised, and the heavenly Father, whom Cybele
had prayed to take her, gave her into the loving arms of the mother, who
dwelt in lovelier gardens than those of fair Italy, even the gardens of
heaven.

* * * *

When the people next opened the church, they found a dead child in one
of its corners. A little tambourine lay by its side, which, when they
picked it up, gave out pleasant, cheering tones; but, when they laid the
dead body of the child in a cold, damp grave, they little thought what
happy songs the living spirit of it sang with its mother in the lovely
gardens of God.

THE STORY OF MAGGIE'S JOURNEY.

Little Maggie lived all alone in a small house which contained but one
room. She had lived alone ever since the time her mother had gone to the
palace of the Great King. At first Maggie had cried very bitterly to
think of living alone without her mother; so did her mother, too, as for
that matter, for no mother ever loved her child more dearly than she did
Maggie.

"Maggie," she had said to her, when she knew she must go, "I shall love
you just as tenderly as ever, and always think of you, even while I am
in the Great King's palace. It is a long journey thither, and I expect I
shall be obliged to go through a great many dark and strange places
before coming there; and I fear, the most of all, to leave you in this
little old house all alone; but you know I cannot disobey the King, and
so must follow this servant whom he has sent to bring me. But, O,
Maggie, do follow me _some time_, for I shall be anxiously watching for
you till you come! Be sure, now, and don't disappoint me; and when you
come I think you had better start early in the morning, for the road is
a long and dangerous one."

Perhaps this was a long speech to make; but when mothers go on such
journeys as Maggie's mother was to go on, it is not an unusual custom
for them to do so,--and especially when we remember how she would leave
Maggie all alone; it was only to be wondered she said no more.

When her mother had really gone, the first thing Maggie did was to sit
down upon the door-step and cry bitterly. She could not bear to think
her mother had really gone, and that if ever she wanted to see her she
must start upon that long, long journey. At first I don't think she
loved to think about the Great King who had taken her mother away, and
she was obliged to think over the beautiful things her mother had said
of him many times, before she could be glad he had called her mother.
But at last she rose from the door-step, and went into the house. She
had not much in it, 'tis true; she hadn't much to put in it; and if she
had had more, the house was so small there would have been no place for
anything but what already was there. The principal thing in the room was
the chimney-place. It was so large as to cover the whole of one side of
the room. There was a broad stone hearth, on which sometimes Maggie
would place a few sticks she had picked up in the streets, and light
them; but the little fire they made looked just as if it were ashamed of
itself for burning in such a great fireplace; and the winds, indignant
at its presumption, would rush down the chimney at a more desperate rate
than usual, blowing the ashes into Maggie's eyes, as she sat before the
little fire, and sending the smoke curling in funny forms about the
room. So Maggie would run and cover herself in her poor bed, and say to
herself that it was a comfort to have ashes and smoke; for, though they
did blow in her eyes, still they came from the fire. Sometimes she would
gather up sawdust, and by this fire she was able to warm her feet a
little, though not much; for, as fast as she warmed them, the winds
blew down again, so they were as cold as before.

You see it was a cold kind of a place in which Maggie lived; so cold
that, although it was summer, still a good many people's hearts were
frozen quite stiff, so their friends despaired of their ever being
thawed out; and their tongues too were affected, so they could not speak
gentle, kind words. I don't mean to say the cold ever dealt quite so
shabbily by Maggie or Maggie's mother, which was rather strange,
perhaps, since they could have but little fire; and the frost could walk
very boldly in through the cracks all about the house. Still it was
almost as bad that such things should happen to their neighbors, as
every one knows it is uncomfortable to behold such misery.

Beside the chimney-place and bed, Maggie had some cracked plates and
saucers, which she arranged on the chimney-shelf, and some bits of
china, which she had found in piles of rubbish, and which she thought
very beautiful. Now the chimney-shelf was very high, and she managed to
put these things up there by climbing up the bed-post, which was rather
a dangerous thing for her to do, and as it was a very little difficult,
too, she did not often take down those things.

Now those cracked plates and saucers, and bits of china, were all the
ornaments Maggie had for her house; and they were very precious to her.
She would sit and look at them, _wondering_ what people did who hadn't
got any, and thinking how strange it would seem there in her house if
they were taken away. You see Maggie knew how to prize little things;
and so some day great ones may fall to her.

I did wrong to say she lived all alone; for she had a beautiful white
Dove. Wasn't it nice? It was very white, and nestled close in Maggie's
bosom when she carried it out of the house, and in the night it lay
close to her heart. O, there was nothing Maggie prized like the Dove;
for it was given her by her mother just before she went away, and she
told her it would guide her when she began her journey; so it was not
strange Maggie should love it so well.

It was a lovely, sensitive thing. When Maggie had become thoroughly
weary and tired of living all alone by herself, she told her grief to
the Dove, and it would press nearer and nearer to her heart, and when
its mistress' tears fell on its head, its moans were so sorrowful that
Maggie quickly forgot her own grief, and strove to comfort it.

Now it was in the summer time, and Maggie got along pretty well, for all
the cold winds which blew in that region; but winter was coming on, and
she feared it might be more uncomfortable for her. It happened, one
night, that she heard a great noise, and awoke in a great fright. The
moon shone very brightly, and, by its light, she saw a tall,
strong-looking man carrying away her door. At first she thought she must
be mistaken, and that, if she waited a while, she would see that he was
about to do something very different. But no; he took first the door
well off the hinges, put the hinges in his pocket, the door on his back,
and went off. Then Maggie jumped quickly from her bed, and, running to
the open doorway, cried out,

"Don't take my door; I live here."

But the man certainly did not hear Maggie; at all events he did not once
turn back, but went away quite out of sight.

"But what could he want with my door?" said Maggie, in a high state of
amazement. "Houses all have doors; so he can't want it for his house."
She stood a long time, wondering and perplexed; and I must acknowledge,
if I had been there, I should have wondered too. It was quite a long
time before Maggie could persuade herself to go to bed again, and sleep
till morning, which she finally did, feeling very thankful the man
didn't take the bed.

In the morning a new joy was in store for her; she found that the sun
now, when it rose, could look directly in upon her, and his warm rays
would give warmth to her little room. As she looked up to the
mantel-shelf, on which her bits of broken china were glowing from the
sunshine, she jumped out of bed in an ecstasy of delight.

"O, dear, dear!" she cried, "what if that man had taken away those?--how
I should have cried! But now he has, by taking the door, given the sun a
chance to make them look more beautiful!"

Now she began to love the sun better than ever, for he had become one of
the things which beautified her little home; and she always woke early,
so as to meet his first look, when he came into the room.

Still it must be confessed that the absence of her door did at times
make her poor home more desolate; when, for instance, the winds went
mad, and the rain came down in torrents from the clouds, O, such a
frolicking as there was down her large chimney, and out through the
doorway! Then round and round the house they would run, chasing each
other,--now bursting into a boisterous mirth, now howling in low, dull
tones, until in again at the door they swept, and up through the
chimney.

In Maggie's mind, the chimney and open doorway belonged especially to
the winds. She always thought of them in connection, and, when they
began their frolicking, she would seat herself in one corner, and
listen. Sometimes it seemed as though the winds rushed at one
another,--one coming down the chimney, and the other in at the door;
then, when they met, there was a kind of explosion, a thick, quick
quarrel, and then they would draw off in merry laughter; then would
Maggie clap her hands with glee, thinking it fine sport; but when a
whole blast burst at once upon the house, and seemed desperately to
struggle through every crevice, she would crouch with fear, and upbraid
the winds with their sudden freaks.

There was one mystery which Maggie found herself unable to unravel; it
was this: She felt perfectly certain the chimney was made for the winds
to come down through, and still she knew it was intended for her to make
a smoky kind of fire once in a while on its hearth, with which the winds
quarrelled, and destroyed it. Here were two things irreconcilable. Often
would she stand on the hearth, and look up the black throat of the
chimney, wondering how this inconsistency happened, wishing again and
again that the winds would like the fire, and let it burn well; but she
never thought of asking them to desist. She looked upon their freaks as
privileged.

To the dear Dove did Maggie always turn for comfort and relief. Its love
was a guarantee of her mother's, and, as often as she looked upon and
held it to her heart, so often did she feel sure that one day she would
feel the pressure of her mother's hand upon her head.

Once, when Maggie was talking to the Dove, and thinking of her mother,
it came into her head to begin that journey to the Great King's palace.
"Why not?" said she; "why do I live here? The cold winter is coming, and
my door is gone, and the sun already gives me warning that he shall not
look in at the door as usual; the neighbors will be colder than ever,
and some of them will quite freeze. I've a mind to go away. What do you
think, Dovey?"

The Dove nestled close to her heart, and cooed joyfully.

"Would you like it? Well, I don't know but I had better start. But I
should have to leave the house,--and that would be rather bad,--and the
chimney where the winds play. I think it would seem lonesome for them,
and I don't know as they would like it, for there would be no one to
listen to them; still I do want to go, and I think I'd better."

"I'm sure," said Maggie, after some pause, during which she lovingly
caressed the Dove's head, "I'm sure I don't see why I didn't go before.
I don't know why I should have lived here so long alone. I can take some
of the best china, and leave all the rest. Perhaps some little child may
like to live here after I am gone, and watch the winds as I have done;
but I do hope they won't frighten her at first, or she will want to go
away."

Maggie was an expeditious child, and when she had decided to do
something, she went at once about accomplishing it. So she left the
door-step on which she had been sitting, and went in the house, to see
what she wanted to take; and, as she had so few things, the preparations
were not long, but she soon found herself with her blanket pinned over
her head, ready to start.

'Tis true a few tears came into her eyes as she bid farewell to the bed
which had been her shelter against every unpleasant sight and sound; but
when she turned to the chimney, and some perplexing thought of the
quarrels of the wind and the fire came over her, she rather rejoiced she
would soon be away from it, where this one mystery of their
disagreement should never again trouble her.

Laying the white Dove in her bosom, she turned from the house, and so
beheld herself fairly launched on her journey.

A little while she found it pleasant; the road was straight, and lined
with flowers; the Dove raised his head, and looked in Maggie's eyes with
delight.

But soon she came to a place where two roads met, forming the one she
had been travelling. Here was a perplexity: which should she take--which
would lead her where she wanted to go?

There was a house close by; so she stepped up to the door of it, and
knocked. A lady, who was very pretty to look at, and who wore a very
rich dress, opened the door; but just at the moment when Maggie asked,
"Will you tell me which road leads to the palace of the Great King?"
that same terrible cold wind came round and blew directly into the
lady's mouth, so that she replied, "I know nothing about it, and very
much doubt if there be any Great King at all;" and then she shut the
door in great haste, leaving poor Maggie in much distress and doubt.

She was astonished at the woman's words, and wondered why she shut the
door so soon; for, if she had not, she would have told her about the
King; how she was sure he was alive, and had a great palace. And, too,
she could have told her, his servant had come once and taken her mother
with him, and she could never forget him; he had been dressed in black,
but on his head he wore a crown of the most glorious stars, and their
brightness had filled the little house with holy light, so that, even
after he had departed, it still lingered around.

She thought some of knocking again and telling the poor lady, for she
thought it was sad enough not to know about the Great King; but, though
she knocked a long time, no one came to the door, and, finally, she was
obliged to leave the steps of the house and gather some directions
else-where.

One of the roads seemed cold, and looked narrow, and Maggie, who had
suffered so much from the cold, turned from it with a shudder towards
the other, which looked much gayer, and many more people walked in it;
but the Dove looked anxiously towards the narrow one, which grieved
Maggie, and made her cry out, "O, Dovey, Dovey! how can you love the
cold so well, or ask me to go where it is? Let us rather walk this way a
little, and do you not see there are plenty of cross-roads?--so, if we
wish, we can go on to that narrow road at any time."

So, notwithstanding the Dove's remonstrances, Maggie entered this road,
and found the air so pleasant and warm, that she liked nothing better
than to walk in it.

She saw a great many people here; but they took no notice of the little
girl, who walked along so quietly, with her Dove in her bosom, and the
bits of china in her pocket. But, if they did not notice her, she
noticed them well, and thought them strange enough.

To her surprise she found the air, which had at first seemed so warm,
began to grow cold, and more like the air about the old house; and,
shivering with cold, and seeing the people about her wearing large
cloaks, it was quite natural she should ask them to let her in beneath
the warm folds of them. To her civil request some of them paid no
attention; others looked at her in wonder, and some were so rude as to
speak cruel words to her, and bid her not dare speak to them again.

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