CYBELE THE TAMBOURINE GIRL.CYBELE THE TAMBOURINE GIRL.
"I don't know how to do anything else," replied Cybele, the blood rushing to her cheeks; "my aunt is sick, and I want to get some money."
"Tush!—always sick!" replied the boy, contemptuously; "how silly! I wonder the beggars don't all die some day, they've been sick so long!"
"We are not beggars!" said Cybele, raising her head somewhat proudly, and preparing to move away. "If you don't want the broom, I'll take it, if you please."
The boy seemed half pleased, as he looked at her, and said:
"Proud, too—if it isn't funny! Here, don't go away—I want to hear your tambourine."
So she laid down her bundle of brooms, and, arranging her tambourine, played him some merry tunes.
"Can't you dance, too?" asked the boy, when she had finished. So she danced and played tohim; and, when she stopped, he placed a penny in her hand, and coolly walked away.
She looked at the penny lying in her hand, and then after the boy, who was walking up the street, and she couldn't help thinking how very little it was, and how she hoped he would have given her more. She looked at the little broom he had ruined, and everything seemed sadder than before. Then, by some strange freak, her mind ran off to the gardens where her mother slept, as it always did when darkness gathered round her, and she longed, more than ever before, to throw herself on the ground there, and quietly sleep a long, long time. During the whole day she had received but a few pennies; so few, they would not induce a doctor to go down to her sick aunt. If she only could have met some kind heart, which would have gone home with her, and given kind words and soothing draughts to the sick one! But it was not brought into her path.
When she came home and saw how much worse her aunt was than when she had left her in the morning, her little heart grew sick; and Cybele, who had seen her mother grow thin and die,began to be terrified, lest the aunt too would be taken.
So, she went up to her gently, and kissed her brow, and the poor aunt opened her eyes and smiled mournfully; and when she heard how little money the tambourine had brought that day, she tried to conceal her sorrow lest the little child should be grieved.
Then Cybele lighted a small fire in their bit of a fireplace, and made a little tea for her aunt. It was the very last she had; but when she thought how much her aunt needed it, and how she would need still more on the morrow, hope whispered, quite cheerfully, that with the tambourine she would win from people's pockets many a bright cent. With these thoughts, she looked very lovingly towards the tambourine, which lay quietly upon the floor in the corner, its gay bells silent, as if it, too, felt sorrow for the aunt's sickness.
After Cybele had toasted a bit of bread, and given it, with the tea, to the aunt—had received the kind kiss, and saw her close her eyes—she thought she slept, and new courage filled her heart; she began to think of the pleasant peopleshe should see to-morrow. What a kind crowd she drew about her! They looked on her with loving eyes, and the sweet smiles played about their lips. There were the groups of pretty children, in gay frocks and rosy cheeks, which should gather about the parlor-window, when she should stop before it and strike the tambourine with her hand; and they would smile upon her, and then the elder sister, who should be so mild and gentle, would come and throw up the sash, and speak with her; and, perhaps, even she would throw down to her a sprig of the geranium which stood near by on the flower-stand. Then she was lured further on, to think of a great fortune which was to be obtained, that she might go back to the laughing skies of Italy, and spend her days in the lovely garden where her mother slept.
But when Cybele arose in the morning, and told her aunt how she was going out to gather in the pennies, the poor aunt sighed, and bade her stay at home a while, for she could not bear to be alone.
So Cybele sat down upon the floor, and, taking the tambourine, sang and played the softest andsweetest airs she could remember; and, as she played, it seemed as though new tones, and words even, were given to speak out of it.
She astonished herself, and a kind of sorrowful ecstasy came into her soul. She played on, and on, and forgot that the day was passing off, in which she was to earn so many bright pennies, in order to bring home the kind physician who was to make the dear aunt well at once. She went to the far-off land, and sang of the vineyards and the soft, warm air; of the gently-moving waters, and the fragrant blossoms around the banks of the lakes. O, the moon rose up before her, and she drank from its loving beams; the stars sent down their misty light, as if shrouded because of their great beauty! Once in that land, how had she forgotten all things else! A holy inspiration had come down over her; an angel of light appeared to her enchanted eyes, beckoning her to rest her head upon his bosom.
"Fear not!" he said, "for I will yet take you to the lovely gardens where your mother dwells."
But, when she eagerly stretched out her armsand cried, "Take me now," he disappeared, and she found the song stayed upon her lips, the room hushed, and only the glory, which the angel's presence had shed about, still lingered there. The holy stillness came into her heart also, and she sat quietly upon the floor a long time; and when, at last, she rose and went up to her aunt's bedside, she found the brow she kissed was cold, the hand she clasped was chilly; and, in looking with fear upon the aunt's face, she found the dews of death resting there.
The aunt was dead! Those songs, which flowed so easily from Cybele's lips, had become the requiem of the dead, and those soft tones had been the last sigh of a passing soul.
Cybele knew that when the angel had over-shadowed her, as she sang, he had borne hence her aunt's spirit.
But, O, it was so hard to be left all alone! And when the people from the other room came in and prepared her aunt for the burial; when they took her from the bed and put her in the rude coffin, the child's heart felt like breaking, and, had it not been for the words the angel had spoken to herwhen he came to bear hence the dear aunt, she would have wept without ever smiling again.
Then they carried away the coffin into a dismal place, where was neither green grass nor pleasant brook, nor even a flower, might it be ever so little; and there was a row of square, black doors against the walls, one of which they opened, and shoved the coffin into a dark place.
O, it was so dreary a place, with the high fence all about it, and the cold, dismal, gray clouds above! It did not seem to Cybele that she could leave the aunt there. Could she only lie away in the beautiful land where the mother slept, where the birds rested their wings upon the lemon-trees, and the blue sky smiled in quiet peacefulness!
But the people who stood around could not understand her grief, and so they hurried her from the yard and locked up the gate.
That night Cybele lay alone upon the bed on which her aunt had died, and the lonely grief came so fast upon her that she could not sleep, and the morning found her weary and heart-broken.
Then there came into her room a coarse man,who told her she must go out, for she could no longer live there; that she might be allowed to take her tambourine with her, but all the rest,—and there was little enough, the two chairs, the bed, the kettle and the few things in the cupboard,—were his, to pay for the rent of the room and he told her, if she brought a few pennies to the people who lived in the next room, when night was come, they would take care of her.
Now the man had no sooner spoken these words, than Cybele decided to have nothing to do with the people in the next room, for she could not love them. The father and mother were so coarse and cross, and the boys were so rude and big;—they had often refused to help her aunt, and while she was sick they had never come with kind words to smooth her pillow. Even after she had died, they had but come to put her in a rude coffin, and carry her to a dismal place, from which they thrust out the only heart who yearned for her.
So Cybele did not think of going to them. She tied the large silk handkerchief over her head, which had served her for a bonnet since she hadleft Italy, and, taking her dear tambourine in her hand, and the poor, neglected brooms, she went away out of the rooms where she had lived so long, where she had seen the angel, and where her aunt had died. Then, after standing upon the sill of the door a few moments, looking down the long staircase, out into the world to which she was going, she raised her gray eyes, and sweetly said, as though replying to the angel's admonition, "I'm not afraid." Ah, dearest one, you need not fear when the heavenly Father is so near unto your heart!
Without more hesitation she said "Good-by" to the room, and quickly sped down the staircase out into the world, while thus she talked to her tambourine:
"Don't you be afraid either, dear little Tambourine!" and she held it tenderly in her arms; "nor you, dear Brooms! We shall have happy times together yet. Only think of the beautiful tunes I'll play on you, and how the children will clap their hands when they hear your bells! No, don't be in the least afraid; I'll play on you as I never have before since once,"—here the littlelip quivered in spite of itself,—"only try and play real pretty—do, so I shan't ever be lonesome with thinking of the lovely gardens at home! Ah, Tambourine! Tambourine! you and I are all alone!" Just then, a sweet tone came from the bells of the tambourine, and comforted Cybele's heart.
She wandered up the streets, and stopped to look in upon the windows of the toy-shops; but the toy-carts, and those wonderful witches, who would always stand on their heads, had no charm for her longer. Her heart was saddened, and when she tried to strike out gay tunes, they would not come—only sad ones, and sad words from her lips. The children pitied her grave looks, and, when they could not persuade her to dance for them, they would leave her in silence.
When she looked about her and saw all the children, how they were never alone, that their eye's danced, and their voices were mirthful, she would ask herself why she, too, was not happy. Then courage would come to her, and she would strike a gay air, and call the children to her side; but, when she had finished, she was glad to creepaway by herself, and lean her head upon her tambourine to weep. Then, when the voice of the angel sounded in her heart, she would raise her head to reply, meekly, "No, I'm not afraid."
It chanced, one day, that she wandered into the obscure corner of a church. It was evening service, and at first she was only glad to get away from the cold, biting air; but she had not been there long before a strange feeling of gladness rose up in her heart. The organ awoke from its stillness, and the tones gladdened her as the tambourine, dear as it was, had never done. The hazy light poured in through the windows, and lit up the faces of the scattered worshippers with seraphic beauty, and it gave golden edges to the spotless robe of the priest in the chancel, played upon his white, flowing hair, and shone upon his uplifted countenance. The priest spoke out blessed words of the Father in heaven, how he calls the tired and weary to come and be folded up in his arms; how he even says, "Suffer little children to come unto mo, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." These words fell into the parched heart of little Cybele, and ran all alongthere in low sobs, and, stretching up her tiny arms, she murmured:
"Take me, take me now,—I want to come!" And she began to think of the angel who had said to her:
"Fear not, for I will yet take you to the lovely gardens where your mother dwells."
The organ ceased, the priest went out from the chancel, one by one the people passed out from the church, the sexton closed up the doors and went away, and Cybele sat in her corner, longing to see again the angel who was so often in her thoughts, until the hazy light had faded away in the darkness.
Then the moon rose, and streamed into the church, down the long aisles, and up into the chancel; and from the window above the place where the priest had spoken those holy words there flooded a glory of light, while the columns and galleries stood still in their deepened shadows. It was so holy a calm as to fill Cybele with a joyful awe. The tambourine slid from her lap; she crossed her hands upon her breast, and bent forward her head with closed eyes. Low notes ofthe sweetest music swelled on the air; louder they grew; until they seemed like the voices of those rejoicing for deliverance from great sorrow. Louder, louder yet the voices of angels mingled with them. As Cybele looked up there she saw great bands of holy angels rejoicing over her; among them the very one whose words of consolation had been with her so many days. Quickly to him she stretched out her arms, and he reached low down and raised her up to him. And they soared up, up to the region of the sun and the moon, hearing about them the soft voices of loving angels; the air was loaded with the perfumes of celestial flowers, while every angel they met gave them a word of welcome.
The angel did as he had promised, and the heavenly Father, whom Cybele had prayed to take her, gave her into the loving arms of the mother, who dwelt in lovelier gardens than those of fair Italy, even the gardens of heaven.
When the people next opened the church, they found a dead child in one of its corners. A little tambourine lay by its side, which, when theypicked it up, gave out pleasant, cheering tones; but, when they laid the dead body of the child in a cold, damp grave, they little thought what happy songs the living spirit of it sang with its mother in the lovely gardens of God.
Little Maggie lived all alone in a small house which contained but one room. She had lived alone ever since the time her mother had gone to the palace of the Great King. At first Maggie had cried very bitterly to think of living alone without her mother; so did her mother, too, as for that matter, for no mother ever loved her child more dearly than she did Maggie.
"Maggie," she had said to her, when she knew she must go, "I shall love you just as tenderly as ever, and always think of you, even while I am in the Great King's palace. It is a long journey thither, and I expect I shall be obliged to go through a great many dark and strange places before coming there; and I fear, the most of all, to leave you in this little old house all alone; but you know I cannot disobey the King, and so mustfollow this servant whom he has sent to bring me. But, O, Maggie, do follow mesome time, for I shall be anxiously watching for you till you come! Be sure, now, and don't disappoint me; and when you come I think you had better start early in the morning, for the road is a long and dangerous one."
Perhaps this was a long speech to make; but when mothers go on such journeys as Maggie's mother was to go on, it is not an unusual custom for them to do so,—and especially when we remember how she would leave Maggie all alone; it was only to be wondered she said no more.
When her mother had really gone, the first thing Maggie did was to sit down upon the door-step and cry bitterly. She could not bear to think her mother had really gone, and that if ever she wanted to see her she must start upon that long, long journey. At first I don't think she loved to think about the Great King who had taken her mother away, and she was obliged to think over the beautiful things her mother had said of him many times, before she could be glad he had called her mother. But at last she rosefrom the door-step, and went into the house. She had not much in it, 'tis true; she hadn't much to put in it; and if she had had more, the house was so small there would have been no place for anything but what already was there. The principal thing in the room was the chimney-place. It was so large as to cover the whole of one side of the room. There was a broad stone hearth, on which sometimes Maggie would place a few sticks she had picked up in the streets, and light them; but the little fire they made looked just as if it were ashamed of itself for burning in such a great fireplace; and the winds, indignant at its presumption, would rush down the chimney at a more desperate rate than usual, blowing the ashes into Maggie's eyes, as she sat before the little fire, and sending the smoke curling in funny forms about the room. So Maggie would run and cover herself in her poor bed, and say to herself that it was a comfort to have ashes and smoke; for, though they did blow in her eyes, still they came from the fire. Sometimes she would gather up sawdust, and by this fire she was able to warm her feet a little, though not much;for, as fast as she warmed them, the winds blew down again, so they were as cold as before.
You see it was a cold kind of a place in which Maggie lived; so cold that, although it was summer, still a good many people's hearts were frozen quite stiff, so their friends despaired of their ever being thawed out; and their tongues too were affected, so they could not speak gentle, kind words. I don't mean to say the cold ever dealt quite so shabbily by Maggie or Maggie's mother, which was rather strange, perhaps, since they could have but little fire; and the frost could walk very boldly in through the cracks all about the house. Still it was almost as bad that such things should happen to their neighbors, as every one knows it is uncomfortable to behold such misery.
Beside the chimney-place and bed, Maggie had some cracked plates and saucers, which she arranged on the chimney-shelf, and some bits of china, which she had found in piles of rubbish, and which she thought very beautiful. Now the chimney-shelf was very high, and she managed to put these things up there by climbing up the bed-post, which was rather a dangerous thing for her to do, andas it was a very little difficult, too, she did not often take down those things.
Now those cracked plates and saucers, and bits of china, were all the ornaments Maggie had for her house; and they were very precious to her. She would sit and look at them,wonderingwhat people did who hadn't got any, and thinking how strange it would seem there in her house if they were taken away. You see Maggie knew how to prize little things; and so some day great ones may fall to her.
I did wrong to say she lived all alone; for she had a beautiful white Dove. Wasn't it nice? It was very white, and nestled close in Maggie's bosom when she carried it out of the house, and in the night it lay close to her heart. O, there was nothing Maggie prized like the Dove; for it was given her by her mother just before she went away, and she told her it would guide her when she began her journey; so it was not strange Maggie should love it so well.
It was a lovely, sensitive thing. When Maggie had become thoroughly weary and tired of living all alone by herself, she told her grief to the Dove,and it would press nearer and nearer to her heart, and when its mistress' tears fell on its head, its moans were so sorrowful that Maggie quickly forgot her own grief, and strove to comfort it.
Now it was in the summer time, and Maggie got along pretty well, for all the cold winds which blew in that region; but winter was coming on, and she feared it might be more uncomfortable for her. It happened, one night, that she heard a great noise, and awoke in a great fright. The moon shone very brightly, and, by its light, she saw a tall, strong-looking man carrying away her door. At first she thought she must be mistaken, and that, if she waited a while, she would see that he was about to do something very different. But no; he took first the door well off the hinges, put the hinges in his pocket, the door on his back, and went off. Then Maggie jumped quickly from her bed, and, running to the open doorway, cried out,
"Don't take my door; I live here."
But the man certainly did not hear Maggie; at all events he did not once turn back, but went away quite out of sight.
"But what could he want with my door?" said Maggie, in a high state of amazement. "Houses all have doors; so he can't want it for his house." She stood a long time, wondering and perplexed; and I must acknowledge, if I had been there, I should have wondered too. It was quite a long time before Maggie could persuade herself to go to bed again, and sleep till morning, which she finally did, feeling very thankful the man didn't take the bed.
In the morning a new joy was in store for her; she found that the sun now, when it rose, could look directly in upon her, and his warm rays would give warmth to her little room. As she looked up to the mantel-shelf, on which her bits of broken china were glowing from the sunshine, she jumped out of bed in an ecstasy of delight.
"O, dear, dear!" she cried, "what if that man had taken away those?—how I should have cried! But now he has, by taking the door, given the sun a chance to make them look more beautiful!"
Now she began to love the sun better than ever, for he had become one of the things which beautified her little home; and she always woke early,so as to meet his first look, when he came into the room.
Still it must be confessed that the absence of her door did at times make her poor home more desolate; when, for instance, the winds went mad, and the rain came down in torrents from the clouds, O, such a frolicking as there was down her large chimney, and out through the doorway! Then round and round the house they would run, chasing each other,—now bursting into a boisterous mirth, now howling in low, dull tones, until in again at the door they swept, and up through the chimney.
In Maggie's mind, the chimney and open doorway belonged especially to the winds. She always thought of them in connection, and, when they began their frolicking, she would seat herself in one corner, and listen. Sometimes it seemed as though the winds rushed at one another,—one coming down the chimney, and the other in at the door; then, when they met, there was a kind of explosion, a thick, quick quarrel, and then they would draw off in merry laughter; then would Maggie clap her hands with glee, thinking it finesport; but when a whole blast burst at once upon the house, and seemed desperately to struggle through every crevice, she would crouch with fear, and upbraid the winds with their sudden freaks.
There was one mystery which Maggie found herself unable to unravel; it was this: She felt perfectly certain the chimney was made for the winds to come down through, and still she knew it was intended for her to make a smoky kind of fire once in a while on its hearth, with which the winds quarrelled, and destroyed it. Here were two things irreconcilable. Often would she stand on the hearth, and look up the black throat of the chimney, wondering how this inconsistency happened, wishing again and again that the winds would like the fire, and let it burn well; but she never thought of asking them to desist. She looked upon their freaks as privileged.
To the dear Dove did Maggie always turn for comfort and relief. Its love was a guarantee of her mother's, and, as often as she looked upon and held it to her heart, so often did she feel sure thatone day she would feel the pressure of her mother's hand upon her head.
Once, when Maggie was talking to the Dove, and thinking of her mother, it came into her head to begin that journey to the Great King's palace. "Why not?" said she; "why do I live here? The cold winter is coming, and my door is gone, and the sun already gives me warning that he shall not look in at the door as usual; the neighbors will be colder than ever, and some of them will quite freeze. I've a mind to go away. What do you think, Dovey?"
The Dove nestled close to her heart, and cooed joyfully.
"Would you like it? Well, I don't know but I had better start. But I should have to leave the house,—and that would be rather bad,—and the chimney where the winds play. I think it would seem lonesome for them, and I don't know as they would like it, for there would be no one to listen to them; still I do want to go, and I think I'd better."
"I'm sure," said Maggie, after some pause, during which she lovingly caressed the Dove'shead, "I'm sure I don't see why I didn't go before. I don't know why I should have lived here so long alone. I can take some of the best china, and leave all the rest. Perhaps some little child may like to live here after I am gone, and watch the winds as I have done; but I do hope they won't frighten her at first, or she will want to go away."
Maggie was an expeditious child, and when she had decided to do something, she went at once about accomplishing it. So she left the door-step on which she had been sitting, and went in the house, to see what she wanted to take; and, as she had so few things, the preparations were not long, but she soon found herself with her blanket pinned over her head, ready to start.
'Tis true a few tears came into her eyes as she bid farewell to the bed which had been her shelter against every unpleasant sight and sound; but when she turned to the chimney, and some perplexing thought of the quarrels of the wind and the fire came over her, she rather rejoiced she would soon be away from it, where this onemystery of their disagreement should never again trouble her.
Laying the white Dove in her bosom, she turned from the house, and so beheld herself fairly launched on her journey.
A little while she found it pleasant; the road was straight, and lined with flowers; the Dove raised his head, and looked in Maggie's eyes with delight.
But soon she came to a place where two roads met, forming the one she had been travelling. Here was a perplexity: which should she take—which would lead her where she wanted to go?
There was a house close by; so she stepped up to the door of it, and knocked. A lady, who was very pretty to look at, and who wore a very rich dress, opened the door; but just at the moment when Maggie asked, "Will you tell me which road leads to the palace of the Great King?" that same terrible cold wind came round and blew directly into the lady's mouth, so that she replied, "I know nothing about it, and very much doubt if there be any Great King at all;" and then sheshut the door in great haste, leaving poor Maggie in much distress and doubt.
She was astonished at the woman's words, and wondered why she shut the door so soon; for, if she had not, she would have told her about the King; how she was sure he was alive, and had a great palace. And, too, she could have told her, his servant had come once and taken her mother with him, and she could never forget him; he had been dressed in black, but on his head he wore a crown of the most glorious stars, and their brightness had filled the little house with holy light, so that, even after he had departed, it still lingered around.
She thought some of knocking again and telling the poor lady, for she thought it was sad enough not to know about the Great King; but, though she knocked a long time, no one came to the door, and, finally, she was obliged to leave the steps of the house and gather some directions else-where.
One of the roads seemed cold, and looked narrow, and Maggie, who had suffered so much from the cold, turned from it with a shudder towards theother, which looked much gayer, and many more people walked in it; but the Dove looked anxiously towards the narrow one, which grieved Maggie, and made her cry out, "O, Dovey, Dovey! how can you love the cold so well, or ask me to go where it is? Let us rather walk this way a little, and do you not see there are plenty of cross-roads?—so, if we wish, we can go on to that narrow road at any time."
So, notwithstanding the Dove's remonstrances, Maggie entered this road, and found the air so pleasant and warm, that she liked nothing better than to walk in it.
She saw a great many people here; but they took no notice of the little girl, who walked along so quietly, with her Dove in her bosom, and the bits of china in her pocket. But, if they did not notice her, she noticed them well, and thought them strange enough.
To her surprise she found the air, which had at first seemed so warm, began to grow cold, and more like the air about the old house; and, shivering with cold, and seeing the people about her wearing large cloaks, it was quite natural sheshould ask them to let her in beneath the warm folds of them. To her civil request some of them paid no attention; others looked at her in wonder, and some were so rude as to speak cruel words to her, and bid her not dare speak to them again.
So Maggie saw them walk on, wrapped in their warm cloaks, and complained not. Indeed, she had lived too long in the little house without a door, not to be able to bear the cold bravely—only she could not help wishing sometimes that she had the bed with her, that she might jump in between its clothes and warm herself a while; but she was patient, remembering that she was journeying towards the Great King's palace, where her mother lived. Suddenly it occurred to her that the road to the Great King's palace lay through a remarkably cold country, and that the people who were travelling thither seemed in no haste, for they often sat down by the road-side and played; and some even went back, instead of forward, while all those little side-roads, which she thought she had seen before, had vanished. So, one day, she said to one of the people who sat down:
"Why do you not hasten that you may see the Great King?"
"The Great King, indeed!" he said whom she had addressed. "I am in no hurry to see him."
And others intimated as much as the lady long ago had said, that they themselves doubted very much if there were any Great King at all.
"What shall I do?" cried Maggie. "I cannot be in the right way. O, how shall I get to the Great King's palace!" And, upon this, the Dove rose up from Maggie's bosom, and turned backwards whither they had come. Though long and dreary seemed the cold road she must retrace, yet, such was her confidence in the Dove, she turned very gladly; and though not one of those people had cared for Maggie before, now they clustered around her, begging her not to leave them, and seeking to draw her away from her purpose. And when she saw how they seemed to love her, and feel sorrow at her going, she said to them:
"I am grieved to leave you, since you have just begun to love me; but I promised my mother Iwould go to the Great King's palace, and I must go where Dovey leads me."
"How silly to mind a bird!" cried one; and, picking up a stone, he hurled it at the Dove, who was hovering in the air, and broke its wing, so it could not fly.
Then, indeed, it seemed as though her grief was very great, and she could not help wishing she were already in the Great King's palace, or that he would send his servant for her, who was dressed in the black robe, and wore the crown of stars. She often saw this servant now; he came to bear many away; but the crown of stars was not on his brow, and his face shed no light around, only gloom.
Well, Maggie was obliged to stop and bind up the Dove's wing, and tend it a little before she could proceed on her journey. All delay was unwelcome to her; for, as the journeying thus far had been in pain, the true journey was still to begin. She was so hungry and thirsty, too! So it seemed impossible she could proceed when once she had started forward. There was no one to give her a crust of bread, or offer her a cup ofcold water; nevertheless, she wouldn't tell the poor Dove, who was moaning with pain, for she thought, and well enough, that he had as much of his own trouble as he could well endure.
She had another trouble, too; there were some people whom she could not think desired to go away from the King's palace, and so she would tell them how they were going altogether in the wrong path; but they would either laugh or stare at her in wonder. Then she would almost have stood weeping in the road at their strange conduct, but the Dove would incessantly warn her to go on. At last, between grief and hunger, she fell sick, and thought she should die there, without ever seeing her mother or the Great King. But, lo! a gentle being, clothed in a white, spotless garment, came and put to her lips a cup of medicine, which she told Maggie, if she would but drink, would make her quite well again, and protect her against hunger and thirst for the rest of the journey. Upon this, Maggie drank it all but the dregs, and she found it so bitter that she thought it far worse than any cold she had ever endured. But, when the bright being saw she left the dregsin her cup, she was not satisfied, and bade her drink those, even with tears in her eyes. Maggie drank them as she bade her, and then the bright one vanished, leaving the child quite well and vigorous. The weariness vanished from her frame, the parching thirst from her mouth, and, what was yet more amazing, she found the little Dove quite well, and she stood with it in her arms before the two roads again.
So she commenced her journey upon the road she had so long ago rejected, and soon found that the snow vanished from the ground and shook itself from the tree-tops; the grass sprang up, the flowers played beneath her footsteps, and gay birds hopped among the boughs of the trees, making the air melodious with their songs; the brooklets ran murmuring by the road-side, and Maggie's Dove cooed with joy.
O, Maggie knew this was the road leading to the palace of the Great King—the very one her mother had travelled—the road, too, which she had been told did not exist! She met many children here, who sought the same she did; and they talked with Maggie, and she loved them, and withthem thanked the King who had made for them such a lovely road to his palace.
At last, one day, there came the same servant who had carried away her brother, and gently, softly, took her in his arms. So often had she thought of his coming that she felt no kind of fear. He told her that the Great King wanted her, and that her mother was all ready to receive her. O, how her heart leaped at this, to hear a real word from her mother, and to think the Great King wanted her! As she lay in his arms, the servant, who wore on his head his bright stars, kissed her eyes and her brow. He carried her a long distance, sped through many a long, dark valley, and then they came out upon a bright shore, where were many people dressed in shining clothes.
Maggie looked at herself, and saw, with amazement, that she too was dressed likewise, and that the servant who had brought her hither had no longer a black robe, but a silver one, which sparkled so, Maggie was scarce able to look upon it. She had soon crossed the sea, and then her mother caught her in her arms, and wept for joy.
"O, Maggie, Maggie!" she said; "I have watched your journey all along, and my sorrow was so deep when I saw you mistake the roads. It was I whom the Great King sent when you was sick, that I might bear his love to you, and make you well. Come, now, and go with me before his throne."
Upon this they joined the crowd who were entering the palace;—but we cannot enter it,—we must first finish our journey.
Ruth had two sisters,—Grace and Jessie. Now Grace and Jessie were twins, and everybody praised their blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and when they laughed, people said, "How sweetly they smile!"—and when they wept, people said, "Poor little ones!" and immediately took them in their arms, and strove to bring back the dimpling smile to their faces.
Grace and Jessie played together always, and little Ruth, who was younger than either of them, was left often alone. No one ever called her beautiful, nor stroked her hair, nor kissed her brow; and when she stood by the side of the twin sisters at the gate, and the people, in passing, praised the flaxen curls of Grace and Jessie, then they would turn towards her, and, their smilesvanishing, they would regard her with a pitiful air, turning silently away. Then she would creep off by herself into some favorite nook of the garden, thoroughly ashamed that she should so far have forgotten herself as to stand by the side of her beautiful sisters.
Her mother, too, often took her in her lap, and, kissing her brow sorrowfully, would exclaim, in sad tones:
"My poor, plain child,—my dear homely Ruth!"
Her father never caressed her. His love seemed to be kept for the twins, whose two bright faces peered over his chair, and whose glad voices were always ready to greet him on his return home.
And still Ruth loved her father so much, and, nestling close in the corner of the garden away off by herself, mourned that he never kissed her, nor called her his dear, pretty Ruth.
"O," thought the child, "how I do wish I could do something for my father, which might please him, so that only once he might call me hisdear child! O, why was not I made a twin?" Thus the poor child mourned to herself.
She had a doll, which she made her constant companion, and she played it was very lovely like Grace and Jessie; she told it all her griefs, and really came to feel that the doll understood all she said to it.
She had also another pleasure; it was that of reading. Her mother had given her many books, and she loved to sit among the rose-bushes, and read their beautiful stories. She liked to read about a man who lived off alone upon an island, and had only some cats and monkeys for his companions; how the cave was his house, and the skins of beasts were his garments; how he looked off upon the ocean, and saw not one sail, and wandered about upon his island, without hearing one human sound.
This story had a wild fascination for our little Ruth, so that she read it again and again; yet still the book was as new to her in its interest as at first.
Then there were other stories she loved to read; some about lonely, patient, lovely young girls,who went out into the world alone to seek their fortunes, and returned home with wealth and honor. She often wished she might go forth in this way, so that when she came back no one should dare call her plain or unlovable. Then she longed to hold some secret charm, so that whoever she should desire to do so, should love and caress her. But still no bright fairy stooped down from the skies to change her black, stiff hair into shining ringlets, or her dark-brown skin into the fairness of that of her sisters; and so Ruth only read, and wondered, and wished.
One day when, as usual, Ruth had found herself quite alone,—Grace and Jessie had gone to take a walk, and her mother was reading by herself,—she had taken her book, and sat down beneath the shade of a broad tree in the garden. She was reading the story of a fair princess, who had many suitors and splendid gifts, and who was called the Queen of Beauty.
"Alas!" she cried, "why was not I beautiful, so I might be loved! Then I should not be the sober, odd thing I am now!"
"Would you, then, so much like to be beautiful, dear child?" said a voice close at her side, and, when Ruth looked up, she saw an old woman whom she never had seen before. She was clothed in a long blue dress, and her face was full of motherly love. Ruth's heart was filled with gladness, for seldom had so affectionate a glance been shed on her; and when the old woman bent down and kissed her, how all remembrance of the indifference of father, mother, friends, vanished from her mind, and it seemed that her whole life was given to her new friend, that she might do with her whatever she willed!
All strangeness at her sudden appearance vanished, too, as soon as she had kissed her. Ruth felt under the control of a great power, and watched her movements with as much love as confidence.
When the old woman had looked into Ruth's eyes, and had seen the thoughts which beamed there, she looked up into the sky, and beckoned to a very light, beautiful cloud, which was sailing carelessly along.
THE OLD WOMAN AND THE ENCHANTED SONG.THE OLD WOMAN AND THE ENCHANTED SONG.
She had no sooner done this than the cloud began to descend slowly towards them, just as though it understood her summons, and, when it hadreached the place where she stood, it remained motionless.
Then she took up little Ruth in her arms, and stepped on to the cloud and sat down; and, after arranging herself and Ruth quite comfortably, she said something, which Ruth could not understand, and then the cloud began to rise, moving as easily as it had done before it came down from the sky.
While they were going up, Ruth was amazed to see how the garden and the beloved tree below became continually smaller and smaller; how, by-and-by, she could only distinguish the house, and how that became dimmer and dimmer, until it entirely disappeared from her sight.
Then she turned towards the old woman, and saw that her kind blue eyes lovingly regarded her; and so she still more forgot the home below, where, without doubt, her departure would pass unnoticed.
New objects began to attract her attention. The cloud on which they sat did not, like the others, just float over the earth, but it went proudly on, and came among the stars, and constellations ofstars, and she saw how many were clustered together, and no tongue could describe their beauty; and then the deep blue was ever about her, and she saw it away off in the distance, growing to a darker and darker shade, until it became like the air of midnight; while ever from its darkness shone out those immense stars, and clusters of stars.
Then the most beautiful sight of all was when some star glided past her, and shot afar off into the dark blue beyond—there was such dazzling glory in it!
Sometimes they would be quite near enough to the stars they passed to discern the people who dwelt upon them, and she felt for them a friendship at once, and only longed that she might go down and tell them so.
The child had forgotten she was plain and odd; she did not think to ask herself whether the people on those bright stars, so beautiful and happy, might not repulse her for her homeliness.
At last they did approach one bright star, and Ruth saw, to her delight, that, when the cloud had come down into a lovely garden, the old womanstepped off from it, then took her up also, and placed her on the ground. Then the cloud, which had been their chariot (and a far better one it was than ever king had to be drawn in), rose upward, and began its gentle course in the sky.
When the old woman saw how Ruth looked after it, she said to her:
"I use all the clouds in that way, more or less, and all those about your earth do many such a service while the people little dream of it. In fact, every one there looks down upon the ground too much; they have no idea of the goodly things they would find if they searched upwards more."
The old woman sighed as she said this. Such a happy and pleasant looking old woman to have sighed so deeply!
Then she took Ruth's hand, and led her towards her cottage, which was the most beautiful thing you ever could imagine. Without, it had the tints of the mother-of-pearl, while its framework was of silver. The windows and doors were of diamonds, and there sparkled from them continually all the rich tints of the rainbow. Within, everything was wrought of the finest silver, and therooms were hung, some in delicate blue silk, others in rose colors.
Ruth was entirely overwhelmed with the beauty of the house,—so much so, as to stand still, looking at the things about her.
"You must be tired with your long ride," the woman said, "and I wish you to rest well; for there are many things I will show you. After you have rested, I will bring you some food."
And, with this, she put Ruth upon a sofa, and made her lay quite down, to refresh herself with sleep. But Ruth thought, in her heart, "Rest! Does she think I can be tired, when I have been sitting upon that soft cloud, looking at the wonderful stars? How could I ever be either tired or hungry?" But she said nothing aloud, for the charm of the old woman's presence hovered over her, and, as soon as she closed her eyes, she fell into a soft and beautiful slumber.
O the dreams Ruth dreamed then! Strangely enough, she thought her father and mother, as well as Grace and Jessie, were riding and playing on clouds; and they were all so happy together, and they seemed to love her very dearly; so that,in her dream, she remembered nothing of their former neglect. She dreamed how her father called her to him, and laid his hand upon her head; and it wassucha gentle pressure, and it made her so happy, that she awoke,—and there really was a gentle hand upon her head, and a soft kiss fell upon her lips,—such a touch, and such a kiss, as poor Ruth had scarce ever known before, and which made her quickly twine her arms around the old woman's neck, and kiss her warmly.
Then the old woman put her in one of the silver-wrought chairs, and put before her, on plates sparkling with precious stones, soft, ripe fruit, with a delicious flavor, such as she had never before tasted. She could not help thinking how glad Grace and Jessie would be to see such before them; and so, as at that moment she looked up, and saw the old woman smiling upon her, she took two of the most beautiful and the largest of the fruit and put them in her pocket, for she had no doubt but what, at some time, all too soon, she should go back to the earth.
When she had done this, and finished her delicious repast, which, however, was slowly, for shewas so filled with delight, the old woman bade her leave her chair, and come to her; upon which she took her in her arms, and, looking lovingly down upon her, said:
"My dear Ruth, I am going to show you all the treasures which the children upon the earth gather together, in order some time to take with them to heaven. I call their treasures what they love most in their hearts, and put into actions. Everything they do or say is kept very carefully; for one day they will want them. So you see they cannot lose anything. Everything in nature, every cloud that seems only leisurely floating in the sky, is serving some purpose. And all that is done below is borne up here."
Ruth could not help thinking that the old woman might show her some very beautiful and some very curious things to keep; and in sorrow she began to think what unpleasant things of her own were treasured up, to be given back to her some day when she least expected or desired them.
But the old woman said nothing about Ruth'sthings, but, taking her hand, led her forth into the garden again.
"I am going to show you some things there are here," said her friend; "and if they seem ridiculous to you, don't laugh at them. For my part, I think it sad children will treasure up such miserable things."
They had soon passed into the garden, where Ruth saw the most delicate flowers she had ever seen—they were so tall, and nodded their heads gayly to each other; but when she came to a bed of violets—white ones and blue,so large, larger than she thought it was possible for them to grow—she stopped to gaze upon them in complete admiration; the fragrance, too, was delicious—more so than those her brother had, although those were very fine ones.
"Take some, my child," said the old woman, who watched her delight with a kind smile. So down upon her knees she dropped, and took them, and she could not help thinking how beautiful and lovely a smile would fall upon her from her mother's face, as she gave them to her. So theviolets, too, were carefully laid in her pocket for her mother.
Then they passed out from the garden, and came to a gray house; withered flowers lay about it, while briers and nettle-bushes clung to its walls; but, worse than all this, there came forth from the house angry, hateful words, and noises of a mad strife. Ruth feared to pass this place, and clung closely to the old woman's side.
"Here," said the old woman, kindly putting her arm around Ruth, "are kept all those angry words which children speak to each other and their friends; all their little fretful words when they are impatient, and which they will never wish to see again, but which, alas! will be given back to them at a most unwelcome time."
Then they went on to another house, the walls of which were black, and not a green thing grew about it.
"There," said the old woman, "are the treasures of those children who care most for themselves, and do not think of others' pleasures. Those things which they have so loved are kept carefully for them; but they will only tell themof what they have done for themselves." So she opened the door, and Ruth looked in. There was such a medley of things! Candies of gay colors, nice waxen dolls, a great many broken toys, nice fruit, and, indeed, I could not begin to tell you of all Ruth saw there. There had come, too, a mould upon many of the things, so many of them had grown tarnished; and a bad stench rose from some fruit which had been there a long time.
"You see, my child," said the old woman, as she locked up the door, "these things cannot be preserved to look so brightly as when they were first brought here; they all grow rotten; and I cannot prevent the worms creeping in to corrupt them."
Then they met some very black-looking clouds, loaded with things like those Ruth had seen in the two houses, and they were put in with the rest.
"Alas," she sighed, "that the children will send up these things!"
Ruth rejoiced to see that, with quick step, her kind guide passed by many more such houses; for they terrified her. She feared she might hear,if she listened well, some complaint she had uttered, or should see some tarnished toy which she had selfishly treasured. No wonder she liked to hasten by the houses!
Then they passed away from the dreary desert places where black houses were, into beautiful plains where the grass was mingled with bright and lovely flowers, and rivulets gracefully flowed along; and here were lovely temples, shining with precious stones, so that Ruth clapped her hands at beholding them. "Here," said the old woman, "are more beautiful treasures, which are my great glory and delight."
She showed Ruth one, round which the whitest blossoms grew among green leaves, in which were treasured all the smiles ever given to comfort people who had grief in their heart; and these smiles shed about the whole temple a light like a halo of glory.
In another were the soft, loving words which many children had given others, poorer and lowlier than themselves, to encourage their weak hearts; words which they had given and forgotten, but which had yet been carefully gatheredup, and put in this temple. From this temple a low sound of sweet music rose, which filled Ruth's heart with a perfect peace, as if she had found everything she could ever desire.
In another temple yet were all the words of love, which children express and feel in their hearts to each other. From this temple proceeded louder tones, but yet those of sweetest harmony.
In another, all the gentle, loving words ever whispered to the animals.
"I prize these highly," said the old woman.
"It is very strange," said she, looking upon the temples, "that I find these precious treasures thrown about very carelessly upon the earth. The children never dream of their worth, and were I not always ready there, some would be lost. But remember, Ruth, none are suffered to be lost; and so, when the children to whom these belong are going into heaven, they shall find there many a treasure they did not dream of possessing. Thus shall the treasures they had forgotten grow brighter and brighter, while others they had perhaps remembered have grown corrupted and vain!"
At these words, Ruth longed to lay many treasures in the temples, and she heard a song, which the different tones of the temple formed in the air. It melted her heart with its divine harmony.
"O," cried Ruth "could I but sing such a song to my father! he who loves songs so well. What joy it would be to him!"
"And would you patiently sing the song though he thanked you not?" asked the old woman.
"I desire him only to hear it," replied Ruth; and at that moment the power came to her, and such a song poured from her throat!
She was so enchanted! But, when glancing in the brook, she saw her own figure so lit up with beauty as scarcely to be able to recognize it. The old woman saw her amazement, and replied to it:
"I will send you back to your home that you may sing this song to your father; and remember, little Ruth, that beauty only is worthy to have which proceeds from the sweetness of thy words and the loveliness of thy smile. In heaven thou mayst be as lovely as thou wilt. Send up, then, fit treasures for the temple, and they will be kept safely until thou needest them."
Then, as the tones of the old woman's voice died away, Ruth found herself in the garden again, near her mother's house, and, had it not been for the fruit and bunch of violets in her pocket, she would have believed it a dream; but, when she went into the house, and gave Grace and Jessie the peaches, and her mother the big, beautiful violets, and began doing all sorts of kind things for every one, she felt how very real it all had been. And then, too, she would sing that beautiful song she had heard in the old woman's star, and her father, delighted, caught her up in his arms, kissing her again and again.
Ruth did not forget what the old woman had told her—how she might bring the beauty of heaven about her form; and when she grew up people loved her, and said, "I would rather look like Ruth, to smile and speak like her, than to have the brightest hair and bluest eyes of any court beauty."
Come about me, little ones, and I will tell you my story. I seem old to you now; but once I was as young as you. I had twelve brothers and sisters; but now they are all gone before me into the better land, and I remain here alone upon the earth without them.
I am very old. My teeth have fallen away from my mouth one by one, until they are all gone. My bald head has a very few gray hairs; my ears are deaf, so I can scarcely hear your young, sweet voices: and the bright sky is dimmed to my eyes. Slowly my footsteps totter along the earth, as when I first stepped into my mother's outstretched arms.
My wife long ago went before me to the grave, and I have left many children there. Many a time have I seen the green sod laid over the grave of loved ones. Often have I wept at the sightof God's servant, Death; but when next he comes I shall hail him with joy, for he will be to me the beloved friend who bears me to my home above.
Now that I am grown old, God lovingly carries me back to the days of my childhood. He sends many a loving spirit upon the wings of consolation to bear me into the fair region of youth. The scenes of the few years since—all the noise and bustle of my manhood's prime—are banished far away from me, and only the stillness and quiet of my childhood close around the last moments of my earthly existence. Thus, dear children, bathing me in the innocence and trustful spirit of my childhood, does God prepare me for my home in his beautiful garden.
I told you I had twelve brothers and sisters. O, well do I recall them all! They come near, and I feel their presence as of old! I am glad to linger mostly on their early days; for, in after life, their hearts were filled with sorrow, their fresh spirits wearied, and care brought and filled their souls with other feelings than those of love and sympathy to others.
Our fairest and brightest brother was Fred. Iwas only one year younger than he, and I remember well how I watched my mother while she nursed him, and sent me away from the arms which a little before had been my sole possession. I could not understand it, and my little heart was filled with dismay. I would creep away by myself, sit down, and in the most pitiful manner repeat to myself, "Poor Sammy! poor Sammy!" The sense of desolation was very great; and in the whole course of my life I do not remember to have known a more distressing grief. When I grew to be a man, and disappointments came upon me; when I laid my wife and children in their graves, and knew there was not one left of my line but myself—a miserable old man—there was hope in my sorrow, light in my darkness; for I knew the love of God and the life of eternity. These deep sorrows had, also, bright heights; but it was not so then. I could not feel God's love. My mother's care had been all I knew; and, now that it seemed given to another, I was alone and wretched. There was a terrible sense of injustice, which nearly broke my heart. I could not understand how my little brother could have the right to what was denied me.
I have always tenderly pitied children who had griefs; then they need our care more than the grown children, who feel God's love and wisdom. But these little ones grope in a kind of darkness. Suffering is a mystery to them; they can perceive no cause or end for it; they only know they suffer.
After a while, I, too, was allowed to sit on my mother's lap with this brother, and then I began to love him, he wassobeautiful. There was no child in the county which could be compared with him, and, simply because of his beauty and his cunning ways, he gained the power of a king over the household, so that as soon as he began to run about he ruled it, and me even more than the rest.
The country was very new then, and all the gay, flourishing towns and villages, which are now scattered in every direction, scarcely existed even in the minds of the first sanguine settlers. Dark woods and sombre swamps covered the surface; and what do you think we had instead of roads,when we wanted to go from one town to another? The first one who found his way along cut pieces of bark out of the trees, and others followed these marks, until after a time they cut down the trees and made a road. I think this is the reason old roads in this country are so crooked; for you know a man cannot walk very straight through a forest.
Our near neighbors lived a mile from us, and it was quite a little journey to go and see them. We had a village, too, in which were but two buildings, the meeting-house and blacksmith's shop. You children would hardly think you could live in such a place; yet such was the state of things ninety-three years ago.
Well, my father and mother had come up from a town near Boston, because my grandfather could give them some land here, and they built their house, and made it their home. The house stands now; it is the very one in which my brothers and sisters were all born.
In her parlor my mother had a very nice piece of furniture, which her mother had given her as a wedding present, and of which she was very proud,inasmuch as no parlor in the county could boast the like. It was a looking-glass!
Well, laugh! No wonder it seems funny to you that any one should so prize a looking-glass, when you all have so many of them; but you can have no idea how different everything was then. The people were very poor, and, although they owned many acres of land, yet they could frequently sell it but for one dollar an acre, and thought that a fine bargain. You see we had no money to buy the elegant luxuries you have in your houses—the carpets, and sofas, and rocking-chairs. Our floors were hard, covered now and then with a little sand, perhaps, as a great luxury. The chairs were straight and high, while our tables were small and low, and the cups from which we drank our tea as small as those you play with. But, before I say any more, I want to tell you of the fate of mother's looking-glass.
Thegreat room(as mother's parlor was called) was always kept carefully closed, and a very sacred, awful and mysterious place it was to us children. It so happened, one day when mother had gone away, that my little brother Fred beganto be acted upon very powerfully by a desire to take one peep into that room. By some strange neglect mother had left the door unlatched—for she kept her bonnet in there, and always put it on before the glass. The temptation to go in was altogether too powerful for Fred to withstand, and, especially as others had never pronounced the little monosyllable no, to him, he had no mind to begin by saying it to himself. So in he went, and almost the first thing he saw was mother's looking-glass, hanging over the table between the two front windows. As he went towards it he saw a little boy, who seemed to be peering and staring at him from between the windows. He had no idea it was himself he saw, never having seen the looking-glass before, nor his own reflected image. You may be sure he looked right earnestly upon the strange child. If he stepped forward, so did the boy; if he turned away, and then looked cautiously back to watch the boy, there he was, looking at him in a very sly manner. Freddy, enraged at this, rushed out for a stone, and, bringing it in, hurled it at the looking-glass. But it was all in vain, for, even after the glass rattleddown and strewed the floor with its many pieces, that impudent boy peeped at him from every bit of glass in which he looked.
When my mother came home, and went to put away her bonnet in the great room, as usual, she found her beautiful looking-glass lying on the floor, broken into a hundred pieces. When she came out, and demanded of us what it meant, Fred told her of a little boy he saw behind it, at whom he was offended and hurled a stone, but that still the boy looked at him from the pieces of glass and made him very angry.
Then mother laughed when she heard Fred's story, and, catching him up in her arms, kissed him again and again. She forgot to chide him for his disobedience in going where he had been forbidden to go, and for his foolish anger at the supposed boy. She was so much amused at his version of the story, that she did not explain to him what the boy was, and how the looking-glass reflected figures before it, but he was left to find that out by his experience afterwards.
If my brother, long before that, had learned lessons of love and forbearance, this circumstance,slight as it may seem, would never have occurred. Instead of the threatening and distrustful look in the mirror, he would have found a laughing face, and a tiny, loving hand would have been given him. O, my dear children, this story has a higher meaning than I thought of when I commenced! In the feelings of those whom we approach we see the reflection of our own; if we approach any one with love, it is given to us from them. Think of this: it will serve you well, and teach you to be careful, ere you hurl the stone, to know what is the object of your anger.
I have often thought that we all helped to make my brother selfish. He was so very beautiful that we indulged him in every whim he had; so he came to look upon us at last as bound to serve him. I do not blame him only; they who had the nurturing of him, they to whom his young spirit was sent so fair from God's heavenly gardens, in their unwise love taught him to think of himself, and make others serve his purposes.
These dear, helpless little ones—they come to us in fresh beauty like a spring morning, andwe taint their spirits with selfishness, and darken them with worldly care!
Years after, when my brother and myself had grown to men, we bound our interests in one. He had quicker parts than I—was a much better scholar; so I trusted all our business confidently in his hands. But I grieve to say he did not meet my confidence with honor—he took from my purse to enrich his own; and when I stood by his bedside, at last, and saw how the deep wrinkles were worn in by care upon his once round cheek, I wept. I wept that he should die without having found in life that peace which any one would have predicted for him over his cradle, when the rosy cheeks sank into the soft pillow, and the long lashes of his baby eyelids rested upon them! I love that brother now, and his child, who had become penniless after his death, I warmed in my chimney-corner, and held to my heart as though she had been my own child. Brother, I know thou hast repented, long ago, of the wrongs thou didst inflict, and that some time, in the presence of God, I shall clasp thee in my arms, pure again as when we sat together on our mother's knee!
See how I have wandered away off from my story!
Let me tell you how we got our clothes. Did you ever ask yourself what we could do then, when there were so few shops, and so little money to carry to the shops?
We had sheep, who gave us wool, which my mother spun, and wove it into cloth. Just think of that! Do you imagine you would have as fine clothes, if your mothers had to spin all the cloth? She knit, too, O, so fast! as well in the dark as the light. I have known her to knit a coarse stocking easily of an evening—her fingersflewalong the needles! Cotton cloth was a great rarity among us. I remember once my mother had a cotton gown, and it was esteemed very precious.