O
Mother! Fanny Bell, and Mary Green, and ever so many of the girls, are going into the woods to-morrow afternoon, and they want us to go with them. May we, mother?" said Belle and Nannie together, as they came running into the room where their mother was.
"I'll see about it," she said; "it will depend upon what kind of girls you are."
"Oh, we'll be very good, mother, if you will let us go."
"We'll see," said their mother.
The morrow came, and with it the desired permission. Pretty early, Nannie, who was on the watch, saw them coming, and called out to Belle, "Here they are!" Belle ran out.
"Are you going?"
"Yes."
"Is Nannie?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I'm so glad Nannie's going," cried one voice and another. "Yes, I'm so glad."
"I don't see," said Belle to herself, "why they should be so glad Nannie is going. They don't seem to care about me at all."
With rather a cross tone of voice, she called to Nannie to make haste and get ready.
Just as they were starting, Charlie came in, and seeing Nannie with her bonnet on, he called out:—
"O Nannie, where are you going? I want you to show me the pictures in your new book."
"I can't this afternoon, Charlie; I'm going into the woods."
"Oh, pshaw!" said Charlie; "I like so much better when you're at home."
"It does not make any difference to Charlie whether I'm at home or not," Belle said to herself.
When they started there was such a strife who should walk with Nannie, that Belle was very nearly left to walk alone. Their walk led through the pretty lane bordered with lime-trees, at the back of Dr. Merry's house, then on past Grannie Burt's house, when it turned off into a little path, across the field that was worn quite smooth by the boys going nutting. This path brought you at last to a stile. Over this stile they all climbed, and now were in the woods. What a beautiful wood it was! The trees opened here and there to let in the sunlight, which danced in and out among the green and yellow and russet brown leaves of the trees, changing into every hue of autumn. On the ground, springing up everywhere, were the dark leaves and bright red berries of the cranberry and bilberry; while down by the brook the greenest of all mosses covered the stones, and converted any old log that came in their way into the softest of seats. Then, what a wild and roaring little brook that Stony Brook was! You could follow it all the way through the woods by only stepping from stone to stone, and every little while you might see a great hole scooped out in the rock, where the water lay dark and silent, or a little precipice over which it dashed and foamed. This was a favourite wood with the children. In summer they often spent whole days there, gathering wild flowers or the beautiful fern leaves, which grew in every nook and corner. And now that the bright autumn leaves were scattered everywhere, and the tempting berries covered the ground, they found employment for many a spare hour. To-day the little girls had gathered leaves and berries till they were tired, when Ellen Bates said,—
"Let us choose a queen, and crown her."
"What will you crown her with?" said Mary Green.
"Oh, these bright leaves will do," said Nannie; "we can put them together by the stems."
Now when it was first proposed to choose a queen, Belle thought, "They always choose the prettiest one for a queen—I know they will choose me;" so she said with great eagerness, "Oh yes, let us have a queen!"
"Let us have Belle for our queen!" cried one of the girls.
"Oh no, we want Nannie!" said two or three at once.
"A crown of red leaves will look pretty with Nannie's red hair," said one of the girls, laughing.
"I don't care," said another. "We all love her best, and I don't intend to crown anybody I don't like, if theyarepretty."
Belle stood looking on with pretended indifference, for she did not want the girls should know how much she cared about it.
"All that vote for Belle hold up a bunch of berries; and all that vote for Nannie hold up an oak leaf."
The girls laughed, and held up their hands. There were six oak leaves, and only two bunches of berries.
"I'd rather Belle would be queen," said Nannie, though it cost a little effort to say it; for she was as much pleased with the honour as any one.
"But we had rather not," the girls said. "You cannot help yourself; so sit down while we make your crown."
Belle was too proud to show her disappointment, so she sat down and helped to make the crown. Very pretty she looked as she sat on the mossy bank, while her hands worked in and out among the bright coloured leaves. A stranger looking at the two sisters, would have wondered why the girls had passed by Belle, and chosen the plain though pleasant-faced Nannie. So one would think that looked only on the outside; but could one have looked within, they would soon have understood the reason of the choice.
After the crowning of the queen, which was performed with all due ceremony, the children went home, following Stony Brook till it poured its waters into the little river on which the village was built.
After they reached home, Belle went upstairs, and sitting down by the window, gave free vent to the angry thoughts she had been keeping under all the afternoon.
"I don't see," she said to herself at last, "what makes the difference. I know I'm a great deal prettier than Nannie;" and she went across and looked at herself in the glass. "Yes, I am a great deal prettier, and yet the girls all love Nannie better. And I can learn a lesson twice as quick, and yet Miss Taylor likes Nannie better than me, and helps her out of all her difficulties. And father, and mother, and sister Mary, all think there's nobody like Nannie, and they are always scolding me for something or other. I wish people would love me as they do Nannie. I would rather be the ugliest person in the world and be loved." She was silent for a moment, while conscience brought before her all the kind acts Nannie was always doing for somebody. How ready she was to give up her own pleasure, and do anything for others. Then she went off into a pleasant day-dream, in which she was very good, always did just right, and everybody loved her. All the old women in the village thought no one could do anything for them like Belle Merry; her mother thought she never could spare Belle, and Charlie was never satisfied when Belle was away. She forgot, when she was dreaming, how, when her father said Granny Burt had no one to read to her, she said "she hadn't time to read to an old woman."
She forgot how often, when her mother had asked for some little help, it had been given so pettishly as to make that mother's face grow sad. She forgot how often, when Charlie had made some little request for entertainment, she had turned away, until now he never asked Belle for anything when Nannie was in the room. Yes, she forgot all this, she forgot all the hard part of doing right, and her dream was very pleasant—so pleasant, that at last she said, with great determination, "I mean to be so kind and good, that they will all love me. I'm going to try. I'll begin at once, to-night."
So she started down-stairs. Poor Belle! how many times had she come out of her little room and gone down-stairs with the same determination to do better, and how many times had she failed!
And how many times had Nannie come out of the same little room with the same resolution, and almost always succeeded! What made the difference? If you had been there sometimes with Nannie, you would have found that she did one thing that Belle had not done. She knelt down and asked God to help her.
There was the difference. Belle was trying to make herself good, Nannie was praying to Jesus to help her.
As Belle came into the sitting-room, her mother said to her, "You ought to have come down immediately to help to set the table, Belle; Nannie set it for you."
Belle said nothing, neither did she thank Nannie, who looked up for a moment, then went on reading.
"Belle," said her mother, "you may fill the water-pitcher, since Nannie has done your work for you."
"I didn't ask her to do my work," said Belle, as she took the pitcher. "That's always the way," she said to herself; "now I came down-stairs feeling pleasant enough, and mother began scolding me because I hadn't set the table. There's no use trying. I wasn't to blame."
Whowasto blame?
After supper Belle sat down with a book she was busy reading. Just as she began, her father asked her to bring his slippers.
"In a minute," she said, without looking up, while she went on reading.
Nannie, seeing Belle so much interested, ran off and brought the slippers, and received a pleasant "Thank you!" from her father. Belle was not so much interested in her book as not to hear the "Thank you," and it again excited the angry feelings.
"I was going in a minute," she said to herself. "Nannie needn't have been in such a hurry. I wasn't to blame."
Whowasto blame?
"I wish one of you would take Charlie to bed," said their mother, as she came in with her basket of mending. Here was a good opportunity to help her mother, and Belle put down her book with determination, and said, "I'll take him."
"No," said Master Charlie, "I don't want Belle to put me to bed;—I want Nannie. You go, Nannie," he said, putting his little arms around her neck, and looking up beseechingly. So Nannie laid down her book and took Charlie to bed.
Poor Belle! She held her book up to hide the tears that would come. "There's no use in trying," she thought. "It wasn't my fault if Charlie wouldn't let me."
Whose fault was it?
Dr. Merry had seen it all. He saw the struggle it had been for Belle to put away her book, and he saw the tears fill her eyes when Charlie refused; and now, as he got up to go to his surgery, he whispered to her, "Be strong and of a good courage. For the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee."
"What could her father mean?" Belle kept thinking it over and over. "Be strong and of a good courage"—she knew well enough what the words meant, but why should her father say them to her. She wondered if he knew she was trying to do better, and was almost ready to give up.
"Be strong and of a good courage,"—she said it again. "Of good courage, means not to be afraid, not to give up, to go on trying, no matter how hard it is. But I don't see the use in trying. It's always the same, everything goes wrong. I may as well give up at first as at last."
There was a Bible lying by her on the table, and, almost without thinking, she took it up, and began turning over the leaves to find the words; she knew where they were, for she had seen them many times. She found the place, and read over again the words,—
"For the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee."
"I can't do right,—there's no use trying;" but while she said it, she was reading over again the last part, "He will not fail thee."
"I wonder," she said, brightening up as the thought struck her, "if that is what father meant! I can't do right myself, but God will help me."
O
ne Sunday afternoon, as Mary sat reading in the porch, Jack and Charlie came and sat down by her on the old sofa; and soon Charlie put his little curly head between her face and the book, and said coaxingly, "Please tell us a story, sister Mary."
The little upturned face was well kissed before sister Mary said, "Well, Jack, call Nannie and Belle, and we'll have a story."
Jack ran off in high glee, for sister Mary's stories were always welcomed by the children.
Nannie and Belle came as fast as their feet would bring them, and were soon sitting in readiness on the porch steps.
"Now, sister Mary," said Nannie, "agoodstory, please."
"What do you mean by a good one, Nannie?"
"One that will teach us to be good," said Nannie in a low voice.
"Oh, nonsense!" said Jack; "that wasn't what I meant. I want a pretty story."
"So do I," said Belle.
"And so do I," chimed in Charlie.
"Well," said sister Mary, "can't I tell you a good story, and a pretty one too?"
"I suppose so," said Jack, kicking the foot-stool.
"Well, she can't tell us anything, Jack," said Belle, "if you don't keep your feet still."
"I think you are rather hard on Jack; but never mind. Now," said sister Mary, "we'll have our story:—
"It was a poor little room the sun was looking into, just as it was setting. There was no carpet on the floor, and no curtains to the window. The old grate was cracked and rusty, and contained a few red coals among the embers. By the fire, in a curious old chair, roughly made, yet looking comfortable, sat a little girl rocking herself backwards and forwards. It was a very pale face that the sun shone upon, and a very thin, pale hand it was that the little girl was holding up, shading her eyes. Every little while the girl dropped her hand, and looked towards the window with a bright smile,—and no wonder! for there stood the prettiest of rose-bushes, with bright green leaves, and one dark crimson bud just opening. She sat watching it, till the last rays of the sun died away, and it began to grow dark. Then the look of sadness came back to her face, and drawing her old shawl closer round her, she sat leaning her head on her hand. By-and-by there was a sound of footsteps, and the door opened, and a man entered with a slow and heavy step. She turned round with a quick smile,—'O father! what has made you so late?'
"He said nothing; but, stooping down, lifted her in his arms, and sat down by the fire. Though he lifted her very gently, an expression of pain passed over her face, and you could see that the poor limbs hung shrunken and helpless. He was a rough-looking man, with a rough, heavy voice; but when he spoke to her, his tones were very gentle, and as he held her in his lap he stroked her hair softly and kissed her again and again.
"'How have you been to-day, Lizzie?'
"'Pretty well, father. When neighbour Green came in to see to the fire, she brought me some nice warm broth for my dinner. Wasn't it kind, father—and wasn't it odd too? I had been thinking all the morning how much I should like some broth, and then just to think I had some for my dinner. And then the best of all is that dear little rose-bush. You can't see it now, it's so dark; it's got one dear little bud, and it won't eat anything but water, so I can keep it. Mrs. Smith brought it to me, and she brought a nice basketful of things besides; and you'll get some of them for your supper—won't you, father?'
"He put her back carefully in her chair, then put on a few more coals, and brought out from a basket in a corner their supper. After they had eaten, he took her again in his arms and sat down with her.
"'Was the day very long, Lizzie?'
"'Yes,' she said; 'the days are all long without mother.'
"He started as she said it; then said, 'I'm very glad she isn't here.'
"'Glad! father?'
"'Yes, glad; for'—he said almost in a whisper—'they never hunger there. I wish we were there too.'
"He laid his head on her shoulder, while the words came fast: 'No work—I have hunted, hunted everywhere. I have been ready to give up, and then I would think of you, Lizzie, and I kept on; but there's no work to be had. O Lizzie, Lizzie, I could bear it if it weren't for you!'
"She said nothing, but kept stroking his hair with her little hand, while her face looked very sad.
"'I will try once more, to-morrow, though I know there's no use.'
"'Perhaps you can find something, father. Don't despair. God will take care of us. Shall I say mother's psalm, father?'
"He only nodded his head, and she began:'I will bless the Lord at all times. His praise shall continually be in my mouth.'
"'Does it say, "at all times," Lizzie?'
"'Yes, father, "at all times;" that means when we are in trouble too, doesn't it?'
"'It must mean so; but it isn't so easy to praise him when we can't see any light, as when everything is bright.'
"'It isn't so easy topraise, father; but then we canpray.'
"'We can pray, Lizzie; but what if God doesn't hear us?'
"'But he does hear us, father. That's just what the verse that mother liked best said:"I sought the Lord, and he heard me, and delivered me out of all my troubles."And this verse too:"Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth them out of them all."That is a sweet verse, father.'
"'Say them all, Lizzie.'
"'I don't remember them all. I will say all I can:"The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him and delivereth them." "Oh, fear the Lord, ye his saints: for there is no want to them that fear him."'
"'Do you think that's always true, Lizzie?'
"'I don't know,' she said, with a puzzled look; 'we want something now. You want work, and I want to be well and strong to help you; but maybe it doesn't mean we shall have everything we want, but all that is best for us. That's what mother used to say, and that's what the next verse says too:"The young lions do lack and suffer hunger, but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing."And perhaps it isn't here that we shall not want. You said "there was no hunger there," didn't you, father?'
"'Yes, Lizzie.'
"'And then there is that other verse, father:"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."'
"Her voice trembled as she said it, and she paused, for they were her mother's dying words.
"'We will fear no evil, father. We won't stop trusting; will we, father?'
"'No, Lizzie; I sometimes fear I should if it weren't for you. What should I do without you?' and his arms grasped her closer, as if even the thought were painful.
"'O father, you would be glad that God had taken me where I couldn't suffer any more, and where I should be straight and pretty like other children.'
"'You are pretty now, Lizzie. I never see any face that looks so beautiful to me.'
"'But it isn't like other children's, father. When Mrs. Smith came in to-day, she had a pretty little girl with her, with such bright golden hair, and such rosy cheeks, and so tall and straight, she must look like the angels, I think. And when I looked at her, it was so hard to keep the tears from coming. I had to keep thinking of what mother told me when I read about the pool where the sick people washed and were made well; and I said I wished there was such a pool now. Mother said the river of death was such a pool, and that after I had crossed it, I should be like the angels in heaven. But she said, father, she should still know me; so, father, you will keep on trusting and praising too, won't you, if God takes me there?'
"He made no answer, but held her closely to him, till the few coals in the grate grew white, and the room grew cold.
"'It's too cold for you here, Lizzie, and we can't have any more coals to-night. Shall I put you in bed now?'
"'Let me sing mother's hymn first, father.'
"He raised her a little, and in a sweet, low voice she began singing:—
"'Breast the wave, Christian, when it is strongest;Watch for day, Christian, when night is longest;Onward and onward still be thine endeavour,The rest that remaineth endureth for ever."'Fight the fight, Christian—Jesus is o'er thee;Run the race, Christian—heaven is before thee;He who hath promised faltereth never;Oh, trust in the love that endureth for ever."'Lift the eye, Christian, just as it closeth;Raise the heart, Christian, ere it reposeth;Nothing thy soul from the Saviour can sever,Soon shalt thou mount upward to praise him for ever.'"
Sister Mary paused after she had sung the hymn. There were tears in the children's eyes, and for a moment they were silent.
"Is that all?" they said at last.
"No," said sister Mary, "there's some more; but I'm afraid you are tired."
"Oh no; tell us the rest!"
"Very well," said sister Mary, "but we'll have to make haste; it's growing late:—
"The setting sun was shining again into the poor little room, and the little girl sat again, wrapped up in her old shawl, before the fire, rocking to and fro. The little girl's face had a very bright smile on it; but it wasn't the rose-bush with its little bud, now almost opened, that caused it, for she didn't look that way at all. She had a little bit of paper in her hand that she held very tightly, while her eyes kept watching the door. The sunlight faded, and the room grew dark, but the little face still wore the bright smile.
"As the door opened, she cried out eagerly,—
"'O father, here's something for you! There was a gentleman here to see you to-day, and he left his name; here it is on this card; and he said if you would come to see him, he had some work for you.'
"The man sat down in his chair, and laid his head in his hands.
"'O Lizzie,' he said, 'it's more than I deserve; I was just ready to give up trusting. I have sought all day, and I couldn't bear to come home.'
"'God did hear us; didn't he, father? I'm so glad we didn't stop trusting. Hadn't you better go now, father, and see about it?'
"'Yes,' he said, 'I'll go now,' stooping down to read the card by the light of the fire.
"He went out, and the shadows settled down over the room; but the little girl sat still, and you could just hear her humming to herself,—
"'Breast the wave, Christian, when it is strongest.'
"'Breast the wave, Christian, when it is strongest.'
"Presently she heard her father's step. It was quicker and lighter than it had been for many a day."
"'I've got it, Lizzie. It's a place as a porter in a warehouse; and good wages too. And see here,' he said, as he lighted a candle he had brought with him, 'we'll have a light to-night, and a nice supper too.'
"'O father!' said Lizzie, as she looked on with bright eyes as her father took out the parcels; 'how did you get all those things?'
"'The gentleman paid me something in advance. He said he knew people that had been out of work so long needed something.'
"It was a pleasant evening; the candlelight seemed so bright to Lizzie's eyes, that hadn't seen any for so long a time, and her father was so cheerful. Yes, it was a pleasant evening; and they closed by reading the 103rd Psalm:—
"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name.
"'Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.'"
Sister Mary took up her book and went into the house, while the children gathered together on the steps to watch the sun that was now setting.
"Lizzie was a wonderfully good little girl, wasn't she," said Jack; "but then she was sick. I never knew any good people that weren't either sick or ugly."
"Why, Jack, there's sister Mary, and papa and mamma, and Miss Taylor, and—"
"Oh, I mean children. All the children I read about are good, and get ill, and die. I rather think Lizzie would have died if sister Mary had gone on with her story."
"Itisso in books," said Belle; "they always die."
"People would not want to write about them if they lived," said Nannie.
"Why not?" said Jack; "I wish some one would write about me."
"If they wrote about you," said Belle, "they could call their work, 'A warning to bad boys,' or, 'An ugly boy that wasn't good.'"
While they were talking so, Nannie was thinking very intently.
"What are you thinking about, Nannie?" said Belle.
"I was thinking about what Jack said—that all the good people were either sick or ugly; I don't believe it's true. But if it is true, I was thinking that perhaps it's like what Abraham told the rich man: 'Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things; but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented.' So I thought that the ones that were sick and ugly here, but loved Jesus, had received all their evil things, and would be well and beautiful there."
"Maybe so," said Jack, more thoughtfully than before. Then stooping down and kissing Nannie, he said, "I know one good girl that isn't sick."
The sun was just setting, leaving about half its great face to light the world.
In Jack's heart the sun was just rising.
Nannie's words kept sounding in his ears,—"Perhaps, perhaps they have received in this life their good things;" and those other words, "Therefore he is comforted, and thou art tormented."
N
annie, Nannie,—where's Nannie?" Jack called one pleasant summer morning.
Just then Nannie's voice was heard singing, and she came into the kitchen, where Jack was.
"Nannie, father has just gone down to Grannie Burt's, and he wants you to go there too. Mother is going now, and she says you may go with her if you'll make haste."
Nannie was off in a minute for her sun-bonnet, and very soon was walking with her mother and Jack through the tree-bordered lane; very quietly now though, for she knows that grannie is dying, and she thinks to herself, "Grannie will be in heaven to-night," and the little face brightens as she thinks of the beauties of the heavenly city; "and grannie will see too—why, how happy she must be! I should think good people would love to die. It's like going to some beautiful world we've heard of." But as Nannie looked up at the trees, and the heavy white clouds above them, and then down at the green carpet of grass at her feet, she thought it would beleavinga beautiful world too.
Now they reach the little brown house, and Nannie begins to feel a little frightened. She creeps in timidly behind her mother, and sits down at the foot of the bed, while Jack sits down on the door-step. Soon grannie says feebly,—
"Has Nannie come?"
"Yes," said her mother; "Nannie's here."
"Nannie, come where I can touch you."
As Nannie comes nearer, grannie stretches out her hand, and laying it on her head, says in a low voice,—
"God bless thee—God bless thee, my child! I have never seen you here, Nannie, but I shall know you in heaven. I shan't need to ask you to read to me there, for I shall see. But read to me here once more, Nannie—once more."
Nannie lifts up for the last time grannie's worn Bible, and begins to read, as she has so often read before,—
"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth."
Very still it was in the chamber of death, while the little head bowed over the sacred book, and the tearful voice read of the glories of that land whither the wearied one was going. Fainter and fainter grew the breath; and as the child read the words,"And the city hath no need of the sun or moon to lighten it, for the Lamb is the light thereof," the lids closed over the sightless eyes here—but opened there, where the Lamb is the light. Grannie Burt was in heaven.
Long she listened for His footsteps,Echoing from those streets of gold—Now just within the pearly gates,She is no longer old.The pilgrim-staff is broken—The worn-out garment foldAnd lay away for ever,—She is no longer old.Farewell, farewell, our mother!Our greatest joy is told,As we fold the aged hands and say,She is no longer old.
Twice have the trees blossomed, and twice the autumn leaves fallen, since first we met our little friend Nannie. We have given but a few pages in the life of those few years; there have been many others—some, perhaps, in which the little girl forgot to ask for help in her trying, and therefore failed.
It may seem hard to be trying on and on, never yielding to discouragement; but if you should see Nannie's bright eyes and happy face, you would not think so; and if you should ask Nannie if she was tired of trying, I think she would answer,"Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace."
We may perhaps hear of Nannie again, and of the success which always follows faithful effort. But whether we do or not, I can let you into the secret of her future life. Here it is in these words:—
"Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but the woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised."