The Project Gutenberg EBook of Parables from Flowers, by Gertrude P. Dyer This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Parables from Flowers Author: Gertrude P. Dyer Release Date: January 6, 2009 [EBook #27718] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES FROM FLOWERS *** Produced by Chris Curnow, Meredith Bach, Lindy Walsh and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net PARABLES FROM FLOWERS. Book cover Frontispiece. Parables from Flowers. Frontispiece. Parables from Flowers. PARABLES FROM FLOWERS. BY GERTRUDE P. DYER, AUTHOR OF 'LITTLE POLLIE,' 'ARMOUR-CLAD,' ETC. ETC. Doth not thy heart throb with emotions of thankfulness to God for making the earth so fair, so redolent of beauty in its garniture of flowers, and for having scattered these silent teachers up and down the world? EDINBURGH: W. P. NIMMO, HAY, & MITCHELL. TO MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, MABEL, ELSIE, and RUBY TARR. CONTENTS. PAGE I. THE FORGET-ME-NOT—FIDELITY 7 II. THE SNOWDROP—FAITH 22 III. THE FOXGLOVES' STRATAGEM— GRATITUDE 30 IV. THE LITTLE MINER AND HIS FLOWER— TRUST IN GOD 46 V. THE LITTLE SEED—KINDNESS 68 VI. THE CROWN IMPERIAL—HOPE 83 VII. THE TWO LEAVES—DISCONTENT 89 VIII. THE AMBITIOUS WILD-FLOWER— AMBITION 99 IX. THE HONEYSUCKLE AND THE BUTTERFLY —HUMILITY AND PRIDE 115 PARABLES FROM FLOWERS. PARABLE FIRST. I THE FORGET-ME-NOT—FIDELITY. N the days of the long-ago, my ancestors did not dwell as we do now—in brooks or by the banks of shallow streams, but grew in wild luxuriance beneath the shade of overhanging trees, and under the wayside hedgerows. We were always a quiet, unassuming race, and, indeed, I am fain to confess, were not held in more esteem by mortals than are our sweet cousins whom children call 'Bird's-eyes.' But some one made known to the world that pathetic 'Legend of the Rhine,' in which we are described, then people began to perceive that we were pretty,lovely indeed,—and to make a great fuss about us; but such is the way of the world! Yet, though that legend is tenderly beautiful and thrilling, it is almost too romantic to please the taste of simple flowers, therefore I will tell you the true story how we acquired our name. That shall be my parable—see what it will teach! We grew there, unheeded and unsought, on soft mossy banks, not the less lovely because unknown, and just above our dwelling-place a large oak spread abroad its leafy branches. It was a favourite tree of the birds, they felt so secure there, sheltered from prying eyes by its protecting leaves; besides, its branches were so firm and strong, they resisted bravely the fury of the storms that swept over them. What bird, then, would fear to build its nest there? And often have we listened to their sweet songs as they perched above us, and many times lifted our heads and gazed upon the happy inmates of those simple homes. But there was one family among them that interested us even more than others, though all were dear to us. It was a pair of wrens who had by some strange accident taken up their abode in our oak, instead of a yew-tree as they generally do; and not only my family, but the whole colony of birds, old inhabitants of the tree, many of them, felt great interest in the new-comers, assisting them with advice, as they were but young. Then, when building time came, how kind they all were! indeed, though it was a busy season with every bird, each anxious to finish its work, yet I heard an old Rook one day ask little Jenny Wren 'if he should help her,' as he met her trying to drag a large wisp of straw with all her tiny strength. 'No, thank you,' she gently replied; 'I must try to do it. We must all learn to bear our own burdens.' But many times, however, I have seen the larger and stronger birds bring materials for making the nest close to the spot they had chosen, to save the little strangers weary journeys; and at last, after much patient labour, the home was finished, to the intense delight of the two builders, for both took their share in the work; but the joy was greater, when, after some time, three little birds made their appearance in the compact and cosy nest. The event caused quite a sensation among the other dwellers in our old tree. Jays were constantly inquiring how the nestlings were getting on, an inquisitive Magpie peeped into the nest, trying to get a glimpse of the pretty ones, and received a sharp peck from the angry father as a reproof for the intrusion; as to the motherly Rooks, who were supposed to care for nothing save their own family concerns, they kindly advised the young parents how to rear the brood, saying, 'Care, care,' was all that was necessary; nay, it is even recorded, as an undoubted fact, that an old Owl, who had lived for ages in a hole in the tree, actually opened her eyes quite wide when the news was first told to her, although it was broad daylight! You may imagine, then, how happy they were, surrounded thus by kindness and love; and yet—I suppose it is but right there are ever shadows as well as sunshine, and, sad though it seems, every life must have bitters mingled with the sweets; still they were so joyous in that tiny nest! Why, ah, why was their happiness to be clouded? Alas, it grieves me even now to tell, though many long years have since then passed away! One day the father-bird went from the nest, and never returned! Long and patiently waited his little mate, hoping each moment to hear his welcome note, as swiftly he winged his way back to her. But the day wore on, the evening sun grew golden, then faded in the purple west—but still he came not! The other dwellers in the oak returned to their homes, yet they brought no tidings of the wanderer. After a while their happy voices were hushed in sleep, the Blackbird ceased to warble his evening hymn, and all were buried in slumber, and at rest! All? Ah, no! the lonely mourner was waking still, gazing up with sad, sad eyes at the starry heavens above, asking the night-winds as they moaned around: 'Will he not return to me?' Days passed, slowly dragging their length wearily on for the lonely bird in that desolate nest. Yet, though her heart was breaking, she tended her tiny nestlings, neglecting none of her daily duties; for his dear sake she loved them yet the more, hoping as each day came it would bring him back, and striving to imagine his delight when he returned, and found his young ones almost fledged. But still the days dawned, the weary hours went by, the sickness of hope deferred would fall upon her loving heart, crushing it almost to breaking; yet bravely she struggled with her woe. It was when the holy stars shone down, gazing pityingly at her meekly raised eyes, and she was alone in stillness with her great sorrow, that then would she murmur with a bitter cry,— [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] 'When will he come home to me again?' Yet still he came not! Then her brave heart gave way. In vain the other birds tried to comfort her; she could not be comforted, for he she so dearly loved 'was not.' 'Do not grieve, do not grieve—cheer thee, che-eer thee,' sang the Robin, as he perched beside her. Or the Thrush tried to advise, saying, 'Don't fret, don't fret; 'tis a pity, 'tis a pity!' But one bright sunny day a Swallow came flying along. He had just returned from far distant lands, and all the other birds gathered chittering around him, eager to hear the news he had brought. He told them of much he had seen whilst on the wing; also that he was the pioneer, his brothers would soon rejoin him, for Summer was coming; he had heard her heralds in the fields and groves, had marked her flower-decked path in forest and in lane. But what was summer to the heart-broken Wren? There would be no sunshine for her, since he was not there—he who was her all. 'Oh, Swallow,' she timidly asked, 'have you seen my own love?' Then the eyes of the Swallow became tear-dimmed, as sadly he replied,— 'Little Jenny Wren, I have!' 'Where—oh, where?' she cried in thrilling accents. He hesitated a few moments, though to her impatience it seemed hours; he wished to spare her further agony if he could —but the truth must be told. 'Tell me, tell me,' she pleaded, impatient at the delay. 'In a prison,' was the reply. 'In a prison!' she repeated, horror-struck at the disclosure; then she added, 'I will go to him, and share his captivity.' 'Nay, nay,' remonstrated a motherly Sparrow; 'your little ones—think—think—see—see!' Sadly she drooped her head upon her breast; her heart was divided between a mother's duty and a wife's love. 'I will take care of the nestlings,' said a young Linnet; 'they shall feed with my little ones, I will shelter them under my wings.' Gratefully the poor wee bird looked at her generous friend; words were not needed to express her thanks. 'Take me to him,' she piteously asked, turning to the Swallow. 'I shall pass that way to-morrow,' he said, 'for I must go and meet my comrades, to guide them here. You can go with me; I will take you to where he is imprisoned.' The next morning, before the sun had risen, away flew the Swallow, and with him the little Wren. She heeded not that the valleys were still shrouded in mist, or that the cold grey dawn yet lingered in the skies; was not her sunshine coming? should she not soon see him who was her brightness? The day wore on, and onward still by the Swallow's side, she, with untiring pinions, winged her way; she suffered not from noontide heat, she felt not even the pangs of hunger or thirst, for her heart was filled with hope. But towards evening her pitying guide led her over a hot, murky town; the very sky above it was hidden by the thick atmosphere of smoke which seemed completely to envelope it; the two birds could scarcely breathe, the air was so dense with poisonous gases. 'It cannot be here?' she gasped, as suddenly the Swallow paused in his rapid flight. 'See, see!' was his exclamation. Then, raising her heavy eyes, she saw, suspended from a high window, a small wire cage, and in it—her long-lost mate! He was resting on a low perch, with his poor aching head beneath his wing; his pretty brown feathers were no longer smoothly plumed, but hung ragged and tattered around his wasted form, so different to the bright, bonnie bird of the long-ago! But she heeded not the change; to her he was as beautiful, ay, and more dear than ever, so, flying up, she clung with eager feet to the cruel bars which kept her from him, and, pressing her beak as close as possible to the cage, she murmured,— 'I am here, love!' At the sound of that sweet voice, so well remembered by the captive, he raised his drooped head, and, gazing at her with all the old loving tenderness, whispered feebly,— 'Is it you, Jenny? Ah, I knew you would come!' And every evening found her there. Patiently would she stay near the prisoner throughout the dark watches of the night, [13] [14] [15] [16] cheering her loved one because she was near; but when the grey dawn came stealing over the skies, away she would fly back to the nest in the oak, and during the day would carefully tend her little ones, fulfilling thus her double duty as wife and mother. Then when the evening star appeared, telling her of the gloaming, she would hush her nestlings with a soothing lullaby, and, when they were sleeping, would swiftly fly to her imprisoned mate, bearing in her beak a sprig of moss, or a leaf from the well-remembered spot where they had been so happy in the spring-time of their life; and when she reached the prison, if her loved one was grieving, pining for the liberty he had lost, the home ties thus rudely broken, her sweet voice murmuring, 'I am here, love,' seemed to bring comfort to that poor failing heart; and as she tenderly pressed her cool, fresh beak to his, so parched and dry, he would reply, striving to be gay for her dear sake,— 'Ah, Jenny, you have brought on your wings some sunlight from our old home, my darling.' One evening, when as usual she flew to the prison, she found him lying at the bottom of the cage, speechless and motionless. Frantically she tore at the cruel bars, beating them with her wings in an agony of despair. 'My own love, my own love!' she cried aloud in her anguish; 'speak to me once again!' Her beloved voice seemed to possess the power to recall him back to life, for he heard her, though the shadows of death were stealing over him. 'Jenny, darling,' he feebly whispered, as she bent low to catch the faintest word, 'they have broken my heart. Ah, why did they keep me thus captive?' 'Oh, do not die!' she moaned; 'think how lonely I should be in this wide world without you.' 'If I were but free, we should be so happy again, love,' he said, gasping painfully for breath as he spoke. 'I will release you,' she cried, and strove with all her strength to unfasten the prison door, but in vain—it resisted all her efforts. 'What shall I do? what shall I do? He will die, and I cannot help him,' moaned forth the poor Wren in accents of despair. 'My sweet one,' he murmured, 'do not grieve so bitterly. Death were better far than life if separated from you; but, before I close my eyes for ever upon this world which the good God who loveth us hath created so beautiful, bring me just one spray of those little blue flowers.' 'I know them!' she eagerly cried; 'a cluster grew beneath our nest.' 'Yes,' he continued; 'and when I used to return home I could see them afar off, and would think, "Jenny is there, and their blue eyes are looking upon her." Bring me one tiny spray, darling, and if I die when you are from me, we shall not seem so very far apart, for those sweet flowers will whisper to me of you.' She waited no longer, but flew rapidly away to bring the blossoms on which he wished to look once again; but she had not long gone when a young girl came to the cage, and saw the poor captive bird as Jenny had found him—still and motionless as though dying, and her heart was filled with tender pity, that its brief life should thus be so soon ended. 'Poor birdie! I fear it is dying,' she said. 'I will unfasten the cage; perhaps the fresh air will revive him, and bring back his failing strength.' And with kindly hands she opened the prison door, thus giving him liberty. The cool, fresh air, stirring his drooping feathers, aroused him from his lethargy; at first he could not believe that the door was open, that he was free. It was almost too much happiness for the poor sick bird to bear; yet it was true— freedom was his, and his first thought was of Jenny. He would fly to meet her, as he knew she would soon return, bearing with her the blue flowers he loved, and then, when she saw him coming towards her,—free, yes, free!—would not all past sorrow be forgotten in the ever-present joy? So, with a twitter of gratitude to the girl who had opened his prison door, he fluttered his wings, just to try their strength, poised a while in the air, then away he flew with unerring instinct towards his dear home in the old oak tree. But of Jenny? With a sad weight upon her poor little heart, crushing it with the iron grip of despair, she reached the spot where the flowers grew, plucked a few blossoms from the stem, then away again, without pausing to rest, bearing the prized flowerets in her beak. She felt not fatigue; though her weary pinions sometimes faltered, still she heeded it not, still struggling on, eager to reach where he lay dying. Her only thought was: 'If he were to die, and I not with him.' But slower and slower grew her flight; strength at last was failing, for it had been too severely tried; her breath came quick and fast, in short, fitful gasps, and her heart beat heavily beneath her quivering breast. 'Oh, but to see him once more!' she moaned, as she felt her weary wings failed to do her bidding. She tried to fly yet a little farther, in vain; her tired pinions fluttered for a while, then down she sank, slowly, slowly, on to the calm bosom of [17] [18] [19] [20] M a rippling stream that was flowing on over its pebbly sands with soothing melody. 'Jenny, Jenny, my own love, where are you? I have sought you so long, my darling,' she heard the well-known voice exclaiming. She raised her dying eyes, and saw her loved mate hovering above her in the summer air. 'I am here, love,' she faintly murmured. Then with all the old love-light beaming from her soft, gentle eyes, she turned to gaze at her poor desolate mate, who was rending the air with his piteous cries, then closed them for ever, with a look of perfect peace, murmuring softly,— 'Dearest, forget me not.' And the rippling stream bore her gently away echoing with a plaintive wail her dying words: 'Dearest, forget me not.' The poor widowed bird caught the flowers as they were floating away on the breast of his lost love, and carried them to his now desolate home; but one little blossom, in tender pity for sweet Jenny Wren, detached itself from the others to linger still with the poor dead bird; and when the stream had carefully borne its precious burden to a shady nook, where she could rest, for ever freed from sorrow and pain, the flower was carried with her, and, taking root above the spot where she lay buried, put forth its blue blossoms in loving remembrance of that fond, faithful heart. And thus it is how we became dwellers close to tranquil streams, and why our name is still 'forget-me-not.' PARABLE SECOND. THE SNOWDROP—FAITH. Y life has been so tranquil, that I fear it will not possess much interest; for, when first recollection dawned, I remember finding myself far down in the earth—a small bulb, not much to look at, I am thinking. But very happy were the days spent there with my companions. We in our ignorance deemed the world a dreary place, and wished we could for ever stay where it was so cosy and warm; but our Mother Earth was carefully instructing us, teaching us the same precious lessons she unfolds to her other children, if they will but read the ever-open book, by man called 'Nature.' I know not how long it was that the Frost King kept the land bound captive in icy chains, but at last the signal for freedom came. The trees awoke from their winter sleep, and, casting off their sombre garments of sheathed leaves, came forth in vestments of tender green; the bees, too, sent out their pioneers, who hastened back to the hives with the glad tidings of the sunshine and of awakening flowers. The birds flew hither and thither on joyous wings, twittering their simple gratitude to Him who 'heareth the ravens cry;' for they indeed were thankful that the dark days were past, and that 'the time of the singing of birds had come.' As to the little brooks and streams, how rejoiced were they to be free once more! they bounded away over the sandy shallows or pebbly beds, laughing for very gladness, and kissing the green banks whose fresh verdure they laved, whilst murmuring to them their gladsome song: 'I'm free! oh, joy! I am free once again! I have burst with delight my icy chain, And gaily I flow to the open sea, [21] [22] [23] Joyously singing, I'm free! oh, I'm free! I kiss the green banks as I glide along, I woo the birds with my peaceful song; The sunbeams they dance to my joyous strain, Whilst gaily I fling their rays back again.' And for us also came the appointed time, when we too had to leave the home in which we had been so tenderly nurtured; we were to go, ready prepared to do the work marked out for us. But I did not wish to go; I feared to face a world unknown to me, and fain would have lingered in the home so loved. 'Why must I leave you?' I asked of our gentle parent. 'I cannot bear the separation.' 'My child,' she replied, with something of reproach in her soft voice, 'have you so soon forgotten the lesson I taught you, that He who created all things, createth nothing in vain? Go forth upon the earth, and speak in parables of His glorious works.' 'What can I teach?—I, so small, and of no repute!' I asked, still doubting. 'Some lesson of His goodness to the children of men,' was her reply. 'But everything on earth appears to have its appointed mission; there seems no work for me,' I urged in excuse. 'God will find something for even you to do,' she said; 'it may be only a message from Him.' 'A message!' I repeated. 'What could I say to others? Already have all the flowers their symbols: the Violet is the Hope flower, the Heart's-ease speaks of Thought; what can we Snowdrops tell?' Our mother did not answer—she left us to find what lessons we best could teach. So day by day we grew, stronger and stronger, gradually becoming better fitted to perform the work allotted; until at last I appeared above the ground—a slender green leaf! Never shall I forget how cheerless looked the earth when first I came above it, so dull and black, save where a few snowflakes had been drifted by the wintry winds; all else was bleak and bare. There was not a gleam of sunshine athwart the leaden sky to cheer us, nor a bird to meet us with a friendly greeting, for even the robins kept so near the houses for warmth and shelter, they came not to the spot where we grew, alone and sad; and as to the trees, they as yet stood silent above us, only the Holly was still decked with gay scarlet berries, enlivening up the gloomy landscape with a little bright colour. But the Holly smiled not on us; armed at all points in his glossy coat of shining mail, he was so lofty and grand, and we were only—Snowdrops! But I grew on, cherished by our great Mother Nature, who careth for all her children, and loves them tenderly, be they humble Daisies or the queenly Rose; and at last I became a perfect flower, taking my pure white tints from the snow around me, and borrowing just a faint tinge of green from the young grass that was now bravely struggling to appear. By and by, a Blackbird, with golden beak and shining coat, found me out as he was seeking a convenient tree in which to make a nest, and, bowing politely, exclaimed,— 'Welcome to you, fair Snowdrop! I am rejoiced to see you, for you bring us the assurance that spring is on the way, and we shall be glad, for the winter has been long and dreary.' Then he having communicated the glad tidings to the other birds, they also came to greet me, cheering my loneliness with their sweet songs. Yet still I pined to return to earth again; I cared not to look upward, but hung my head, murmuring sadly,— 'Oh, Mother Earth, take home thy child! she is so weary of her life here.' Was I wrong? Perhaps so, but I owed my existence to that which mortals deem so cold and dark; I loved it with the affection of a loving child, and longed to rest again upon the dear bosom that had sheltered me when I was but a frail bulb. Besides, it seemed to me that I was doing no good. Why was I sent here, if only to bloom and then die? I had been told that nothing was created in vain; was I doing the work for which I had been sent upon the earth? Whilst thus repining over my useless life, a poet passed by chance—stay, was it chance? nay, there is no chance! He was one who as yet had met with but little success; I am told there are many such among earth's children. We know that it is said: [24] [25] [26] [27] 'Many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air;' yet the sweetness is not lost, for it speaks with a perfumed voice to the creatures of the air; but among mortals, many fade away into utter oblivion, breathing only their sad, sweet heart-songs to the listening winds around. And this poet of whom I speak, he felt within himself the inspiration of genius, that innate love of the beautiful and true which comes from God alone; but the world looked coldly on him, and he was struggling with what seemed endless disappointments, battling with them bravely, yet almost sinking amidst the strife. His very heart was beginning to fail him, his noble courage to give way, when he saw me there, blossoming alone in that quiet nook. 'Oh, God!' he cried, as, with clasped hands and eyes raised heavenward, he sank beside me on the sod,—'oh, God, forgive me that I should dare to doubt Thy loving care, when this fragile, fragile flower, sheltered by Thee, has braved the wintry storms, while the cold winds pass tenderly over its bowed head. A bruised reed Thou wilt not break; Thou carest for the lilies of the field,—why then should I fear when adversity assails me? Art Thou not still above, though heaven seems so far off, and oh, so cold and pitiless! I will have faith in Thy divine and fatherly love, and accept the lesson this sweet flower hath taught me.' Yes, faith—faith in God, was the parable I was sent to teach, and I also have learned to know that, though the skies may be dark and the winds—oh, so cold! yet if we only wait, and trust Him, the sunshine will come at last, and the breath of heaven never visit us too roughly. PARABLE THIRD. THE FOXGLOVES' STRATAGEM—GRATITUDE. [28] [29] W E lived on the garden wall of an old-farmhouse, over which the vines grew in rare luxuriance, covering it with their climbing tendrils and leaves; and in the autumn the purple and white grapes peeped from beneath their leafy shelter, mocking the thirsty throats of the village lads who passed that way, and who looked longingly up at the ripe clusters. It was a very old place, I am told, and had been inhabited by the same family for many successive generations. Fathers had tilled the soil, then laid aside the plough for ever. Sons had sprung up to take their place, and they too, in their turn, were gathered in, when the bearded grain was ripe for the sickle of the great 'Reaper, whose name is Death,' leaving the old homestead to others of the same name and race, who loved the home in which they were born, and wherein those they most cherished had lived and died. The Swallows, too, loved it, returning year after year to their nests under the eaves, and from early dawn 'to dewy eve,' all through the warm summer days, flew hither and thither with swift, untiring wing, chasing each other, as it were, or teaching their young to fly. As to the Robins, they hopped in at the open door under the rustic porch, just as if they belonged to the place, and were sure of a welcome, which indeed they were! And that porch—what a cosy corner it was, with seats on either side, inviting weary feet to rest! the sunbeams were always playing bo-peep through the leaves which hung clustering around; the Honeysuckles and Clematis decking it, too, with their blossoms, scattering their delicious perfume the while. But I always thought the spot looked brightest when little Susie was there—she who was the very sunshine of the old home! And how they all loved her, from the white-headed grandfather down to the little ploughboy, who brought her all the poor motherless or sick creatures he found on the farm, were it but a half-fledged bird or a stray kitten, certain of her thanks, and a sweet smile; and as to her three big brothers, who had such influence over them as little Susie? for even when they were disputing as to whose turn it was to ride Brown Bess (the joint property of the children), Susie was always chosen umpire to decide the important question, and they abode by her decision. Why, it was Susie who saved us from being ruthlessly destroyed! for it happened that one day old Peter was at work in the garden, and, to make the place 'a bit more tidy,' as he said, was proceeding to cut us off from the wall. 'They bain't o' much account,' he muttered, sharpening his hook; 'not loike them there Roses maister sets sich store by, and thinks so much on.' Certainly it seemed very sad that, because we were merely 'common flowers,' our lives were to be cut short long before the appointed time; we had endeavoured to bloom as brightly as our more refined sisters, and in sunshine or shower had tried our best to look gay, and, I think, had succeeded, for we do not shut our petals as if we were sulking when dark clouds come, but keep them always open. But the fiat had gone forth—old Peter was the stern arbitrator of our destinies! and, feeling that our fate was inevitable, we sighed a last long farewell to each other, just as we saw him raise his sharp hook to cut us down. At that moment, so 'big with fate' for us, who should come into the garden, singing for very gladness like the birds themselves, but little Susie; the sunlight was playing with her waving hair, her eyes sparkled as the dewdrops in the sun, and her tiny feet skipped lightly along as she came dancing up the pathway. That prolonged our lives! Old Peter dropped his hook to turn round and look at his young mistress. 'What are you going to do, Peter?' she inquired, as she drew near, and saw him take up his tools to resume work. 'Whoy, lop doun these 'ere things, Miss Zusie,' he replied, pointing at us contemptuously. 'Oh, please don't destroy them! they are so pretty!' was her eager exclamation. 'Purty, missie!' the old man repeated, with astonishment; 'whoy, them be wild loike.' 'But I love them dearly,' she persisted; 'so please leave them there.' 'But the maister?' pursued Peter, rubbing his rough head in his perplexity; 'he told me to clear roight up.' Peter, it must be observed, was 'the odd man' about the farm; there is always one. 'Father will say you did quite right to let them live,' replied the little lady; 'he likes them as much as I do, for he says he remembers them always growing here, coming up year after year without troubling any one to look after them, and making the old wall a very flower-garden.' 'Well, Miss Zusie, if so be ye sez so, I s'pose I must,' he acquiesced, though I think he was greatly disappointed that he could not have his own way about it; so there we were left, and we bloomed more than ever, striving to do our best in gratitude to the little maiden. Now, I have noticed, as a rule,—mind, every rule has exceptions,—that good deeds, like good seed, seldom fall to the ground and wither away. Both may lie fallow, for a while at least, but the flower comes up after a while, and 'with what measure ye mete, it is meted to you again.' You may not have remarked this, perhaps, but the fact holds good, proving most emphatically the sacred truth, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.' Now, when Susie saved our lives, she never thought that simple flowers could ever repay her kindness, and for some [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] time, it is true, we did nothing, only strove to make the garden wall look gay with our sturdy buds and blossoms. But one day, I remember, Susie sat on the lawn close by the wall on which we grew, very busy making a smart new dress for her doll, Miss Arabella, who sat propped up by a work-box at her back, with her arms straight out, and her toes turned in, but with a sweet smile upon her waxen face. They were evidently engaged in earnest conversation, for Susie kept speaking in her own voice for herself, and using a very shrill falsetto for Arabella, who, by the bye, appeared to reply only in monosyllables. In the midst of this very entertaining discourse I heard another voice exclaiming,— 'Look 'ee 'ere, Miss Zusie, this vowl 'ave airt her vut;' and the small ploughboy I before mentioned came in at the garden gate, holding a hen in his arms. 'Oh, give it to me, Joey,' cried the little girl, full of sympathy for the wounded bird. 'How did it happen? Poor dear, poor dear!' With that Joey poured forth a long account of the accident, to which she listened attentively, all the while soothing the lamed hen, and wrapping it up in her soft frock. 'I will bathe its poor foot in warm water, and try to get it well,' she said, after thanking Joey for bringing it to her; and she went into the house, leaving Arabella alone on the lawn, cautioning her, however, 'to be a good child until mamma returned.' It was some days before we again saw the hen, and then she was quite restored, and had been given to Susie as her 'very own' because of the care she had bestowed upon her; indeed, she had become quite a pet, actually was allowed to roam about the flower-garden and lawns; and some one had given her the name of 'Zenobia,'—an inconvenient name to call when in a hurry, but Susie was very satisfied with it, and so, I suppose, was the hen, who seemed to love her little mistress, following her wherever she went, eating from her hand, and even perching on her shoulder! After some time Zenobia was to be seen walking about, followed by a family of nine chickens; and really I cannot tell which was most proud of the young brood, Susie or the hen. Susie called them 'loves' and 'beauties,' and the hen, she clucked, and made a great fuss over them, and, as if determined that their bed should be of roses, insisted on roosting every night under a rose-bush which grew near the garden gate, instead of the cosy coop with which she had been provided. Well, one moonlight night we, of course, were awake, though the church clock had long since struck the hour of midnight; and it was so still, only the voices of the night murmuring among the trees, though occasionally we could hear the soft crooning of the hen, as she hushed her little family to sleep beneath the rose-bush. Suddenly we heard the sound of stealthy footsteps creeping under the wall. 'It is only Dash, the house dog,' whispered a sister-flower, who grew on the same stem as myself. 'Dash does not steal along in that crafty manner,' said another. 'Perhaps it is a rabbit,' suggested one, 'or a cat taking a walk.' 'It may be a rat.' Various conjectures were hazarded by those who grew low down on the wall, but I was higher up than they, so, looking cautiously over, what should I see but a Fox creeping along, and scenting his prey, with his sharp nose close to the ground. 'Good evening!' I called out to him. He started with alarm, for great rascals are always great cowards. 'Oh, good evening, my friend,' he replied, very blandly. 'Charming evening this for a walk.' 'Yes,' I answered sharply; 'but rather late for respectable folks to be abroad!' 'Ah yes, just so,' was his response; 'but, you see, my doctor has advised me to take quiet rambles.' 'It was not Dr. Quack, was it?' I asked; 'because, poor fellow, he came to an untimely end the other night,—had his head bitten off, and his body was then dragged across the yard, as I suppose you already know?' 'Dear me!' he ejaculated, with affected pity, and glancing slyly up at me out of the corner of his red eyes; 'but how should I know, my friend?' 'Oh, because some of your family are strongly suspected,' was my reply; 'indeed, our Dash is on the watch, so I would advise you to'— 'Good-night, good-night,' he hurriedly exclaimed. 'I feel the winds are becoming very chilly.' So saying, he shuffled off as fast as possible, more especially as at that moment Dash began barking furiously, as though he scented a foe. How we laughed to think we had frightened the artful fellow away, and some of us thought we should never see him again; but we were mistaken, for, a few nights after, there he was creeping along so stealthily outside the [36] [37] [38] [39] garden wall. 'What do you want?' I called out to him. 'Nothing, my friend, nothing,' was his answer. 'Well, since we do not keep that article here, you had better seek it elsewhere,' interposed a brother of mine who is rather saucy. The Fox paused for a moment, as if hesitating what to say; at length he began, in a whining tone of voice,— 'My beloved friends, I perceive I must take you into my confidence. The fact is, my worthy doctor says I am in delicate health, and has therefore directed me'— 'Well,' I said, seeing that he hesitated; 'what of that?' 'Simply this; he has ordered me to eat only light, digestible food, such as chicken,' he went on to say. 'Oh, has he?' I remarked; and then I thought to myself, 'Now can your craftiness be seen through: you are after Zenobia; but Susie saved our lives, she shall not find the poor despised Fox-gloves ungrateful. We will save Zenobia!' However, Mr. Reynard had not guessed our thoughts (for we all thought alike on the subject), but continued,— 'Now, charming friends, I know you have a most delightful hen in this garden.' 'Oh yes, and nine such plump chickens!' cried my brother. 'Oh dear, how very nice!' exclaimed the Fox. 'And I have no doubt,' continued my brother, whilst we could hardly restrain our mirth, 'but that Zenobia would willingly give them up to you, for the honour of being devoured by so distinguished a personage.' 'Would she really?' he cried, swallowing this piece of flattery as greedily as he would the chickens. 'Oh yes,' I chimed in; 'but there's one thing I would mention. Grandees like you must be formally introduced. Zenobia would be horrified were you to appear before her so unceremoniously; she might even refuse your request for one of the chickens.' 'What shall I do, then?' he eagerly questioned. 'Why, dress yourself of course, appear en grande toilette,' I replied; 'brush up your whiskers a little more, make your coat look glossy, and, above all, put on a pair of gloves!' 'Gloves!' he repeated. 'I have not a single pair; tell me where I can purchase them?' 'Leave that to us,' said my brother, bursting with glee. 'Originally, you must know, we were Fox-glovers, but somehow we have lost our ancient privilege; therefore have the supreme graciousness to restore it to us, and we will be only too proud to serve you.' 'Oh, certainly,' assented the Fox, assuming at once an air of patronage that was highly amusing. 'I take six and three- quarters,' extending his forepad. 'No, surely not!' protested my merry brother; 'you must be mistaken; such a pretty little paw as yours cannot possibly require such a large glove. Allow me to suggest six and a quarter.' The Fox agreed to the size named. 'If you will condescend to call here to-morrow night about this time, they shall be ready for you,' one of us declared. 'Thank you,' he said loftily, as though he was conferring a favour upon us, and off he went, no doubt congratulating himself on his diplomacy. As to us, we laughed heartily, knowing how the crafty old fellow would be caught in his own toils. The next day, when we saw Susie feeding and caressing Zenobia, how we longed for the power to tell her of the danger that so fearfully menaced her pet, but we could not; for, though there is a 'language of flowers,' it does not discourse on such a topic as this, therefore we were compelled to keep silence; but we were determined to do our best to guard little Susie's treasure. Night came, and dark and dreary it was too, with heavy clouds drifting across the moon, almost hiding its brightness; and it grew so late, past twelve, we began to think Mr. Reynard suspected us, and would not come. But he did, looking so sleek and shiny, with his coat all spick and span, being freshly brushed, I expect. 'Here I am, my friends; it has taken me so long to dress,' he said, panting with the haste he had evidently made. 'Is Zenobia—what a sweet name, to be sure!' he added in a fawning voice,—'is she here?' 'Of course she is,' I replied; 'can you not hear her crooning to her nine children?' with a strong emphasis on the number. 'Sweet, tender creature!' he exclaimed. 'Oh, but to know her yet more intimately! Let me jump over the gate to her!' [40] [41] [42] [43] 'What! without your gloves on?' cried several of us at once; 'consider how very vulgar you would look.' 'Dear, dear, I quite forgot,' he ejaculated rather impatiently; evidently he wanted his supper. 'Here they are,' said my brother; 'pray allow me the honour of putting them on for you.' He saw the fox was all impatience; however, he was obliged to consent, and my brother proceeded forthwith to fit on a pair of Fox-gloves made expressly by us. 'They are rather a tight fit,' he nervously remarked. 'Rather,' we cried, as my brother held him fast by the paws, and we went to assist him in keeping the scoundrel a prisoner. He saw, when too late, the trap into which he had fallen, and struggled hard to get free, even trying to pull us from off the old wall in his futile efforts to escape. But we were too securely fixed there for his strength to be of any avail; our roots were the growth of years, and, besides, we clasped him so tightly—for unity is indeed strength—that at last the cowardly fellow roared aloud with mingled pain and fright; perhaps he thought to startle us, and make us lose our hold. But we knew better than that—we only gripped him the faster; but the noise aroused Dash, who came bounding to the spot (he was always unchained at night), and, flying at Mr. Reynard's throat, he soon pinned him to the ground. The farmer and his sons must have heard the cries of the Fox and the baying of Dash, for presently they came running as fast as possible to the spot, armed with all sorts of weapons, and soon despatched the rascal. And it would have pleased you to have heard the praises bestowed upon the brave old dog for his courage, which praise he most certainly deserved; but no one thought of us. However, we had our reward in feeling that we had done our duty, and tried to repay our debt of gratitude to little Susie; that was recompense enough for us, nor did we wish for more, for— 'On their own merits Modest men are dumb;' and so say we simple Foxgloves. PARABLE FOURTH. THE LITTLE MINER AND HIS FLOWER—TRUST IN GOD. [44] [45] I DO not think any of us would care to 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 a blade 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 would have 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, carefully carrying 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, 'the bread-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, [46] [47] [48] [49] [50] [51] 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...