'On their own meritsModest men are dumb;'
'On their own meritsModest men are dumb;'
and so say we simple Foxgloves.
Idonot think any of us would careto pass the greater part of our days down in a coal mine, or even to live in the vicinity of one. For miles around the country is barren of trees or flowers; even the grass does not grow there; the very air is dense with black smoke from the numerous chimneys, so that the sky is hidden, as it were, by a thick, murky veil. But, if thus dreary by day, how much more dreadful does it look at night, when the lurid glare from the furnaces lights up the sky with a red gleam, which can be seen far and wide! it has then in it something terrible.
As I said just now, not a flower can thrive in such a close and heavy atmosphere; not even ablade of grass can push its way up through the coal-encrusted soil which covers the earth. Well may it be called the 'Black Country;' and yet there are brave, good men living, ay, and working there, day after day descending those dark shafts and in the underground of the mines living out their hard, laborious lives, braving dangers innumerable, to provide for the wants of their fellow-men; yet I wonder how many of us, as we gather round the cosy fireside of home, ever think of the hardy miners. All honour, then, to that Christian man, whose noble heart thought so much of them and of the risks they encounter in the deep mines; his mighty genius studied to avert the dangers to which they are exposed, and by his clever invention many thousand lives have been saved. Statues are raised to soldiers and statesmen, and their deeds are chronicled all over the world, yet the simple-hearted Cornish chemist has done more for England's glory than all her greatest warriors or statesmen!
Sometimes, it is true, terrible accidents happen even now, and indeed, had any one passed through a certain coal district on the day of which we speak, a scene of desolation and misery wouldhave presented itself; for there had been a colliery accident!—a fearful explosion in a mine through some (as yet) unknown cause, and they were now bringing up the dead and dying. We too often, alas! read these sad accounts in the newspapers, but cannot fully realize the intense anguish and despair among the mining population when such a calamity befalls them. Try to picture, then, the men, women, and even children, who were gathered in anxious groups around the mouth of the pit, eagerly waiting to see if any of their kindred were among the hapless victims; and when the brave rescue party would appear above the shaft, bearing in their arms the sufferers, wailing cries would rend the very air, as some poor woman recognised her son or her 'good man' in the crushed and mangled form they laid so tenderly down!
There was a little cottage standing among others of the same class, but which from its appearance seemed to betoken the residence of one more refined than the rest, for snowy curtains draped the windows, the panes of which were scrupulously clean, and the doorsteps were as white as hands could make them. Going now towards this cottage, a group of men might be seen, carefullycarrying a heavy burden, over which a sheet was spread. It was their foreman—a man loved and respected by them all, and the hearts of these rough colliers beat sadly, as they bore him thus towards his once happy home!
The rumour of the catastrophe, and of her husband being one among the many poor sufferers, had burst upon his wife like the surging of an angry wave, overwhelming her with its force, and she sat with ashen cheeks and quivering lips, listening with bated breath for that which she knew must come, the while convulsively clasping in her arms their only child, their fair-haired Davie. But when at last she heard the measured tread of those who bore him coming nearer and nearer to her door, she rose, with a shivering sob, to meet him, as she had ever done, with a loving smile, though now her heart was full of anguish. And he knew her, for he put out his poor crushed hand for her to take, faintly murmuring,—
'My poor, poor girl!'
Tenderly, as with the gentle touch of woman, those rugged men laid him upon the bed from which he had risen in full health and strength,and the wife's hand was firm, as softly she removed the garments from his mangled limbs. Ah, little had she thought, when she bade him 'Good-bye' that morning, his return would have been thus. He had said to Davie in his merry way, laying his hand on the boy's curly head,—
'Ah, young man, soon you will be the bread-winner; your old father will then be able to sit idle by the ingle and smoke his pipe, whilst mother looks on.'
He had returned to the ingle, but Davie was still a child!
A few anxious days, and all was over; the end had come, and he and his fellow-sufferers were laid to rest beneath the fresh green turf in a distant churchyard, and the poor young widow was alone in the wide world, with only little Davie!
But the poor have no time to spare for mourning or regrets; they must be up and doing, even though their hearts fail them for very sorrow; yet none save those who have suffered can know the utter desolation of heart, crushing the very soul to the earth with despair, when the father, 'thebread-winner,' is taken from their midst, and those who are left know not where to look for help or guidance; and so this poor widow sat by the fire-light, with her boy's hand clasped in hers, gazing into the glowing embers as if trying to read the future therein. The past had been very happy, for her girlhood was spent in a far different sphere, but she had freely given up all for him who was now no more, and had never repented of the sacrifice made; but, alas! he was gone, leaving her alone, and her heart was like to break. And, musing thus, she recalled the tones of the dear voice that had ever comforted her when in sadness, now silent for ever!—the brave heart so firm of purpose that had ceased to beat!—and as she thought of him who had been so kind, so true, her courage gave way, and, burying her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud, saying,—
'Oh, Davie, Davie! who will care for us now father is gone?'
The child put his arms lovingly around her bowed head, as though it was his place to be the comforter.
'Mother darling, the Lord will care for us. He is the friend of the widow and fatherless.'
There was something in the boy's voice that struck the mother's ear, for she removed her hands from before her face, and, drawing him nearer to her, gazed earnestly into those clear blue eyes.
Sudden sorrow often changes the entire nature of people, and the events of the last few days had, as it were, transformed little Davie from a mere child into a thoughtful boy. Like his namesake of old, 'he was of a beautiful countenance,' and as he caressingly smoothed his mother's pale cheeks with his soft, gentle hands, she felt she was not desolate, since he was left to her. Long they sat in silence. At last the boy said,—
'Mother dear, Mat Morgan says that, as I am now ten years old, it is time for me to begin work like the other lads about here.'
'How, Davie?' she dreamily questioned, for her thoughts were wandering far away, so that she scarcely heard what he said.
'In the pit with him,' was the reply; 'he is so kind and good, I know he will take great care of me.'
'No, no!' she cried, clasping him yet closer to her; 'not in the cruel mine that has robbed us of father!—no—not there!'
'Nay, mother darling,' the boy gently urged; 'it was God who took father home—and he was ready to go! Besides,' he continued, with all the hopefulness of youth, 'I could earn some money every week, and only think how useful that would be!'
'But your poor father did not wish you to be a miner; he hoped you would become a great and clever man,' the mother replied.
He hesitated for a moment. Bright visions had filled his young head of gaining riches and honours 'some day,' that glorious time of the young, and he had thought how proud they both would be of him, and they should neither of them work any more, but live in a lovely home ofhisproviding, and never know care any more. And now!—he clenched his small hands together, and choked back the big lump rising in his throat as bravely he exclaimed,—
'And I will be a clever man, for I will learn at night when I come home, and who knows what I may be one day. Mat Morgan says our manager was only a poor collier lad once, and look at him now. Besides, they are all so good to us here; they loved father dearly.'
So the boy prevailed over her fears, and in a few days he took his place by the side of his old friend Mat Morgan, who grew to love him as his own child. But the mother's heart was grieved when at night her boy returned with the fair golden hair rough and tangled, the once delicate hands torn and hardening with toil; yet the child gave no thought to that. True, this was not the life he would have chosen, for he was a studious boy, but still, was he not 'the bread-winner'? and it was a proudly happy day for him when he laid his first earnings in her lap, and felt her tears upon his cheek as she kissed and blessed her boy.
But the hour he loved the best was when, casting aside all care, he sat on a low stool at her feet, and, with his head resting on her knee, listened as she read aloud their evening chapter from the Book of Life; he was then the child again, not the toiling little miner-lad!—and oh, it was so peaceful!
'"Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin,"' read the mother one evening.
'But, mother, what are lilies like? I havenever seen one, you know,' asked the boy, when she had ceased reading and had closed the book.
In simple language, she endeavoured to describe to her town-born child the exquisite beauties of the flowers of the field, and he, with an innate love of the beautiful, caught readily at all she said, and seemed as though he saw them all as she depicted.
'How I should love to be where there are always flowers!' he exclaimed; 'it must be like paradise! But those I have seen always close up at night. I wish there was one here that opened of an evening, as if to greet me when I come home!'
I know not how it happened, but the next night, when little Davie entered his home, a delicious perfume filled the air, and standing in the cottage window was an Evening Primrose, with its petals fully expanded.
'Mother, mother,' cried the boy, 'my wish has come true! here is a flower opening its blossoms to bid me welcome home;' and in excess of delight he knelt and kissed his treasure again and again. And words cannot express the love he bestowed upon the plant; it was to him anunfeigned joy to watch the growing of each leaf, the gradual unfolding of each fresh bud; and every night, on his return from work, his first thought, after the thought for his mother, was of his sweet Evening Primrose.
Those who gather flowers at will, prize them for a while, then cast them carelessly aside, can form no idea of the all-absorbing love the little miner lad evinced for his one fair flower; it was his sole treasure, and he ever watched and tended it lovingly and well.
But time passed on, and it was Davie's last day in the coal-mine. He was going to exchange that toilsome life, so uncongenial to his taste, but which stern necessity had made him adopt, for a new and brighter occupation, one, too, for which he had always ardently longed. The manager of whom he had spoken to his mother had frequently noticed the gentle, fair-haired boy; prosperity had not hardenedhisheart (as it so often does), and recollections of the long-ago flashed ever across him, when he saw Davie bravely striving to do his best to help his mother bear her burden of sorrowful poverty. He too had been a collier lad in those far-off days, and 'the only son ofhismother, and she was a widow.' The grass was green above that dear mother's grave, whose latter years had been cheered and comforted by his tender, fostering love; but his thoughts were of her, as, laying his hand upon the lad's curly head, he kindly asked,—
'Would you like to leave the pit-work, David, and go into the engineers' department?'
'What! and become a great man like Stephenson and Brunel? Oh yes, sir!' the boy joyfully exclaimed, for, like all youthful ambitions he vaulted at once to the highest pinnacle of greatness—there is no midway for the ardent young.
The manager smiled at his enthusiasm, as he replied,—
'You can but try, my lad, to be as great and good as they were;' and he added, 'You can enter upon your new work next week; there is a vacancy for you.'
'But, sir,'—and the boy paused,—'shall I earn wages like I do now? because'—
And his voice failed him, he could not utter the thought of his heart,—should he still be able to help his mother?
The gentleman understood his hesitation, for he said kindly,—
'Yes, my little man, you will earn good wages, and, if you are only good and steady like your poor father before you, I've no doubt but that you may become a great man one day;' and he smiled encouragingly into the boy's upturned face, a face which was beaming with hope and happiness.
As to Davie, he raised his generous friend's hand to his lips, for he could not speak for very gratitude; then, with his blue eyes sparkling with joy, ran quickly home to tell the blissful news.
'Mother, mother!' he cried, bursting in upon her as she sat at work; 'Ishallbecome a great man now, and you shall ride in a carriage, and never work any more;' and then, with his arms around her neck and his curly head resting lovingly upon her shoulder, he poured forth his bright hopes for the future.
So the last day came for working in the dark mine, and to-morrow—oh, to-morrow!
'But I'll miss ye, Davie,' Mat Morgan observed,as he and his little friend trudged on side by side to work; 'ye be bright and cheery-like down there,' pointing with his pipe towards the pit. 'And maybe ye'll forget the missis and me when ye gets to be a great man, as ye says ye'll be one day, and I makes no doubt but ye will be too. Ye be summat like yer poor fayther, my lad; he were allers above we.'
'Nay, Master Morgan!' cried the boy reproachfully; 'were you not my first friend, when dear father died? You don't mean that, I know! looking up at his old friend's rugged face with eyes full of tears. Then, brushing them away with his jacket sleeve,—it was not manly to cry, he thought,—he continued, 'No, when I am rich, you and Mrs. Morgan shall both live in a big house with mother and me; we will ride in a grand carriage, and be so happy all together, and never look at black coals except to burn them.'
The old miner smiled as he listened to the boy's bright day-dreams, yet still he could not help feeling somewhat sad, for he dearly loved the lad, and knew how much he should miss his merry chatter and song, which so beguiledthe time while they worked together down in the mine.
But the time passed on much as on other days; when, just as they were preparing to leave off work, and another gang was coming to relieve them, a low, rumbling sound was heard. One or two of the men ran to the entrance of the working, Mat Morgan among the number, and his face was blanched when he returned to his comrades.
'What is it, Master Morgan?' asked Davie, looking up at him with an undefined dread.
'My lad,' was his reply, and his voice was very calm, 'there has been a landslip in the sidings, and we are shut in.'
'But can we not get out?' he questioned.
'No, never again, unless help comes,' he hoarsely whispered, for his brave heart stood still at the terrible danger they were in.
Indeed, no pen can express the terror that filled the hearts of these brave and hardy men at the thought of being thus entombed in a living grave; they quailed not when meeting death face to face, but shrank in dread at the slowly advancing foe.
All but the boy!
The light from the flickering lamps the miners carried fell upon his delicate features; but his eyes brightly gleamed, as, laying his hands on the bowed head of his old friend, he softly said,—
'Master Morgan, let us not fear; our God is with us still!'
'Maybe He has forgotten us, Davie,' the man pitifully moaned, for even his strong courage had broken down in face of this calamity.
'No, no,' soothed the boy. '"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me:" is it not so?'
There was something so calm, so trustful in the child's faith in God's mercy, that the poor stricken men listened as he tried to cheer them with thoughts of that Power who is mighty to save.
The weary hours dragged their slow length along, and, though help came not yet, his perfect trust in God never wavered. Some of the men gave themselves up to despair, and lay down where they had sat cowering, prepared to die. The lamps went out by degrees as the oil was expended,adding to the horror of the situation by leaving them in utter darkness. And yet, though death appeared so near, it had no terrors for little Davie, for God was nearer still.
'Shall I sing to you, Master Morgan?' the boy asked, as he laid his weary head down upon his friend's broad shoulder.
'Ay, ay, my lad,' was the sole reply the poor man could make.
Then through the awful silence and darkness of this fearful grave rang the sweet, clear tones of the child's voice, singing—
'Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee.'
'Rock of Ages, cleft for me,Let me hide myself in Thee.'
'Hark!' he cried, suddenly pausing in the hymn; 'they are striving to clear the working—I hear the sound of their picks! We are saved! we are saved!' he joyously shouted.
With the sense of hearing preternaturally sharpened, these poor men, who had given themselves up for lost, also listened; those who had lain down to die rising up and listening with every nerve acutely strained to catch the faintest sound. Yes, they could hear their deliverers bravely working to set them free.
Then arose as with one voice their glad song of deliverance,—
'Thou canst save, and Thou alone!'
'Thou canst save, and Thou alone!'
Tenderly they bore him home to his mother, that brave, noble child, whose simple trust had sustained their failing hearts in that hour of trial and suffering.
But reaction had set in, and he was weak and fainting when they laid him in her arms, yet he feebly murmured, striving for her sake to appear still strong,—
'Oh, mother darling, I am so glad to be at home again! I thought I should never more see you, nor my Evening Primrose. But, mother, why is it still so dark?'
She glanced in terror at his soft blue eyes, which to her looked as clear as ever. But why was it that, though the morning light was streaming in through the open window, to him it still was dark?
She breathed not one word of her fear to him, though the icy dread chilled her to the heart, but, laying him gently down in his own cosy bed, Soothed him with loving caresses, bidding him—
'Try to sleep, and forget it all!'
Then, when sleep came to the over-wrought brain, she left him in the care of a kindly neighbour, and went tremblingly forth to seek her child's trusty old friend.
She found Mat Morgan seated in his arm-chair (for, like the rest of the miners who had been in this imminent peril, he had escaped unhurt), recounting to a group of neighbours the wonderful faith of little Davie, whose trust in God never failed, even when the shadows of the dark angel's wings had hovered so closely over them.
'Oh, Master Morgan!' the poor mother cried, as with clasped hands and quivering lips she overheard him thus dilating on her boy's noble fortitude and humble Christian faith; 'my darling Davie! he will never, never look on us again this side the grave. He'—
'He be no dead, ma'am!' exclaimed the old man, starting from his chair, while sympathizing friends gathered round her with words of tender pity.
'No, no, not dead, thank God!' she sobbed; 'but blind, I fear. Oh, my little boy, my Davie!'
'Maybe not,' he replied, endeavouring to comforther. 'I'll jest go wi' ye. I've known sich things afore, when men have been shut up in the dark some hours,—andwewere nigh upon three days in the pit, mind ye—the shock of seein' the daylight kind o' dazes the sight for a while. So ye must not greet, but hope and trust in our heavenly Father, as your little lad ever does, I'm thinkin'! Come along.'
How eagerly did she hasten home, all anxiety to prove if the old miner's opinion was right, and 'hoping against hope' that the child's sight had become cleared while he slept, and that when he awoke he would look upon her with unclouded eyes. Her heart beat so violently she could scarcely speak, as, standing by his bedside, she saw his blue eyes were unclosed and apparently gazing upon her where she stood with Mat Morgan by her side.
'Davie,' she whispered softly, bending over him and kissing the parted lips, 'here is Master Morgan come to see you.'
'Where is he?' the boy joyfully cried. 'He is not hurt, then? Oh, I am so glad! But, mother dear, I cannot see him, nor you; there seems like a shadow over my eyes. Oh, mother,' hepiteously moaned, as the sad truth appeared to strike him, 'tell me, I am not blind, am I?'
Then, as she could not for very anguish reply to his eager question, his noble courage gave way, and, throwing himself upon his pillow, he uttered a piercing cry of untold despair.
The poor mother knelt beside him with arms closely folding him to her heart, unable to soothe, save with loving caresses, her child's unutterable anguish.
'Nay, Davie, my man,' cried the old miner, wiping his eyes with the back of his rough hand, 'ye did no greet when death a'most stared us in the face; why do ye sorrow now, my brave lad?'
'Oh, but then I should have been with God! Now'—and his sobs redoubled—'I shall never see mother's dear face again, nor yours, Master Morgan; and for me my Evening Primrose will never open its buds again. And oh, if I am blind, I can never more be mother's little bread-winner.'
The parable is told!
Little Davie eventually recovered his sight, thanks to the generous kindness of the manager,who spared no means to procure the best surgical aid for the poor little lad; and in the years that quickly followed, he became the stay and comfort of his widowed mother, retaining ever his filial affection for her, and cherishing fond recollections of those early days when his only treasures were her love and his Evening Primrose.
'Why,what have you got in your beak?'asked a dingy London Sparrow of another, just as dingy as himself.
'Well, I hardly know,' replied his friend, laying down the article in question, and surveying it critically with his head on one side; 'but it seems to me as though it is a seed—of some sort!'
'So it is,' assented the other, as he hopped nearer and attentively examined the treasure-trove. 'Yes,'—as if the idea had suddenly suggested itself,—'yes, itisa seed. Where did you find it?'
'I did not steal it,' exclaimed the owner of the property, who evidently resented a something in his companion's manner of questioning; 'I honestly picked it up in a garden, where it was lying onthetopof the earth, notinit,' he added, with emphasis. 'I expect the wind blew it there, for the gales have been very high these last few days.'
'Yes, yes,' replied the questioner with alacrity; perhaps he feared he had wounded his friend's feelings, and dreaded lest there might ensue a squabble, for sparrows, it must be confessed, are easily affronted over trifles, though, as a rule, they are good-tempered little fellows enough, putting up with scanty fare and homely lodgings very contentedly and cheerfully. 'I wonder what kind of seed it is, do you know?' he still further questioned, being of an inquisitive turn of mind.
'No, I do not,' replied the finder.
'Ah,' he said, with a sigh that ruffled all his feathers, 'if we did but live in the beautiful green hedgerows, instead of dwelling among town chimneys, we should soon know what it was; our country cousins would be able to tell us in a moment if it was good to eat or not. By the bye, shall you eat it?' he pursued, eyeing his friend in the same keen way as he eyed occasional crumbs of bread, his sharp little eye glancing quick and bright whilst waiting for the reply.
'No,' answered the other; 'I shall give it away.'
'Give it away!' he repeated, in utter astonishment at the idea; 'who to?'
'Why, in my travels about this city, I have noticed a small window up among the chimneys in the East End of London—it's a mere garret, I expect.'
'Well?' ejaculated the listener, somewhat impatiently.
'I have also observed,' pursued his companion deliberately, 'that on the ledge of this window there are two or three flower-pots with some tiny pieces of green trying to shoot out of the dry mould.'
'What have those flower-pots and the dry mould to do with this seed?' was the question he sharply put.
'I think,' continued the other Sparrow, not heeding the interruption, 'this must be a flower-seed, since I found it in a garden well known to me for its loveliness,—for, as a rule, I go about with my eyes open,' he added. 'Now at this attic window of which I spoke,' he went on saying, 'I have seen a poor pale-faced girl for ever bending over needlework, although sometimes, but very rarely, I have observed her carefully watering andtending those flower-pots with their feeble attempts at greenery.'
'Have you nearly finished your touching description?' asked the friend, with a sneer.
'Now,' went on the Sparrow, as though he had not heard this remark, 'the soil does not look very inviting, yet I have been thinking that, as there has been rain during the night, the mould may be a little softened perhaps; so if I alight on the window-sill, and drop this seed into one of those pots, a pretty flowermightcome up in time, and then how glad the poor girl would be!—why, it would actually give her happiness.'
And the reflection merely of this hoped-for pleasure so brightened up the little bird that he looked positively lovely! Not even a bird of paradise could have appeared more glorious, dingy brown though our tiny hero's plumage was; but good deeds and kind words always bring a brightness with them.
'Oh, that is what you intend doing!' remarked the other, who had been pruning his flecked feathers whilst listening to this delightful plan;—perhaps he might have imagined the treasure would come to him, since his friend was not goingto keep it himself. 'You are very generous,' he added, with a slight touch of sarcasm.
But the kind little Sparrow did not mind; his heart was too full of noble intentions to notice trivial things. He merely said,—
'So now I'm off! Good-bye for the present. I shall be back in time for roost.'
'Oh, you are going, are you?' was the comment, as his friend picked up the seed again in his beak and flew away.
But, as he darted off, a sunbeam peeped round a corner just to see what the dear little fellow looked like, and this very sunbeam threw such a halo around him, you would have thought his feathers had been burnished gold. Then his voice, too, sounded so cheerily, as, with a merry 'Twit-twit-twee,' he disappeared from view, intent on his errand of kindness.
'I'm sure I should not have troubled myself to carry that burden so far, but should have eaten it for my dinner,' muttered the one sitting on the water-spout. 'Dear me, what's that?' as he caught sight of a shadow round an angle of the roof. 'Oh, gracious!' and he gave such a jump in his terror, as he recognised Pussie taking a walkon the tiles, looking out for her dinner, no doubt.
You may be quite sure Mr. Sparrow did not wait until Pussie came up to him, but flew away to a safe distance.
Meanwhile the other bird was speeding on his errand of kindness. He did not feel the weight of his burden, but went bravely on, only occasionally resting on a water-spout or a parapet, just for a second or two, but never losing sight of his precious seed; though sometimes he was sadly annoyed by other Sparrows coming up, and, with great fuss and chatter, inquiring as to what he was so carefully carrying. But he was very cautious, and always kept an eye upon his treasure (answering their questions curtly), for London Sparrows have the character of being nottoohonest, with what truth it cannot be said; let us hope the charge is unfounded. Still our hero thought it advisable to be watchful; therefore, after satisfying all curiosity on the subject, as much at least as he deemed needful, he flew off again on his mission—without telling them the ultimate destination of his seed, fearing, perhaps, they might be unable to resist the temptation ofpicking it out of the mould into which he intended to drop it.
By and by he left the more respectable part of the city, and winged his way as near as he could remember towards the attic window, where he had so often seen the poor work-girl busy at her weary task. But a heavy cloud of smoke darkened the air, and a perfect forest of masts bewildered him, for he had come to that part of London where the ships are to be seen—thousands of vessels from all countries of the world. Still, though he was puzzled for a while, yet he felt sure the house was near this place, as he recollected having seen these docks before. What should he do? He paused for a bit upon a slanting roof just to look around. Oh, the smuts, how they settled upon his feathers! he was obliged to preen himself, he felt so dirty; if his coat was a dingy brown, there was no occasion for its being dirty also! All at once, as he paused during the process of preening, he saw the very window right in front of him,—he recognised it by its cleanliness, such a contrast to the squalor around. Yes, there it was, the polished panes of glass glinting in the gleams of light that came now and then through themurky atmosphere; and there were the three flower-pots. Why, actually they had been washed, they looked so freshly red!—or perhaps painted.
Away he joyfully flew, his task was nearly done; but alas for hopes of birds or people! Just as he was about to alight upon the window-sill, a tiresome bird—a Sparrow—came flying towards him, exclaiming,—
'Hallo! who are you, I should like to know?' and so startled was he when accosted thus abruptly, that in his fright he dropped his dear and precious treasure.
Down, down it fell upon a deal case a man was wheeling on a truck. The man did not notice the tiny grain that fell; perhaps, had he done so, would merely have thought it was a particle of dust; but the poor bird's heart was sorely grieved as he saw it disappear, after all the trouble he had taken to bring it thus far, and he sat upon the window-ledge of the girl's room with ruffled plumage and dim eyes, utterly crushed by this untoward loss. It was too bad!
But after a while he took heart, and looked the disappointment boldly in the face, which is always the better plan than brooding over it.
'It can't be helped,' he said wisely, rousing from his sorrowful reflections, and giving his feathers a shake together. 'I did my best, and could do no more. It is a loss certainly, but no doubt there are other flower-seeds to be found, so I'll go to-morrow morning to that same garden, and see if there are any more to be had. Dear me!' he continued, glancing up with his now bright eyes at the sky; 'why, it is getting late. I must make haste home, or else my friends will be anxious, and fear that I have come to grief.'
So saying, he flew away, not without a note of farewell to the girl, who had been looking at him all the time he sat there so disconsolately, wondering in her own mind why he was perched there so ruffled and sad, little dreaming of his kindly intentions towards her—how should she?—so away he went, and reached his place of abode just as his brothers and friends were going to roost.
You may be quite sure he was received with a perfect volley of questions.
'Where have you been?' asked some who were ignorant of his scheme.
'How did you manage?' questioned others who knew.
'What sort of a place is it?' inquired several.
Poor little bird! he was obliged to confess his failure, which he did with reluctance; yet still he bore his disappointment so cheerfully and bravely, they could not help sympathizing with him, promising to help in the good work next time. Even the Sparrow who had jeered somewhat at him was really sorry, and consoled him so kindly, that he went to sleep with his head tucked under his wing, in a far happier frame of mind than he could have supposed possible, after such a grievous sorrow.
And the seed?
As it was being jostled on the top of the packing-case, it thought to itself:
'There's an end to me, I suppose. I shall be shrivelled up to nothing for want of nourishing earth, and shall do good to no one. What a pity that dear little Sparrow's kind intention was frustrated by that meddlesome and inquisitive bird! I am sure I would have done my duty to the utmost, and realized his wish by growing as fast as possible, and looking cheerful and gay when inflower. Well, well, it is no use being unhappy; I must only wait patiently, hoping that a chance of doing good may occur. Who knows what may happen?'
And at that very moment, the truck the man was wheeling gave a lurch, and in consequence the tiny seed rolled along until it slipped down a crevice in the lid, and found a comfortable resting-place inside amongst some soft hay with which the case was packed.
'This is cosy,' it remarked, nestling in the warmth; 'perhaps after all I am reserved for some good purpose. I had become desponding, but there is always a brightness behind the darkest cloud.'
So it cuddled down contentedly, not knowing or heeding whither it was taken, only resting satisfied with the reflection that whatever happened was for the best. And so the packing-case was put on board one of the great ships in the docks, and in a few days away sailed the ship, packing-case, and little seed, far over the ocean, leaving England many thousand miles behind.
Not having been to Australia, we cannotdescribe what the little seed next beheld. But when the sun once again shone upon it, it was in a very different country to this dear land of ours.
The case had been emptied of its contents, and the hay and straw with which it had been packed was thrown aside upon the ground, and there lay the seed, so tiny that it was quite unheeded, indeed it is to be doubted whether it was even seen; but the loving God, who has created nothing in vain, had still a use for the small grain. A soft wind came and carried it to some moist earth, into which it sank, thankful for the rest and quiet after the past turmoil.
But its work was not finished.
By and by came up a little slender green shoot, then a leaf or two, and after a while, in due season, some pretty bell-shaped flowers, almost white, with just a tinge of delicate purple, made their appearance, and there they swayed in the breeze—English Wood Anemones in a distant land.
And in this distant land a young English girl had her home; and bright and beautiful it was, with huge trees and gorgeous flowers, unheard ofand unseen in the country village from which she had come. But, bright and beautiful as her new home was, she often sighed for the green hedgerows and sweet wayside flowers of dear old England; not that she murmured because God had sent her thither, only the love of her old home and old home memories yet lingered in her heart.
Think, then, what her joy was, when, one day as she wandered alone, gazing on gorgeous blossoms rich in brilliant colours, down at her feet she spied, waving its delicate-tinted elf-bells in the warm, soft breeze, the Wood Anemone.
Could it be possible? That well-known English flower blooming there! How could it have come across the ocean?
Ah, how often had she seen it at home—for England is ever home to those who are far away—seen it in the early spring days clustering thickly in the woods and copse, heralding the cuckoo, and bringing with it a promise of summer days to come.
'Dear, dear little flower!' she cried, kneeling down and kissing, in excess of joy, its delicate petals. 'Welcome a thousand times, for you bringwith you memories from the old land. I will not gather your pretty flowers, nor take them away to myself, but will leave you here, so that others, perhaps more home-sick than I, will take heart, and be cheered by your soothing though silent message.'
And the young girl was right.
Others passing by—some poor wanderers, footsore and weary—were cheered by the bonnie wild-flower, which, happy in giving happiness to others, swayed its tiny bells as it danced in utter gladness, whispering to the wild bees who also came to visit it,—
'I thought at one time, when the Sparrow let me fall, that there was no more use for me in the world, that my work was finished; but God had still a mission for me, and I have done what others equally small can do—given happiness, and cheered those who came across my path. It is not much to do,' it continued meekly, 'not great and glorious deeds at which the world stands amazed; but it was all I could do, and was the work He meant for me—we must not despise the day of small things. The acorn is very small, yet look at the oak. A gentle word, abright smile, is not hard to bestow, but oh, the blessing they can be to hearts pining perhaps for kindness!'
So the Sparrow's good intention was carried out after all.
Haveyou ever seen a Crown Imperial,that lovely flower which comes in the early spring-time, just after the Snowdrops have gone? You will not find it innewgardens, I fear; but in those delightful shady nooks and corners where the old-fashioned flowers seem to come and go just as they please, there it is to be found, coming up year after year in all its beauty, and yet, though so lovely, meekly drooping its velvet petals, upon which tear-drops are ever resting.
It has been said that it droops thus in humiliation, because its pride was once rebuked; but I do not think that aught so lovely could beunduly proud! Even the acknowledged queen of the garden, the stately Rose, is gentle in her beauty; and 'Consider the lilies,' though 'Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed' like them, yet how meekly they bloom beneath our feet!
Then shall the Crown Imperial tell its tale to you, and see what lesson we can learn from it? No, an old yew tree shall relate the story. Listen to what it says:—
'Many, many years have I stood on this spot, from the time that I was a tiny sapling until now, when my branches spread far and wide, covering the earth beneath with shadow. Summer sunshine has touched with its fiercely scorching breath, and winter snows have shrouded me in fleecy garments, but the old yew tree has weathered so far the storms of life, growing year by year more twisted and gnarled as time passed on. I have seen the song-birds come and depart; some have even built their nests within my leafy branches. I have watched sweet flowers blossom, then fade, but among the many lovely flowerets I have loved—for the old dry tree has a tender heart, my children—there was onewhose very gentleness made me love it even yet more dearly. It was a Crown Imperial.
'The spring was commencing to gladden the earth when first I perceived it, forcing its way timidly through the soft grassy lawn of an old, old garden. Who had placed the parent bulb beneath that turf was never known, for the owners of the estate had passed with their generation from the land, and strangers had come to reside in the ancient homestead, but there was this fragile plant, outliving, as it were, those who had planted it, and coming up, year after year, to gladden other eyes than those which had first beheld its beauty—like good actions and gentle words—imperishable!
'So day by day I watched it grow, stronger and stronger, higher and higher, and, as it grew, spreading gradually its beautiful, shining leaves; but when it had reached its full height, behold, it was crowned with a diadem of the softest green—an emerald crown worthy the brow of a queen!
'Then by degrees I saw its blossoms begin to unfold, the velvet petals richer far than the feeble looms of man can weave; but, as they unclosed, to my intense surprise, they were not uplifted to thesunshine and blue sky, but meekly bowed—drooping earthward.
'"They will gaze upward by and by," I said to myself, "and, when they know and feel the power of their beauty, will court the admiration they are sure to win."
'But I was wrong.
'Pride had no place within their lowly hearts—never were their flowers lifted up—their glances were ever bent in sweet humility towards the green sod from which they had sprung, and, as I gazed upon them, I saw that on each lovely petal there ever rested a tear.
'"Why this sadness?" I mused. "Surely so lovely and guileless a flower can know no sorrow, since sorrow often goes hand in hand with sin; this Crown Imperial must surely be as faultless as it is beautiful!"
'Yet I hesitated to ask the reason; there was a gentle and reserved timidity about it, that checked all questionings. The cause of this unspoken grief would be revealed to me sooner or later, I felt convinced.
'The days passed on with sunshine and shadows, and, as the hours fled, I saw with regret that sternTime had relentlessly breathed with his withering breath upon my much-loved flower! Gradually and slowly its blossoms pined, the lovely colours faded,—almost imperceptibly, 'tis true, still they faded,—its fresh green crown became less purely bright, and I knew with anguish my sweet one was dying.
'Then, and not till then, did it raise its faint eyes heavenward—they were tearless now. I could restrain my wonder no more.
'"Why, oh, why wert thou weeping and gazing ever earthward when in thy peerless beauty, sad and disconsolate—and now that thou art fading from us thou art happy?" I asked in my sorrowful regret; perhaps reproach was mingled with my complaint.
'"Is it not ever so?" the gentle flower replied. "Whilst burdened with Life's sorrows, our eyes are tear-dimmed. The cares of this world press heavily upon our hearts, so that we scarce can lift our thoughts from this earth—cold and weary though it is—to gaze upward. It is only when we are passing from all shadows into the Divine Light that we can look heavenward, yet even then the tear-drops linger. But when earthly sojournershave passed through the dark valley into the Eternal Brightness, then, and only then, will they be freed from anguish; then, and only then, will eyes be no longer dimmed by sorrow—for God Himself shall wipe away all tears!"'