A Little Book of Profitable Tales

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The old gum boot was quite a motherly creature, and anon the sick little
oyster became very much attached to her. Many times as the little invalid
rested her aching head affectionately on the instep of the old gum boot,
the old gum boot told her stories of the world beyond the sea: how she had
been born in a mighty forest, and how proud her folks were of their family
tree; how she had been taken from that forest and moulded into the shape
she now bore; how she had graced and served a foot in amphibious
capacities, until, at last, having seen many things and having travelled
much, she had been cast off and hurled into the sea to be the scorn of
every crab and the derision of every fish. These stories were all new to
the little oyster, and amazing, too; she knew only of the sea, having
lived therein all her life. She in turn told the old gum boot quaint
legends of the ocean,--the simple tales she had heard in her early home;
and there was a sweetness and a simplicity in these stories of the deep
that charmed the old gum boot, shrivelled and hardened and pessimistic
though she was.

Yet, in spite of it all,--the kindness, the care, the amusements, and the
devotion of her friends,--the little oyster remained always a sick and
fragile thing. But no one heard her complain, for she bore her suffering
patiently.

Not far from this beach where the ocean ended its long travels there was a
city, and in this city there dwelt with her parents a maiden of the name
of Margaret. From infancy she had been sickly, and although she had now
reached the years of early womanhood, she could not run or walk about as
others did, but she had to be wheeled hither and thither in a chair. This
was very sad; yet Margaret was so gentle and uncomplaining that from aught
she said you never would have thought her life was full of suffering.
Seeing her helplessness, the sympathetic things of Nature had compassion
and were very good to Margaret. The sunbeams stole across her pathway
everywhere, the grass clustered thickest and greenest where she went, the
winds caressed her gently as they passed, and the birds loved to perch
near her window and sing their prettiest songs. Margaret loved them
all,--the sunlight, the singing winds, the grass, the carolling birds. She
communed with them; their wisdom inspired her life, and this wisdom gave
her nature a rare beauty.

Every pleasant day Margaret was wheeled from her home in the city down to
the beach, and there for hours she would sit, looking out, far out upon
the ocean, as if she were communing with the ocean spirits that lifted up
their white arms from the restless waters and beckoned her to come.
Oftentimes the children playing on the beach came where Margaret sat, and
heard her tell little stories of the pebbles and the shells, of the ships
away out at sea, of the ever-speeding gulls, of the grass, of the flowers,
and of the other beautiful things of life; and so in time the children
came to love Margaret. Among those who so often gathered to hear the
gentle sick girl tell her pretty stories was a youth of Margaret's
age,--older than the others, a youth with sturdy frame and a face full of
candor and earnestness. His name was Edward, and he was a student in the
city; he hoped to become a great scholar sometime, and he toiled very
zealously to that end. The patience, the gentleness, the sweet simplicity,
the fortitude of the sick girl charmed him. He found in her little stories
a quaint and beautiful philosophy he never yet had found in books; there
was a valor in her life he never yet had read of in the histories. So,
every day she came and sat upon the beach, Edward came too; and with the
children he heard Margaret's stories of the sea, the air, the grass, the
birds, and the flowers.

From her moist eyry in the surf the old gum boot descried the group upon
the beach each pleasant day. Now the old gum boot had seen enough of the
world to know a thing or two, as we presently shall see.

"That tall young man is not a child," quoth the old gum boot, "yet he
comes every day with the children to hear the sick girl tell her stories!
Ah, ha!"

"Perhaps he is the doctor," suggested the little oyster; and then she
added with a sigh, "but, oh! I hope not."

This suggestion seemed to amuse the old gum boot highly; at least she fell
into such hysterical laughter that she sprung a leak near her little toe,
which, considering her environments, was a serious mishap.

"Unless I am greatly mistaken, my child," said the old gum boot to the
little oyster, "that young man is in love with the sick girl!"

"Oh, how terrible!" said the little oyster; and she meant it too, for she
was thinking of the gallant young perch with green fins.

"Well, I've said it, and I mean it!" continued the old gum boot; "now just
wait and see."

The old gum boot had guessed aright--so much for the value of worldly
experience! Edward loved Margaret; to him she was the most beautiful, the
most perfect being in the world; her very words seemed to exalt his
nature. Yet he never spoke to her of love. He was content to come with the
children to hear her stories, to look upon her sweet face, and to worship
her in silence. Was not that a very wondrous love?

In course of time the sick girl Margaret became more interested in the
little ones that thronged daily to hear her pretty stories, and she put
her beautiful fancies into the little songs and quaint poems and tender
legends,--songs and poems and legends about the sea, the flowers, the
birds, and the other beautiful creations of Nature; and in all there was a
sweet simplicity, a delicacy, a reverence, that bespoke Margaret's
spiritual purity and wisdom. In this teaching, and marvelling ever at its
beauty, Edward grew to manhood. She was his inspiration, yet he never
spoke of love to Margaret. And so the years went by.

Beginning with the children, the world came to know the sick girl's power.
Her songs were sung in every home, and in every home her verses and her
little stories were repeated. And so it was that Margaret came to be
beloved of all, but he who loved her best spoke never of his love to her.

And as these years went by, the sick little oyster lay in the sea cuddled
close to the old gum boot. She was wearier now than ever before, for there
was no cure for her malady. The gallant perch with green fins was very
sad, for his wooing had been hopeless. Still he was devoted, and still he
came each day to the little oyster, bringing her cool sea-foam and other
delicacies of the ocean. Oh, how sick the little oyster was! But the end
came at last.

The children were on the beach one day, waiting for Margaret, and they
wondered that she did not come. Presently, grown restless, many of the
boys scampered into the water and stood there, with their trousers rolled
up, boldly daring the little waves that rippled up from the overflow of
the surf. And one little boy happened upon the old gum boot. It was a
great discovery.

"See the old gum boot," cried the boy, fishing it out of the water and
holding it on high. "And here is a little oyster fastened to it! How
funny!"

The children gathered round the curious object on the beach. None of them
had ever seen such a funny old gum boot, and surely none of them had ever
seen such a funny little oyster. They tore the pale, knotted little thing
from her foster-mother, and handled her with such rough curiosity that
even had she been a robust oyster she must certainly have died. At any
rate, the little oyster was dead now; and the bereaved perch with green
fins must have known it, for he swam up and down his native cove
disconsolately.

It befell in that same hour that Margaret lay upon her death-bed, and
knowing that she had not long to live, she sent for Edward. And Edward,
when he came to her, was filled with anguish, and clasping her hands in
his, he told her of his love.

Then Margaret answered him: "I knew it, dear one; and all the songs I have
sung and all the words I have spoken and all the prayers I have made have
been with you, dear one,--all with _you_, in my heart of hearts."

"You have purified and exalted my life," cried Edward; "you have been my
best and sweetest inspiration; you have taught me the eternal truth,--you
are my beloved!"

And Margaret said: "Then in my weakness hath there been a wondrous
strength, and from my sufferings cometh the glory I have sought!"

So Margaret died, and like a broken lily she lay upon her couch; and all
the sweetness of her pure and gentle life seemed to come back and rest
upon her face; and the songs she had sung and the beautiful stories she
had told came back, too, on angel wings, and made sweet music in that
chamber.

The children were lingering on the beach when Edward came that day. He
could hear them singing the songs Margaret had taught them. They wondered
that he came alone.

"See," cried one of the boys, running to meet him and holding a tiny shell
in his hand,--"see what we have found in this strange little shell. Is it
not beautiful!"

Edward took the dwarfed, misshapen thing, and lo! it held a beauteous
pearl.

_O little sister mine, let me look into your eyes and read an
inspiration there; let me hold your thin white hand and know the strength
of a philosophy more beautiful than human knowledge teaches; let me see in
your dear, patient little face and hear in your gentle voice the untold
valor of your suffering life. Come, little sister, let me fold you in my
arms and have you ever with me, that in the glory of your faith and love I
may walk the paths of wisdom and of peace_.

1887.

+THE SPRINGTIME+

THE SPRINGTIME

A child once said to his grandsire: "Gran'pa, what do the flowers mean
when they talk to the old oak-tree about death? I hear them talking every
day, but I cannot understand; it is all very strange."

The grandsire bade the child think no more of these things; the flowers
were foolish prattlers,--what right had they to put such notions into a
child's head? But the child did not do his grandsire's bidding; he loved
the flowers and the trees, and he went each day to hear them talk.

It seems that the little vine down by the stone wall had overheard the
south wind say to the rose-bush: "You are a proud, imperious beauty now,
and will not listen to my suit; but wait till my boisterous brother comes
from the North,--then you will droop and wither and die, all because you
would not listen to me and fly with me to my home by the Southern sea."

These words set the little vine to thinking; and when she had thought for
a long time she spoke to the daisy about it, and the daisy called in the
violet, and the three little ones had a very serious conference; but,
having talked it all over, they came to the conclusion that it was as much
of a mystery as ever. The old oak-tree saw them.

"You little folks seem very much puzzled about something," said the old
oak-tree.

"I heard the south wind tell the rose-bush that she would die," exclaimed
the vine, "and we do not understand what it is. Can you tell us what it is
to die?"

The old oak-tree smiled sadly.

"I do not call it death," said the old oak-tree; "I call it sleep,--a
long, restful, refreshing sleep."

"How does it feel?" inquired the daisy, looking very full of astonishment
and anxiety.

"You must know," said the old oak-tree, "that after many, many days we all
have had such merry times and have bloomed so long and drunk so heartily
of the dew and sunshine and eaten so much of the goodness of the earth
that we feel very weary and we long for repose. Then a great wind comes
out of the north, and we shiver in its icy blast. The sunshine goes away,
and there is no dew for us nor any nourishment in the earth, and we are
glad to go to sleep."

"Mercy on me!" cried the vine, "I shall not like that at all! What, leave
this smiling meadow and all the pleasant grass and singing bees and
frolicsome butterflies? No, old oak-tree, I would never go to sleep; I
much prefer sporting with the winds and playing with my little friends,
the daisy and the violet."

"And I," said the violet, "I think it would be dreadful to go to sleep.
What if we never should wake up again!"

The suggestion struck the others dumb with terror,--all but the old
oak-tree.

"Have no fear of that," said the old oak-tree, "for you are sure to awaken
again, and when you have awakened the new life will be sweeter and happier
than the old."

"What nonsense!" cried the thistle.

"You children shouldn't believe a word of it. When you go to sleep you
die, and when you die there's the last of you!"

The old oak-tree reproved the thistle; but the thistle maintained his
abominable heresy so stoutly that the little vine and the daisy and the
violet were quite at a loss to know which of the two to believe,--the old
oak-tree or the thistle.

The child heard it all and was sorely puzzled. What was this death, this
mysterious sleep? Would it come upon him, the child? And after he had
slept awhile would he awaken? His grandsire would not tell him of these
things; perhaps his grandsire did not know.

It was a long, long summer, full of sunshine and bird-music, and the
meadow was like a garden, and the old oak-tree looked down upon the grass
and flowers and saw that no evil befell them. A long, long play-day it was
to the little vine, the daisy, and the violet. The crickets and the
grasshoppers and the bumblebees joined in the sport, and romped and made
music till it seemed like an endless carnival. Only every now and then the
vine and her little flower friends talked with the old oak-tree about that
strange sleep and the promised awakening, and the thistle scoffed at the
old oak-tree's cheering words. The child was there and heard it all.

One day the great wind came out of the north. Hurry-scurry! back to their
warm homes in the earth and under the old stone wall scampered the
crickets and bumblebees to go to sleep. Whirr, whirr! Oh, but how piercing
the great wind was; how different from his amiable brother who had
travelled all the way from the Southern sea to kiss the flowers and woo
the rose!

"Well, this is the last of us!" exclaimed the thistle; "we're going to
die, and that's the end of it all!"

"No, no," cried the old oak-tree; "we shall not die; we are going to
sleep. Here, take my leaves, little flowers, and you shall sleep warm
under them. Then, when you awaken, you shall see how much sweeter and
happier the new life is."

The little ones were very weary indeed. The promised sleep came very
gratefully.

"We would not be so willing to go to sleep if we thought we should not
awaken," said the violet.

So the little ones went to sleep. The little vine was the last of all to
sink to her slumbers; she nodded in the wind and tried to keep awake till
she saw the old oak-tree close his eyes, but her efforts were vain; she
nodded and nodded, and bowed her slender form against the old stone wall,
till finally she, too, had sunk into repose. And then the old oak-tree
stretched his weary limbs and gave a last look at the sullen sky and at
the slumbering little ones at his feet; and with that, the old oak-tree
fell asleep too.

The child saw all these things, and he wanted to ask his grandsire about
them, but his grandsire would not tell him of them; perhaps his grandsire
did not know.

The child saw the storm-king come down from the hills and ride furiously
over the meadows and over the forest and over the town. The snow fell
everywhere, and the north wind played solemn music in the chimneys. The
storm-king put the brook to bed, and threw a great mantle of snow over
him; and the brook that had romped and prattled all the summer and told
pretty tales to the grass and flowers,--the brook went to sleep too. With
all his fierceness and bluster, the storm-king was very kind; he did not
awaken the old oak-tree and the slumbering flowers. The little vine lay
under the fleecy snow against the old stone wall and slept peacefully, and
so did the violet and the daisy. Only the wicked old thistle thrashed
about in his sleep as if he dreamed bad dreams, which, all will allow, was
no more than he deserved.

All through that winter--and it seemed very long--the child thought of the
flowers and the vine and the old oak-tree, and wondered whether in the
springtime they would awaken from their sleep; and he wished for the
springtime to come. And at last the springtime came. One day the sunbeams
fluttered down from the sky and danced all over the meadow.

"Wake up, little friends!" cried the sunbeams,--"wake up, for it is the
springtime!"

The brook was the first to respond. So eager, so fresh, so exuberant was
he after his long winter sleep, that he leaped from his bed and frolicked
all over the meadow and played all sorts of curious antics. Then a little
bluebird was seen in the hedge one morning. He was calling to the violet.

"Wake up, little violet," called the bluebird. "Have I come all this
distance to find you sleeping? Wake up; it is the springtime!"

That pretty little voice awakened the violet, of course.

"Oh, how sweetly I have slept!" cried the violet; "how happy this new life
is! Welcome, dear friends!"

And presently the daisy awakened, fresh and beautiful, and then the little
vine, and, last of all, the old oak-tree. The meadow was green, and all
around there were the music, the fragrance, the new, sweet life of the
springtime.

"I slept horribly," growled the thistle. "I had bad dreams. It was sleep,
after all, but it ought to have been death."

The thistle never complained again; for just then a four-footed monster
stalked through the meadow and plucked and ate the thistle and then
stalked gloomily away; which was the last of the sceptical thistle,--truly
a most miserable end!

"You said the truth, dear old oak-tree!" cried the little vine. "It was
not death,--it was only a sleep, a sweet, refreshing sleep, and this
awakening is very beautiful."

They all said so,--the daisy, the violet, the oak-tree, the crickets, the
bees, and all the things and creatures of the field and forest that had
awakened from their long sleep to swell the beauty and the glory of the
springtime. And they talked with the child, and the child heard them. And
although the grandsire never spoke to the child about these things, the
child learned from the flowers and trees a lesson of the springtime which
perhaps the grandsire never knew.

1885

+RODOLPH AND HIS KING+

RODOLPH AND HIS KING

"Tell me, Father," said the child at Rodolph's knee,--"tell me of the
king."

"There is no king, my child," said Rodolph. "What you have heard are old
women's tales. Do not believe them, for there is no king."

"But why, then," queried the child, "do all the people praise and call on
him; why do the birds sing of the king; and why do the brooks always
prattle his name, as they dance from the hills to the sea?"

"Nay," answered Rodolph, "you imagine these things; there is no king.
Believe me, child, there is no king."

So spake Rodolph; but scarcely had he uttered the words when the cricket
in the chimney corner chirped loudly, and his shrill notes seemed to say:
"The king--the king." Rodolph could hardly believe his ears. How had the
cricket learned to chirp these words? It was beyond all understanding. But
still the cricket chirped, and still his musical monotone seemed to say,
"The king--the king," until, with an angry frown, Rodolph strode from his
house, leaving the child to hear the cricket's song alone.

But there were other voices to remind Rodolph of the king. The sparrows
were fluttering under the eaves, and they twittered noisily as Rodolph
strode along, "The king, king, king!" "The king, king, king," twittered
the sparrows, and their little tones were full of gladness and praise.

A thrush sat in the hedge, and she was singing her morning song. It was a
hymn of praise,--how beautiful it was! "The king--the king--the king,"
sang the thrush, and she sang, too, of his goodness,--it was a wondrous
song, and it was all about the king.

The doves cooed in the elm-trees. "Sing to us!" cried their little ones,
stretching out their pretty heads from the nests. Then the doves nestled
hard by and murmured lullabies, and the lullabies were of the king who
watched over and protected even the little birds in their nests.

Rodolph heard these things, and they filled him with anger.

"It is a lie!" muttered Rodolph; and in great petulance he came to the
brook.

How noisy and romping the brook was; how capricious, how playful, how
furtive! And how he called to the willows and prattled to the listening
grass as he scampered on his way. But Rodolph turned aside and his face
grew darker. He did not like the voice of the brook; for, lo! just as the
cricket had chirped and the birds had sung, so did this brook murmur and
prattle and sing ever of the king, the king, the king.

So, always after that, wherever Rodolph went, he heard voices that told
him of the king; yes, even in their quiet, humble way, the flowers seemed
to whisper the king's name, and every breeze that fanned his brow had a
tale to tell of the king and his goodness.

"But there is no king!" cried Rodolph. "They all conspire to plague me!
There is no king--there is no king!"

Once he stood by the sea and saw a mighty ship go sailing by. The waves
plashed on the shore and told stories to the pebbles and the sands.
Rodolph heard their thousand voices, and he heard them telling of the
king.

Then a great storm came upon the sea, a tempest such as never before had
been seen. The waves dashed mountain-high and overwhelmed the ship, and
the giant voices of the winds and waves cried of the king, the king! The
sailors strove in agony till all seemed lost. Then, when they could do no
more, they stretched out their hands and called upon the king to save
them,--the king, the king, the king!

Rodolph saw the tempest subside. The angry winds were lulled, and the
mountain waves sank into sleep, and the ship came safely into port. Then
the sailors sang a hymn of praise, and the hymn was of the king and to the
king.

"But there is no king!" cried Rodolph. "It is a lie; there is no king!"

Yet everywhere he went he heard always of the king; the king's name and
the king's praises were on every tongue; ay, and the things that had no
voices seemed to wear the king's name written upon them, until Rodolph
neither saw nor heard anything that did not mind him of the king.

Then, in great anger, Rodolph said: "I will go to the mountain-tops; there
I shall find no birds, nor trees, nor brooks, nor flowers to prate of a
monarch no one has ever seen. There shall there be no sea to vex me with
its murmurings, nor any human voice to displease me with its
superstitions."

So Rodolph went to the mountains, and he scaled the loftiest pinnacle,
hoping that there at last he might hear no more of that king whom none had
ever seen. And as he stood upon the pinnacle, what a mighty panorama was
spread before him, and what a mighty anthem swelled upon his ears! The
peopled plains, with their songs and murmurings, lay far below; on every
side the mountain peaks loomed up in snowy grandeur; and overhead he saw
the sky, blue, cold, and cloudless, from horizon to horizon.

What voice was that which spoke in Rodolph's bosom then as Rodolph's eyes
beheld this revelation?

"There is a king!" said the voice. "The king lives, and this is his
abiding-place!"

And how did Rodolph's heart stand still when he felt Silence proclaim the
king,--not in tones of thunder, as the tempest had proclaimed him, nor in
the singing voices of the birds and brooks, but so swiftly, so surely, so
grandly, that Rodolph's soul was filled with awe ineffable.

Then Rodolph cried: "There is a king, and I acknowledge him! Henceforth my
voice shall swell the songs of all in earth and air and sea that know and
praise his name!"

So Rodolph went to his home. He heard the cricket singing of the king;
yes, and the sparrows under the eaves, the thrush in the hedge, the doves
in the elms, and the brook, too, all singing of the king; and Rodolph's
heart was gladdened by their music. And all the earth and the things of
the earth seemed more beautiful to Rodolph now that he believed in the
king; and to the song all Nature sang Rodolph's voice and Rodolph's heart
made harmonious response.

"There _is_ a king, my child," said Rodolph to his little one.
"Together let us sing to him, for he is _our_ king, and his goodness
abideth forever and forever."

1885.

+THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS+

THE HAMPSHIRE HILLS

One afternoon many years ago two little brothers named Seth and Abner were
playing in the orchard. They were not troubled with the heat of the August
day, for a soft, cool wind came up from the river in the valley over
yonder and fanned their red cheeks and played all kinds of pranks with
their tangled curls. All about them was the hum of bees, the song of
birds, the smell of clover, and the merry music of the crickets. Their
little dog Fido chased them through the high, waving grass, and rolled
with them under the trees, and barked himself hoarse in his attempt to
keep pace with their laughter. Wearied at length, they lay beneath the
bellflower-tree and looked off at the Hampshire hills, and wondered if the
time ever would come when they should go out into the world beyond those
hills and be great, noisy men. Fido did not understand it at all. He
lolled in the grass, cooling his tongue on the clover bloom, and puzzling
his brain to know why his little masters were so quiet all at once.

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