Cupid
Amrie tended the geese upon the Holder Green, as they called the pasture-ground upon the little height by Hungerbrook.
It was a pleasant but a troublesome occupation. Especially painful was it to Amrie, that she could do nothing to attach her charge to her. Indeed, they were scarcely to be distinguished one from another. Was it not true what Brown Mariann had said to her as she came out of the Moosbrunnenwood?
"Creatures that live in herds are all and every one stupid."
"I think," said Amrie, "that this is what makes geese stupid; they can do too many things. They can swim and run and fly, but they can do neither well; they are not at home in the water, nor on the ground, nor in the air; and therefore they are stupid."
"I will stand by this," said Mariann; "in thee is concealed an old hermit."
Amrie was often borne into the kingdom of dreams. Freely rose her childish soul upward and cradled itself in unlimited ether. As the larks in the air sang and rejoiced without knowing the limits of their field, so would she soar away beyond the boundaries of the whole country. The soul of the child knew nothing of the limits placed upon the narrow life of reality. Whoever is accustomed to wonder will find a miracle in every day.
"Listen!" she would say; "the cuckoo calls! It is the living echo of the woods calling and answering itself. The bird sits over there in the service-tree. Look up, and he will fly away. How loud he cries, and how unceasingly! That little bird has a stronger voice than a man. Place thyself upon the tree andimitate him; thou wilt not be heard so far as this bird, who is no larger than my hand. Listen! Perhaps he is an enchanted prince, and he may suddenly begin to speak to thee. Yes," she continued, "only tell me thy riddle, and I will soon find the meaning of it; and then will I disenchant thee."
While Amrie's thoughts were wandering beyond all bounds, the geese also felt themselves at liberty to stray away and enjoy the good things of the neighboring clover or barley field. Awaking out of her dreams, she had great trouble in bringing the geese back; and when these freebooters returned in regiments, they had much to tell of the goodly land where they had fed so well. There seemed no end to their gossipping and chattering.
Geese fly over water and woods.
Again Amrie soared. "Look! there fly the birds! No bird in the air goes astray. Even the swallows, as they pass and repass, are always safe, always free! O, could we only fly! How must the world look above, where the larks soar! Hurrah! Always higher and higher, farther and farther! O, if I could but fly!"
Then she sang herself suddenly away from all the noise and from all her thoughts. Her breath, which with the idea of flying had grown deeper and quicker, as though she really hovered in the high ether, became again calm and measured.
Of the thousand-fold meanings that lived in Amrie's soul, Brown Mariann received only at times an intimation. Once, when she came from the forest with her load of wood, and with May-bugs and worms for Amrie's geese imprisoned in her sack, the latter said to her, "Aunt, do you know why the wind blows?"
"No, child. Do you?"
"Yes; I have observed that everything that grows must move about. The bird flies, the beetle creeps; the hare, the stag, the horse, and all animals must run. The fish swim, and so do the frogs. But there stand the trees, the corn, and the grass; they cannot go forth, and yet they must grow. Then comes the wind, and says, 'Only stand still, and I will do for you what others can do for themselves. See how I turn, and shake, and bend you! Be glad that I come! I do thee good, even if I make thee weary.'"
Brown Mariann only made her usual speech in reply, "I maintain it; in thee is concealed the soul of an old hermit."
The quail began to be heard in the high rye-fields; near Amrie, the field larks sang the whole day long. They wandered here and there and sang so tenderly, so into the deepest heart, it seemed as though they drew their inspiration from the source of life,—from the soul itself. The tone was more beautiful than that of the skylark, which soars high in the air. Often one of the birds came so near to Amrie that she said, "Why cannot I tell thee that I will not hurt thee? Only stay!" But the bird was timid, and flew farther off.
At noon, when Brown Mariann came to her, she said, "Could I only know what a bird finds to say, singing the whole day long! Even then he has not sung it all out!"
Mariann answered, "See here! A bird keeps nothing to himself, to ponder over. But within man there is always something speaking on, so softly! There are thoughts in us that talk, and weep, and sing so quietly we scarcely hear them ourselves. Not so with the bird; when his song is done, he only wants to eat or sleep."
As Mariann turned and went forth with her bundle of sticks, Amrie looked after her, smiling. "There goes a great singing bird!" she thought to herself.
None but the sun saw how long the child continued to smile and to think. Silently she sat dreaming, as the wind movedthe shadows of the branches around her. Then she gazed at the clouds, motionless on the horizon, or chasing each other through the sky. As in the wide space without, so in the soul of the child, the cloud-pictures arose and melted away.
Thus, day after day, Amrie lived.
"The Little Barefoot."
A bundle of sticks and an axe.
THE ROBINS.A thing remarkable in my childhood was, that once going to a neighbor's house, I saw on the way a robin sitting on her nest, and as I went near her she went off, but, having young ones, flew about, and with many cries told her concern for them.
THE ROBINS.
A thing remarkable in my childhood was, that once going to a neighbor's house, I saw on the way a robin sitting on her nest, and as I went near her she went off, but, having young ones, flew about, and with many cries told her concern for them.
A thing remarkable in my childhood was, that once going to a neighbor's house, I saw on the way a robin sitting on her nest, and as I went near her she went off, but, having young ones, flew about, and with many cries told her concern for them.
I stood and threw stones at her, until, one striking her, she fell down dead. At first I was pleased with the exploit, but after a few minutes was seized with horror for having in a sportive way killed an innocent creature while she was careful of her young. I beheld her lying dead, and thought that these young ones, for which she was so heedful, must now perish for want of their parent to nourish them; and after some painful considerations on the subject, I climbed up the tree, took all the young birds and killed them, supposing that to be better than to leave them to pine away and die miserably. I believed in this case that the Scripture proverb was fulfilled: "The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel."
I then went on my errand, but for some hours could think of little else than the cruelties I had committed, and was troubled.
He whose tender mercies are over all his works hath placed a principle in the human mind which incites to goodness towards every living creature; and this being singly attended to, we become tender-hearted and sympathizing; but being frequently rejected, the mind becomes shut up in a contrary disposition.
I often remember the Fountain of Goodness which gives being to all creatures, and whose love extends to the caring for the sparrow; and I believe that where the love of God is verily perfected, a tenderness toward all creatures made subject to us will be felt, and a care that we do not lessen that sweetness of life in the animal creation which their Creator intended for them.
John Woolman.
Robins in the forest.
Our old homestead (the house was very old for a new country, having been built about the time that the Prince of Orange drove out James the Second) nestled under a long range of hills which stretched off to the west. It was surrounded by woods in all directions save to the southeast, where a break in the leafy wall revealed a vista of low green meadows, picturesque with wooded islands and jutting capes of upland. Through these, a small brook, noisy enough as it foamed, rippled, and laughed down its rocky falls by our garden-side, wound, silently and scarcely visible, to a still larger stream, known as the Country Brook. This brook in its turn, after doing duty at two or three saw and grist mills, the clack of which we could hear in still days across the intervening woodlands, found its way to the great river, and the river took it up and bore it down to the great sea.
I have not much reason for speaking well of these meadows, or rather bogs, for they were wet most of the year; but in the early days they were highly prized by the settlers, as they furnished natural mowing before the uplands could be cleared of wood and stones and laid down to grass. There is a tradition that the hay-harvesters of two adjoining towns quarrelled about a boundary question, and fought a hard battle one summer morning in that old time, not altogether bloodless, but by no means as fatal as the fight between the rival Highland clans, described by Scott in "The Fair Maid of Perth." I used to wonder at their folly, when I was stumbling over the rough hassocks, and sinking knee-deep in the black mire, raking the sharp sickle-edged grass which we used to feed out to the young cattle in midwinter when the bitter cold gave them appetite for even such fodder. I had an almost Irish hatred of snakes, and these meadows were full of them,—striped,green, dingy water-snakes, and now and then an ugly spotted adder by no means pleasant to touch with bare feet. There were great black snakes, too, in the ledges of the neighboring knolls; and on one occasion in early spring I found myself in the midst of a score at least of them,—holding their wicked meeting of a Sabbath morning on the margin of a deep spring in the meadows. One glimpse at their fierce shining heads in the sunshine, as they roused themselves at my approach, was sufficient to send me at full speed towards the nearest upland. The snakes, equally scared, fled in the same direction; and, looking back, I saw the dark monsters following close at my heels, terrible as the Black Horse rebel regiment at Bull Run. I had, happily, sense enough left to step aside and let the ugly troop glide into the bushes.
Nevertheless, the meadows had their redeeming points. In spring mornings the blackbirds and bobolinks made them musical with songs; and in the evenings great bullfrogs croaked and clamored; and on summer nights we loved to watch the white wreaths of fog rising and drifting in the moonlight like troops of ghosts, with the fireflies throwing up ever and anon signals of their coming. But the Brook was far more attractive, for it had sheltered bathing-places, clear and white sanded, and weedy stretches, where the shy pickerel loved to linger, and deep pools, where the stupid sucker stirred the black mud with his fins. I had followed it all the way from its birthplace among the pleasant New Hampshire hills, through the sunshine of broad, open meadows, and under the shadow of thick woods. It was, for the most part, a sober, quiet little river; but at intervals it broke into a low, rippling laugh over rocks and trunks of fallen trees. There had, so tradition said, once been a witch-meeting on its banks, of six little old women in short, sky-blue cloaks; and if a drunken teamster could be credited, a ghost was once seen bobbing for eels under Country Bridge. It ground our corn and rye for us, at its two grist-mills; and we drove our sheep to it for their spring washing, an anniversary which was looked forward to with intensedelight, for it was always rare fun for the youngsters. Macaulay has sung,—
"That year young lads in UmbroShall plunge the struggling sheep";
"That year young lads in UmbroShall plunge the struggling sheep";
and his picture of the Roman sheep-washing recalled, when we read it, similar scenes in the Country Brook. On its banks we could always find the earliest and the latest wild flowers, from the pale blue, three-lobed hepatica, and small, delicate wood-anemone, to the yellow bloom of the witch-hazel burning in the leafless October woods.
Yet, after all, I think the chief attraction of the Brook to my brother and myself was the fine fishing it afforded us. Our bachelor uncle who lived with us (there has always been one of that unfortunate class in every generation of our family) was a quiet, genial man, much given to hunting and fishing; and it was one of the great pleasures of our young life to accompany him on his expeditions to Great Hill, Brandy-brow Woods, the Pond, and, best of all, to the Country Brook. We were quite willing to work hard in the cornfield or the haying-lot to finish the necessary day's labor in season for an afternoon stroll through the woods and along the brookside. I remember my first fishing excursion as if it were but yesterday. I have been happy many times in my life, but never more intensely so than when I received that first fishing-pole from my uncle's hand, and trudged off with him through the woods and meadows. It was a still sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than ever before. My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best haunts of pickerel, considerately placed me at the most favorable point. I threw out my line as I had so often seen others, and waited anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of the water in imitation of the leap of a frog. Nothing came of it. "Try again," said my uncle. Suddenly the bait sank out of sight. "Now for it," thought I; "here is a fish at last." I made a strong pull, and brought up a tangleof weeds. Again and again I cast out my line with aching arms, and drew it back empty. I looked to my uncle appealingly. "Try once more," he said; "we fishermen must have patience."
Suddenly something tugged at my line and swept off with it into deep water. Jerking it up, I saw a fine pickerel wriggling in the sun. "Uncle!" I cried, looking back in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got a fish!" "Not yet," said my uncle. As he spoke there was a plash in the water; I caught the arrowy gleam of a scared fish shooting into the middle of the stream; my hook hung empty from the line. I had lost my prize.
Man and boy fishing along a stream, the fish gets away.Man and boy fishing along a stream, the fish gets away.
We are apt to speak of the sorrows of childhood as trifles in comparison with those of grown-up people; but we may depend upon it the young folks don't agree with us. Our griefs, modified and restrained by reason, experience, and self-respect, keep the proprieties, and, if possible, avoid a scene; but the sorrow of childhood, unreasoning and all-absorbing, is a complete abandonment to the passion. The doll's nose is broken, and the world breaksup with it; the marble rolls out of sight, and the solid globe rolls off with the marble.
So, overcome by my great and bitter disappointment, I sat down on the nearest hassock, and for a time refused to be comforted, even by my uncle's assurance that there were more fish in the brook. He refitted my bait, and, putting the pole again in my hands, told me to try my luck once more.
"But remember, boy," he said, with his shrewd smile, "never brag of catching a fish until he is on dry ground. I've seen older folks doing that in more ways than one, and so making fools of themselves. It's no use to boast of anything until it's done, nor then either, for it speaks for itself."
How often since I have been reminded of the fish that I did not catch! When I hear people boasting of a work as yet undone, and trying to anticipate the credit which belongs only to actual achievement, I call to mind that scene by the brookside, and the wise caution of my uncle in that particular instance takes the form of a proverb of universal application: "Never brag of your fish before you catch him."
John G. Whittier.
When I first settled in Grasmere, Catherine Wordsworth was in her infancy, but even at that age she noticed me more than any other person, excepting, of course, her mother. She was not above three years old when she died, so that there could not have been much room for the expansion of her understanding, or the unfolding of her real character. But there was room in her short life, and too much, for love the most intense to settle upon her.
The whole of Grasmere is not large enough to allow of any great distance between house and house; and as it happened that little Kate Wordsworth returned my love, she in a manner lived with me at my solitary cottage. As often as I could entice her from home, she walked with me, slept with me, and was my sole companion.
That I was not singular in ascribing some witchery to the nature and manners of this innocent child may be gathered from the following beautiful lines by her father. They are from the poem entitled "Characteristics of a Child Three Years Old," dated, at the foot, 1811, which must be an oversight, as she was not so old until the following year.
"Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;And Innocence hath privilege in herTo dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,And feats of cunning, and the pretty roundOf trespasses, affected to provokeMock chastisement, and partnership in play.And as a fagot sparkles on the hearthNot less if unattended and aloneThan when both young and old sit gathered round,And take delight in its activity,—Even so this happy creature of herselfWas all-sufficient. Solitude to herWas blithe society, who filled the airWith gladness and involuntary songs."
"Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;And Innocence hath privilege in herTo dignify arch looks and laughing eyes,And feats of cunning, and the pretty roundOf trespasses, affected to provokeMock chastisement, and partnership in play.And as a fagot sparkles on the hearthNot less if unattended and aloneThan when both young and old sit gathered round,And take delight in its activity,—Even so this happy creature of herselfWas all-sufficient. Solitude to herWas blithe society, who filled the airWith gladness and involuntary songs."
It was this radiant spirit of joyousness, making solitude, for her, blithe society, and filling from morning to night the air with gladness and involuntary songs,—this it was which so fascinated my heart that I became blindly devoted to this one affection.
In the spring of 1812 I went up to London; and early in June I learned by a letter from Miss Wordsworth, her aunt, that she had died suddenly. She had gone to bed in good health about sunset on June 4, was found speechless a little before midnight, and died in the early dawn, just as the first gleams of morning began to appear above Seat Sandel and Fairfield, the mightiest of the Grasmere barriers,—about an hour, perhaps, before sunrise.
Over and above my love for her, I had always viewed her as an impersonation of the dawn, and of the spirit of infancy; and this, with the connection which, even in her parting hours, she assumed with the summer sun, timing her death with the rising of that fountain of life,—these impressions recoiled into such a contrast to the image of death, that each exalted and brightened the other.
I returned hastily to Grasmere, stretched myself every night on her grave, in fact often passed the whole night there, in mere intensity of sick yearning after neighborhood with the darling of my heart.
In Sir Walter Scott's "Demonology," and in Dr. Abercrombie's "Inquiries concerning the Intellectual Powers," there are some remarkable illustrations of the creative faculties awakened in the eye or other organs by peculiar states of passion; and it is worthy of a place among cases of that nature, that in many solitary fields, at a considerable elevation above the level of the valleys,—fields which, in the local dialect, are called "intacks,"—my eye was haunted, at times, in broad noonday (oftener, however, in the afternoon), with a facility, but at times also with a necessity, forweaving, out of a few simple elements, a perfect picture of little Kate in her attitude and onward motion of walking.
I resorted constantly to these "intacks," as places where I was little liable to disturbance; and usually I saw her at the opposite side of the field, which sometimes might be at the distance of a quarter of a mile, generally not so much. Almost always she carried a basket on her head; and usually the first hint upon which the figure arose commenced in wild plants, such as tall ferns, or the purple flowers of the foxglove. But whatever these might be, uniformly the same little full-formed figure arose, uniformly dressed in the little blue bed-gown and black skirt of Westmoreland, and uniformly with the air of advancing motion.
Thomas De Quincey.
Standing at little Kate's resting place.
House atop a hill, bay in the background.House atop a hill, bay in the background.
One bright morning, late in March, little Margery put on her hood and her Highland plaid shawl, and went trudging across the beach. It was the first time she had been trusted out alone, for Margery was a little girl; nothing about her was large, except her round gray eyes, which had yet scarcely opened upon half a dozen springs and summers.
There was a pale mist on the far-off sea and sky, and up around the sun were white clouds edged with the hues of pinks and violets. The sunshine and the mild air made Margery's very heart feel warm, and she let the soft wind blow aside her Highland shawl, as she looked across the waters at the sun, and wondered!
For, somehow, the sun had never looked before as it did to-day;—it seemed like a great golden flower bursting out of its pearl-lined calyx,—a flower without a stem! Or was there a strong stem away behind it in the sky, that reached down below the sea, to a root, nobody could guess where?
Margery did not stop to puzzle herself about the answer to herquestion, for now the tide was coming in, and the waves, little at first, but growing larger every moment, were crowding up, along the sand and pebbles, laughing, winking, and whispering, as they tumbled over each other, like thousands of children hurrying home from somewhere, each with its own precious little secret to tell. Where did the waves come from? Who was down there under the blue wall of the horizon, with the hoarse, hollow voice, urging and pushing them across the beach to her feet? And what secret was it they were lisping to each other with their pleasant voices? O, what was there beneath the sea, and beyond the sea, so deep, so broad, and so dim too, away off where the white ships, that looked smaller than sea-birds, were gliding out and in?
But while Margery stood still for a moment on a dry rock and wondered, there came a low, rippling warble to her ear from a cedar-tree on the cliff above her. It had been a long winter, and Margery had forgotten that there were birds, and that birds could sing. So she wondered again what the music was. And when she saw the bird perched on a yellow-brown bough, she wondered yet more. It was only a bluebird, but then it was the first bluebird Margery had ever seen. He fluttered among the prickly twigs, and looked as if he had grown out of them, as the cedar-berries had, which were dusty-blue, the color of his coat. But how did the music get into his throat? And after it was in his throat, how could it untangle itself, and wind itself off so evenly? And where had the bluebird flown from, across the snow-banks, down to the shore of the blue sea? The waves sang a welcome to him, and he sang a welcome to the waves; they seemed to know each other well; and the ripple and the warble sounded so much alike, the bird and the wave must both have learned their music of the same teacher. And Margery kept on wondering as she stepped between the song of the bluebird and the echo of the sea, and climbed a sloping bank, just turning faintly green in the spring sunshine.
The grass was surely beginning to grow! There were fresh, juicy shoots running up among the withered blades of last year,as if in hopes of bringing them back to life; and closer down she saw the sharp points of new spears peeping from their sheaths. And scattered here and there were small dark green leaves folded around buds shut up so tight that only those who had watched them many seasons could tell what flowers were to be let out of their safe prisons by and by. So no one could blame Margery for not knowing that they were only common things,—mouse-ear, dandelions, and cinquefoil; nor for stooping over the tiny buds, and wondering.
What made the grass come up so green out of the black earth? And how did the buds know when it was time to take off their little green hoods, and see what there was in the world around them? And how came they to be buds at all? Did they bloom in another world before they sprung up here?—and did they know, themselves, what kind of flowers they should blossom into? Had flowers souls, like little girls, that would live in another world when their forms had faded away from this?
Margery thought she should like to sit down on the bank and wait beside the buds until they opened; perhaps they would tell her their secret if the very first thing they saw was her eyes watching them. One bud was beginning to unfold; it was streaked with yellow in little stripes that she could imagine became wider every minute. But she would not touch it, for it seemed almost as much alive as herself. She only wondered, and wondered!
But the dash of the waves grew louder, and the bluebird had not stopped singing yet, and the sweet sounds drew Margery's feet down to the beach again, where she played with the shining pebbles, and sifted the sand through her plump fingers, stopping now and then to wonder a little about everything, until she heard her mother's voice calling her, from the cottage on the cliff.
Then Margery trudged home across the shells and pebbles with a pleasant smile dimpling her cheeks, for she felt very much at home in this large, wonderful world, and was happy to be alive, although she neither could have told, nor cared to know, the reason why. But when her mother unpinned the little girl's Highlandshawl, and took off her hood, she said, "O mother, do let me live on the door-step! I don't like houses to stay in. What makes everything so pretty and so glad? Don't you like to wonder?"
Margery's mother was a good woman. But then there was all the housework to do, and if she had thoughts, she did not often let them wander outside the kitchen door. And just now she was baking some gingerbread, which was in danger of getting burned in the oven. So she pinned the shawl around the child's neck again, and left her on the door-step, saying to herself, as she returned to her work, "Queer child! I wonder what kind of a woman she will be!"
But Margery sat on the door-step, and wondered, as the sea sounded louder, and the sunshine grew warmer around her. It was all so strange, and grand, and beautiful! Her heart danced with joy to the music that went echoing through the wide world from the roots of the sprouting grass to the great golden blossom of the sun.
And when the round, gray eyes closed that night, at the first peep of the stars, the angels looked down and wondered over Margery. For the wisdom of the wisest being God has made ends in wonder; and there is nothing on earth so wonderful as the budding soul of a little child.
Lucy Larcom.
Sunset over the ocean, with flying birds.
Very early in the spring, when the fresh grass was just appearing, before the trees had got their foliage, or the beds of white campanula and blue anemone were open, a poor little girl with a basket on her arm went out to search for nettles.
Near the stone wall of the churchyard was a bright green spot, where grew a large bunch of nettles. The largest stung little Karine's fingers. "Thank you for nothing!" said she; "but, whether you like it or not, you must all be put into my basket."
Little Karine blew on her smarting finger, and the wind followed suit. The sun shone out warm, and the larks began to sing. As Karine was standing there listening to the song of the birds, and warming herself in the sun, she perceived a beautiful butterfly.
"O, the first I have seen this year! What sort of summer shall I have? Let me see your colors. Black and bright red. Sorrow and joy in turn. It is very likely I may go supperless to bed, but then there is the pleasure of gathering flowers, making hay, and playing tricks." Remembrance and expectation made her laugh.
The butterfly stretched out its dazzling wings, and, after it had settled on a nettle, waved itself backwards and forwards in the sunshine. There was also something else upon the nettle, which looked like a shrivelled-up light brown leaf. The sun was just then shining down with great force upon the spot, and while she looked the brown object moved, and two little leaves rose gently up which by and by became two beautiful little wings; and behold, it was a butterfly just come out of the chrysalis! Fresh life was infused into it by the warm rays of the sun, and how happy it was!
The two butterflies must have been friends whom some unluckychance had separated. They flew about, played at hide-and-seek, waltzed with each other, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves in the bright sunshine. One flew away three times into a neighboring orchard. The other seated itself on a nettle to rest. Karine went gently towards it, put her hands quickly over it, and got possession both of the butterfly and the nettle. She then put them into the basket, which she covered with a red cotton handkerchief, and went home happy.
Karine watches the butterflies play among the nettles.
The nettles were bought by an old countess, who lived in a grand apartment, and had a weakness for nettle soup. Karine received a silver piece for them. With this in her hand, the butterfly in her basket, and also two large gingercakes which had been given to her by the kind countess, the happy girl went into the room where her mother and little brother awaited her. There were great rejoicings over the piece of silver, the gingercakes, and the butterfly.
But the butterfly did not appear as happy with the children as the children were with the butterfly. It would not eat any of the gingerbread, or anything else which the children offered, but was always fluttering against the window-pane, and when it rested on the ledge it put out a long proboscis, drew it in again, and appeared to be sucking something; however, it found nothing to suitits taste, so it flew about again, and beat its wings with such force against the window-pane, that Karine began to fear it would come to grief. Two days passed in this way. The butterfly would not be happy.
"It wants to get out," thought Karine; "it wants to find a home and something to eat." So she opened the window.
Ah, how joyfully the butterfly flew out into the open air! it seemed to be quite happy. Karine ran after it to see which way it took. It flew over the churchyard, which was near Karine's dwelling. There little yellow star-like flowers of every description were in bud; among them the spring campanula, otherwise called the morning-star. Into the calyxes of these little flowers it thrust its proboscis, and sucked a sweet juice therefrom; for at the bottom of the calyx of almost every flower there is a drop of sweet juice which God has provided for the nourishment of insects,—bees, drones, butterflies, and many other little creatures.
The butterfly then flew to the bunch of nettles on the hill. The large nettle which had stung Karine's finger now bore three white bell-shaped flowers, which looked like a crown on the top of the stalk, and many others were nearly out. The butterfly drew honey from the white nettle-blossoms and embraced the plant with its wings, as children do a tender mother.
"It has now returned to its home," thought Karine, and she felt very glad to have given the butterfly its liberty.
Summer came. The child enjoyed herself under the lime-trees in the churchyard, and in the meadows where she got the beautiful yellow catkins, which were as soft as the down of the goslings, and which she was so fond of playing with, also the young twigs which she liked cutting into pipes or whistles. Fir-trees and pines blossomed and bore fir-cones; the sheep and calves were growing, and drank the dew, which is called the "Blessed Virgin's hand," out of the trumpet moss, which with its small white and purple cup grew on the steep shady banks.
Karine now gathered flowers to sell. The nettles had long ago become too old and rank, but the nettle butterflies still flew merrily about among them.
One day Karine saw her old friend sit on a leaf, as if tired and worn out, and when it flew away the child found a little gray egg lying on the very spot where it had rested, whereupon she made a mark on the nettle and the leaf.
She forgot the nettles for a long time, and it seemed as if the butterfly had also forgotten them, for it was there no more. Larger and more beautiful butterflies were flying about there, higher up in the air. There was the magnificent Apollo-bird, with large white wings and scarlet eyes; also the Antiopa, with its beautiful blue and white velvet band on the edge of its dark velvet dress; and farther on the dear little blue glittering Zefprinner, and many others.
Karine gathered flowers, and then went into the hay-field to work; still, it often happened that she and her little brother went supperless to bed. But then their father played on the violin, and made them forget that they were hungry, and its tones lulled them to sleep.
One day, when Karine was passing by the nettles, she stopped, rejoiced to see them again. She saw that the nettles were a little bent down, and, upon examination, found a number of small green caterpillars, resembling those which we call cabbage-grubs, and they seemed to enjoy eating the nettle leaves as much as the old countess did her nettle soup. She saw that they covered the exact spot where she had made a mark, and that the leaf was nearly eaten up by the caterpillars, and Karine immediately thought that they must be the butterfly's children. And so they were, for they had come from its eggs.
"Ah!" thought Karine, "if my little brother and I, who sometimes can eat more than our father and mother can give us, could become butterflies, and find something to eat as easily as these do, would it not be pleasant?" She broke off the nettle on which the butterfly had laid its eggs,—but this time she carefully wound her handkerchief round her hand,—and carried it home.
On her arrival there, she found all the little grubs had crawled away, with the exception of one, which was still eating and enjoyingitself. Karine put the nettle into a glass of water, and every day a fresh leaf appeared. The caterpillar quickly increased in size, and seemed to thrive wonderfully well. The child took great pleasure in it, and wondered within herself how large it would be at last, and when its wings would come.
But one morning it appeared very quiet and sleepy, and would not eat, and became every moment more weary, and seemed ill. "O," said Karine, "it is certainly going to die, and there will be no butterfly from it; what a pity!"
It was evening, and the next morning Karine found with astonishment that the caterpillar had spun round itself a sort of web, in which it lay, no longer a living green grub, but a stiff brown chrysalis. She took it out of the cocoon; it was as if enclosed in a shell. "It is dead," said the child, "and is now lying in its coffin! But I will still keep it, for it has been so long with us, and at any rate it will be something belonging to my old favorite." Karine then laid it on the earth in a little flower-pot which stood in the window, in which there was a balsam growing.
The long winter came, and much, very much snow. Karine and her little brother had to run barefooted through it all. The boy got a cough. He became paler and paler, would not eat anything, and lay tired and weary, just like the grub of the caterpillar shortly before it became a chrysalis.
The snow melted, the April sun reappeared, but the little boy played out of doors no more. His sister went out again to gather nettles and blue anemones, but no longer with a merry heart. When she came home, she would place the anemones on her little brother's sick-bed. And as time went on, one day he lay there stiff and cold, with eyes fast closed. In a word, he was dead. They placed him in a coffin, took him to the churchyard, and laid him in the ground, and the priest threw three handfuls of earth over the coffin. Karine's heart was so heavy that she did not heed the blessed words which were spoken of the resurrection unto everlasting life.
Karine only knew that her brother was dead, that she had nolonger any little brother whom she could play with, and love, and be loved by in return. She wept bitterly when she thought how gentle and good he was. She went crying into the meadows, gathered all the flowers and young leaves she could find, and strewed them on her brother's grave, and sat there weeping for many hours.
One day she took the pot with the balsam in it, and also the chrysalis, and said, "I will plant the balsam on the grave, and bury the butterfly's grub with my dear little brother." Again she wept bitterly while she thought to herself: "Mother said that my brother lives, and is happy with God; but I saw him lying in the coffin, and put into the grave, and how can he then come back again? No, no; he is dead, and I shall never see either of them again."
Poor little Karine sobbed, and dried her tears with the hand that was free. In the other lay the chrysalis, and the sun shone upon it. There was a low crackling in the shell, and a violent motion within, and, behold! she saw a living insect crawl out, which threw off its shell as a man would his cloak, and sat on Karine's hand, breathing, and at liberty. In a short time wings began to appear from its back. Karine looked on with a beating heart. She saw its wings increase in size, and become colored in the brightness of the spring sun. Presently the new-born butterfly moved its proboscis, and tried to raise its young wings, and she recognized her nettle butterfly. And when, after an hour, he fluttered his wings to prepare for flight, and flew around the child's head and among the flowers, an unspeakably joyful feeling came over Karine, and she said, "The shell of the chrysalis has burst, and the caterpillar within has got wings; in like manner is my little brother freed from his mortal body, and has become an angel in the presence of God."
In the night she dreamed that her brother and herself, with butterfly's wings, and joy beaming in their eyes, were soaring far, far away, above their earthly home, towards the millions of bright shining stars; and the stars became flowers, whose nectar theydrank; and over them was a wondrous bright light, and they heard sounds of music,—so grand and beautiful! Karine recognized the tones she had heard on earth, when their father played for her and her little brother in their poor cottage, when they were hungry. But this was so much more grand! Yet it was so beautiful, so exceedingly beautiful, that Karine awoke. A rosy light filled the room, the morning dawn was breaking, and the sun was looking in love upon the earth, reviving everything with his gentleness and strength.
Karine wept no more. She felt great inward joy. When she again went to visit the nettles, and saw the little caterpillars crawling on the leaves, she said in a low voice, "You only crawl now, you little things! By and by you will have wings as well as I, and you know not how glorious it will be at the last."
From the Swedish.
A host of angels in a sunbeam.
The little school-boys went quietly to their own beds, and began undressing and talking to one another in whispers; while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of his bed, talking and laughing.
"Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands?"
"Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring; "that's your washhand-stand under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to go down for more water in the morning if you use it all." And on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room.
On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and undressing, and put on his night-gown. He then looked round more nervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys were already in bed, sitting up with their chins on their knees. The light burned clear, the noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little lonely boy; however, this time he did not ask Tom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in agony.