THE LITTLE PRINCES.
“As happy as a king—as happy as a queen!” Ah! what thoughtless words are these! The tall pine rocks to and fro, and struggles with the fierce winds and storms; one by one, its beautiful green branches are torn off, and in an unexpected moment comes the terrible lightning flash, scorching its very heart, and leaving it but a blackened cinder. All the time the little flower at its feet sleeps, secure in its sweetness, its very lowliness its surest safeguard and protection. Do you never think of this when you envy the rich and the great? Perhaps you are poor, and meanly clad, and poorly fed; and it seems to you that God is not good and just, to make such a difference between you and another child of your own age, who seems to be born only to have everything it wants, and to rule over others?Have you never, when walking in the field, spied upon some rocky height, a gaudy flower, which you imagined to be sweet-scented and beautiful? Have you never torn your clothes, and sprained your limbs, and nearly put your eyes out with briers, to get it, only to find it, when obtained, nauseous, and full of thorns? Have you never chased the brilliant butterfly over the meadows, till your breath gave out, only to hold in your rash hand, after the eager, weary chase, but a handful of glittering dust?
Well, just like this is human greatness, seen at a distance—just so unsatisfactory its possession. Now, I suppose, you sometimes sit down and dream with your eyes open, what you would like to be when you grow up. I know I did, when I was a child. I don’t remember that I ever wished to be great or celebrated; I never cared for that, and I care for it now less than ever; but I wanted to be loved, oh! so much—so much! I forgot that they whom I loved might die, or change, and so, you see, my house, built upon the sand, was as likely to tumble over as they who desire greatness. But I used to hear my little companions say, Oh, if I were a prince or a princess! and I supposechildren now-a-days wish the same wishes as then; for childhood is childhood, while it lasts, all the world over, with its blue skies, and rosy clouds, and angel dreams—never seeing the dark cloud in the distance; never hearing the low, muttered thunder, or seeing the brief lightning flash. And oh! it is well that it is so, else the little bud would not dare to unfold its bright leaves; but would close them tightly round its little, fragrant heart, and shrivel up in its green inclosure, and drop from the stem, before the world had praised God for the gift of its sweetness.
Perhaps you think princes and princesses are happy? Let me tell you the story of two little princes.
They had lived in a great deal of splendor in a beautiful palace—had plenty of rich clothes, plenty of toys, plenty of little ponies in the stable to ride, plenty of servants to wait on them, and to do whatever they wished; and I suppose the poor little things thought it would always be so. But kings have enemies as well as friends, and so had their father; and these enemies grew more numerous, and wished that the father of these little princes were dead; and after a while they succeededin having things their own way, and the king was sentenced to have his head cut off. Ah! it was not well to be a little prince then! for little princes, if they live long enough, will one day be kings, you know, unless they are put out of the way; and so these bad men thought. Therefore, when their father was led out to be beheaded, these cruel wretches forced the little princes to see it done, and then took their father’s blood, and sprinkled it upon their bright, fair locks, and upon their little garments. And then they took them, although they had committed no crime, unless it was a crime to be the children of this king whom they hated, and put them in prison. This was bad enough; but they did worse than that. They shut them each up in a separate cage, made very broad at the top, but narrowed down to a point at the bottom, so that the little prisoners could neither stand straight, nor sit, nor lie down; and then they fastened them in. The elder of these little boys was but eight years old, and the other only six. Just fancy it! The only comfort they had, was to put their arms through the bars of their cages, and hold each other by the hand.
“We cannot live this way long,” said littleFrank, the younger, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Would papa like to see you cry?” asked Henri. “Do you not see,” said the courageous child, “that they treat us like men of whom they are afraid; let us not, then, act like babies.”
So little Frank dried his tears, as his brother bade him; and they talked about the beautiful palace they used to live in, and the fountains, and the groves, and the gardens; and tried to imagine themselves back there, and so to forget their troubles; but, after all, it was dreary work.
One day, a little mouse peeped out of its hole in the lonely dungeon. I dare say you have often run away from a mouse, or else wanted to have it killed, or taken away; but then you were never shut up in a dungeon, with nobody to care for you, else you would feel as these little prisoners did, and have been glad to see even a friendly mouse. At first the mouse was afraid, and ran back to its hole at sight of the little princes. They called and called, and coaxed it to come back, for they were very weary of their cages, and of having nothing to do, day after day. Besides, their cramped limbs ached badly, and itwas hard work to bear pain of body as well as pain of mind, and have no one to say, I am sorry for you, dear child. At last the little children thought of throwing out a few crumbs of their prison bread. The little hungry mouse understood that, and ventured out, and by and by, after a few days, he would climb up into their cages, and eat from their hands.
When the wicked wretches who put them there heard of this, and found out how patiently and sweetly these dear children bore their trials, and that their little innocent heads drooped every night in peaceful slumber, they were very angry; so they resolved to try other means of tormenting them. So they called the executioner, and ordered him to go to their dungeon once a week, and draw out one tooth from each of them. Just think of that! You have had a tooth taken out, I dare say, but your mother, or father, or sister was by your side, and holding your hand, and pitying you with all their might, and wishing they could bear the pain for you, and that gave you courage. And then it was soon over, and only for once; and the bad toothache from which it delivered you was, after all, worse to bear. But the littleprinces had no toothache; they had a bad heartache, but trusting in God, they were trying to be patient, and love even a little mouse, since they were denied everything else. Oh! how mean and cowardly that great, big, strong man—that executioner—must have felt, when he went in to torment two such little angels!
When he told them what he had come for, the youngest boy commenced crying, and the elder brother said to the executioner, “I beg you not to draw out a tooth from Frank; you see how weak he is, and how ill!”
Then the executioner, hard as he was, shed tears; still he knew that he must carry back two teeth, or have his own head cut off; and so told the boys.
“Well, then,” said the elder brother, the brave Henri, “take out two from my mouth, instead of one from my brother’s; I am strong, but the slightest pain will kill him.” For a long time the two boys struggled which should suffer for the other, until a messenger was sent, to know why the executioner did not return—why he delayed. Then he advanced to the cage, and drew a tooth from Henri, and was going toward Francis, whenHenri cried out, “No, no; take the other from my mouth; don’t touch Francis!” and the executioner carried back two teeth; but they were both from the mouth of the brave Henri. Every week he went back to the dungeon, and every week did this heroic boy lose two teeth, one for himself one for his brother; but alas! his bodily strength began to fail, though his little lion heart was strong as ever. His limbs no longer sustained him; he doubled up in the bottom of the cage, and tried to put out his hand to his little brother.
“Frank,” said he, “I am dying; but perhaps, some time, you may get out; if you should, and you should find our mother, oh, tell her how I love her, just as I am about to die. Good by, Frank! give some crumbs every day to our little mouse for me, won’t you, Frank?” and the next moment, before Frank could answer him—so stupefied was the child with grief—the brave Henri was dead, and nobody was in the dungeon but Frank and the little mouse.
Nobody, did I say? Ah! God was there. Why he permitted all this suffering, neither you nor I know; but I hope we shall know one of these days. The angels are always learning suchthings in heaven. It puzzles me often now, when I think about them, and sometimes I get impatient, and wish God would tell me right off why he permits this, when he could so easily prevent it; and then I think of the many, many times, in which I have shed impatient tears at my own troubles, and then time has passed on, and I have seen, even in this world, with my dim, earthly eyes, how much better it was that those very things should have happened which grieved me so. But with our bright, heavenly eyes, in the broad, clear light of eternity, how easily, dear children, shall we untwist these tangled threads of life, which seem to mock our efforts here. We can wait, for, just as sure as that God reigns, it is all right.
Dear me! I suppose you are very impatient to know what became of poor Frank, when he was left alone? Well, soon after Henri died, the wretches who imprisoned the two innocent children died also; and then Frank was taken from his dungeon, and set at liberty. Oh! how glad he must have been to see the blue sky, and the green fields, and the sweet flowers, and, better than all, to find his dear mother.
What a sorrowful story he had to tell her! and how many times they wept, to think of poor Henri, and how the mother wept at night, over little Frank, while he was sleeping, whose dungeon tortures had made him a cripple for life. Ah! it is not well to be a little prince.
Let me tell you another story, of a child who was born of a noble family in France. His father and grandfather were both great generals; they had been in many battles, and were considered very brave men; but war is such a terrible, terrible thing, is it not? husbands, fathers, and brothers falling to the ground, like grass before the mower’s scythe; but in those days war was not spoken of in this way. Dead men were thought no more of than dead sheep; unless, indeed, it might be some great commander or general. As if a soul wasn’t a soul, no matter whether it lodged in the body of a common soldier or his officer. As if a common soldier’s relatives would not grieve at his loss as much as the relatives of his commanding officer for him. As if sorrow did not sit down in the hovel, as well as in the hall. As if an orphan were not an orphan, and a widow a widow, in every rank of life. But, as I tell you,people did not think this way when this lad lived, of whom I am about to tell you. It was all glory and epaulettes. Little Paul had guns and swords, and flags and drums, put into his hands almost as soon as he was born, by his father and grandfather, who wished to train him up for a great hero. When he was averygood boy, his reward was to play battle with his grandfather, with a set of pasteboard soldiers, to teach him how to manage the enemy in difficult positions; and all this boy’s dreams, by day and night, were of such things. When he was only ten years old, his father was commanded to join the army, for there was to be a great battle, arealbattle. So he told his wife, who cried very much, that he was going to leave her, perhaps for ever; and then he took his little boy in his arms, to bid him good by. Paul did not cry, but he looked his father in the face very steadily, and said, “Papa, I must go too. I must fight by your side in that battle!” This pleased his father and grandfather very much; and his mother began to be frightened, for fear that they would really consent to the child’s going; and sure enough they did, and little Paul was half beside himself with joy, that he was totake part, with real swords and real men, in a real battle. Perhaps you say, Oh, of course, his father took care that he should not be in any danger, and made everything easy for him. Not at all, as you shall hear; for little Paul insisted, as soon as he joined the army, that no favor should be shown him because he was so young, and because he had been born of a noble family, and brought up tenderly; he insisted upon sharing all the fatigue and danger, and felt quite insulted, if any of the old men in the army seemed to fear for him, or not think him capable of his duty. He wanted to do just as the common soldiers did; sleep on the bare ground, and eat of their common food. A week after he had joined the army, he had proved himself so brave, that they made him ensign, and gave him the colors to carry. Perhaps you say, Of course, his father did that! No; the whole regiment were quite proud of him, and said that the little fellow deserved it. You must not think that he forgot his mother, who was so anxious about her boy. He wrote her a little letter, which was a funny mixture of childishness and manliness, telling her that he had a wound in his right arm from the enemy, who wished to seizehis pretty flag. “That would have been fine, indeed!” wrote little Paul, “when I had just had it given me to defend!” Then he tells her, that his new hat was spoilt, but that he can get another, and that once he fell off his horse, when the enemy rushed at them, but soon was up again, firing his pistols after them. Three months the child was there, in the army, and often suffered much from cold and other causes; but he never complained; and when not engaged in fighting, used to laugh as merrily as any other child of ten years old, and at as trifling things.
But at last came a day, which was to decide the battle, one way or another. On the morning of that day, Paul’s father took him in his arms, and said, “Give me a kiss, Paul; for we may never meet again.” Paul gave him two—one for his mother—and then they separated. Little Paul was stationed away from his father, at a post which he was not to leave without permission from a superior officer.
The battle went on; the dead and dying strewed the ground. Little Paul saw his brave companions falling all around him. Still the child stood at his post, until a ball fractured his leg;then, in his agony, he said, what all children say in their pain, “Mother!” fainting as he said it. Some time after, a soldier flying from the field, saw a child lying beneath his horse. All the army knew Paul, and loved him; so the soldier forgot all about his own danger, and stopped to pick up poor little Paul from the dead soldiers around him, and put him on his shoulders, to carry him to the camp. Several times the enemy stopped him; but he had only to point to the wounded child—for everybody had heard of “Little Paul,”—and they let him pass.
When he got to the camp, little Paul came to his senses; and then they told him that it would be necessary to cut off his leg.
“Better that, than my head!” said Paul; “but stop!” said he, as a thought struck him; “it may kill me, may it not?” The doctor bowed his head; he could not say yes, he felt so sorry for him.
“Give me, then, half an hour first, and let me write to my mother!” said Paul; and with great agony he wrote tremblingly a few lines to her whose thoughts were always of her boy.
After this he said, “Now I am ready!” Hisfather stood by, holding his little hand, and whispering, “Courage, my child! courage!”
Little Paul smiled and answered, “Oh, I have plenty—more than any of you!” but as he said it, the smile faded, and a deadly pallor overspread his face.
“Oh, papa, I am dying!” said Paul.
You have seen a cloud-shadow flit over a sunny meadow.
“Oh, papa, I am dying!”
Little Paul never spoke again, and the smile faded from his face, and the small hand grew cold in the father’s grasp. Ah! poor little brave Paul! He did not think of this when he and his grandfather played battle, with wooden soldiers, evening after evening, on the study table, in their pleasant chateau in France. I think it was a great shame ever to take little Paul from there; don’t you?