Allegories Of Life Part 6

There was once an aged man who owned and lived in a large house the height of which was three stories. His only child was a daughter, of whom he was very fond, and who listened generally to his words of counsel and instruction; but no amount of persuasion could induce her to ascend to the highest story of their dwelling, where her father spent many hours in watching the varied landscape which it overlooked.

It was an alloyed pleasure as he sat there evening after evening alone, looking at the lovely cloud tints, and rivers winding like veins of silver through the meadows. It detracted from his joy to know that the view from the lower window offered naught but trees thickly set and dry hedges.

"Come up, child," he called, morning and evening, year after year, with the same result. It seemed of no avail. "She will die and never know what beauties lie around her dwelling," he said, as he sat looking at the wealth of beauty. It seemed to him that the clouds were never so brilliant, nor the trees and meadows so strangely gilded by the sun's rays, as on that evening. He longed more than ever to share with his child the pleasure he experienced, and resolved upon a plan by which he hoped to attain his wish.

"I will have workmen shut out the light of all the stories below with thick boards, and bar the door that she may not escape. I will give her a harmless drink to-night that will deepen her slumbers while the work is being done; for by these seemingly harsh means alone can I induce my child to ascend."

That night, while she slumbered, the work was done, and she awoke not at the sound of the hammer on the nails. When all was completed, the father ascended to await the rays of morning, and listen for the voice of his child, which soon broke in suppliant tones upon his ears:--

"Father! my father! It's dark! I cannot see!"

"Come up, my child!" still he cried. "Come to me, and behold new glories."

She gave no answer; but he heard her weeping, and groped his way below to lead her up. She no longer resisted. Her steps, though slow, were willing ones: they were upward now, and the father cared not how slow, so long as they were ascending.

Many times she wished to go back, but he urged her on with gentle words and a strong, sustaining arm, till the last landing was reached, and the light, now streaming through the open windows, made words no longer needful. With a bound she sprang to the open cas.e.m.e.nt, exclaiming, "Father, dear father!" and fell, weeping, on his breast.

His wish was granted; his effort was over, and his child could now behold the beauties which had so long thrilled his own soul.

Thus does our Heavenly Father call us upward; and when he sees that we will not leave the common view for grander scenes, and will not listen to his voice, however beseeching, he makes all dark and drear below, that we may be led to ascend higher, where the day-beams are longer, the view more extended, and the air more rarified and pure.

VIII.

THE OAK.

An old and experienced gardener had been watching a tree for many days, whose branches and foliage did not seem to repay him for his care. "I see," he said, a little sadly; "the roots are not striking deep enough: they must have a firmer hold in the earth, and only the wind and the fierce blast will do it."

It was now sunset, and the faithful gardener put away his tools, closed the garden gates, and went into his cottage. Soon a ma.s.s of dark clouds began to gather on the horizon. "I am sorry to use such harsh means,"

he said, waving his hand in the direction of the wind clouds; "but the tree needs to be more firmly rooted, and naught but a violent wind will aid it."

A low, moaning sound went through the air, shaking every bush and tree to its foundation.

"Oh, dear!" sighed the tree. "Oh, the cruel gardener, to send this wind! It will surely uproot me!"

The tree readied forth its branches like arms for help, and implored the gardener to come and save it from the fearful blasts. The flowers at its feet bowed their heads, while the winds wafted their fragrance over the struggling, tempest-tost tree.

"They do not moan, as I do. They cannot be suffering as I am," said the tree, catching its breath at every word.

"They do not need the tempest. The rain and the dew are all they want," said a vine, which had been running many years over an old dead oak, once the pride of the garden. "I heard the gardener say this very afternoon," continued the vine, "that you must be rooted more firmly; and he has sent this wind for that purpose."

"I wonder if _I_ am the only thing in this garden that needs shaking,"

spoke the oak, somewhat indignantly. "There's a poor willow over by the pond that is always weeping and--"

"But," interrupted the vine, "that's what keeps the beautiful sheet of water full to the brim, and always so sparkling,--the constant dropping of her tears; and we ought to render her grat.i.tude. Besides, she is so graceful--"

"Oh, yes: all the trees are lovely but me. I heard the gardener's praise, the other day, of the elms and the maples, and even the pines; but not one word did he say about the oaks. I didn't care for myself in particular, but for my family, which has always been looked up to.

Well, I shall die, like my brother, and soon we shall all pa.s.s away; but, unlike my brother oak, no one will cling to me as you do, vine, to his old body."

"You're mistaken, sir. The gardener said, but a few days ago, that he should plant a vine just like myself at your trunk if your foliage was not better, so that you might present a finer appearance by the mingling of the vine's soft leaves, and be more ornamental to the garden."

"I'll save him that trouble if my life is spared. I have no desire to be decked in borrowed leaves. The oaks have always kept up a good appearance; but oh, dear me, vine, didn't that blast take your breath away? I fear I _shall_ die; but, if I do live, I'll show the gardener what I can do. But, vine," and the voice of the oak trembled, "tell the gardener, when he comes in the morning, if--if I am dead--that--that the dreadful tempest killed instead of helped me."

The wind made such a roaring sound that the oak could not hear her reply, and he tried now to become reconciled to death. He thought much in that brief s.p.a.ce of time and resolved, if his life was spared him, that he would try and put forth his protecting branches over the beds of flowers at his feet, to protect them from the blazing sun, and try to be more kind and friendly to all. Deeper and deeper struck the roots into the earth, till a new life-thrill shot through its veins. Was it death?

The oak raised its head. The clouds were drifting to the south. All was calm, and the stars shone like friendly eyes in the heavens above him.

"That oak would have surely died but for the tempest which pa.s.sed over us," said the gardener, a few weeks later, as he was showing his garden to a friend.

The gardener stood beneath the branches, and saw with pleasure new leaves coming forth and the texture of the old ones already finer and softer.

"It only needed a firmer hold on the earth. The poor thing could not draw moisture enough from the ground before the storm shook its roots and embedded them deeper. If I had known the philosophy of storms before, I need not have lost the other oak."

Here the old gardener sat beneath the branches of the oak, and they seemed to rise and fall as if bestowing blessings on his head. That spot became his favorite resting-place amid his labors for many years. The oak lived to a good old age, and was the gardener's pride. Maidens gathered its leaves and wove garlands for their lovers. Children sported under its boughs. It was blessed and happy in making others so. It had learned the lesson of the storm, and was often heard to say to the young oaks growing up about it, "Sunshine and balmy breezes have their part in our growth, but they are not all that is needful for our true development."

IX.

TRUTH AND ERROR.

Amid the starry realms there lived an old philosopher, a man deep in wisdom, who had two daughters, named Truth and Error, whom he sent to earth to perform a mission to its people; and though he knew that their labors must be united, he could not explain to them why two so dissimilar should have to roam so many years on earth together. Well he knew that, though Truth would in the end be accepted by the people, she must suffer greatly. His life experience had taught him that she must go often unhonored and unloved, while Error, her sister, would receive smiles, gifts, and welcome from the majority. It was a sacrifice to part with his much-loved daughter Truth, and a great grief to be obliged to send Error with her. He placed them, with words of cheer and counsel, in the care of Hyperion, the father of the Sun, Moon, and Dawn, who accompanied them in his golden chariot to the clouds, where he left the two in charge of Zephyr, who wafted them from their fleecy couch to the earth.

One bleak, chilly day, the two were walking over a dreary road dotted here and there with dwellings. The most casual observer might have seen their striking dissimilarity, both in dress and manners. Truth was clad in garments of the plainest material and finish, while Error was decked in costly robes and jewels. The step of the former was firm and slow, while that of the latter was rapid and nervous. The bleak winds penetrated their forms as they turned a sharp angle in the road, when there was revealed to them, on an eminence, a costly and elegant building.

"I shall certainly go in there for the night, and escape these biting blasts," said Error to her sister.

"Although, the house is large and grand," answered Truth, "it does not look as though its inmates were hospitable. I prefer trying my luck in yonder cottage on the slope of that hill."

"And perhaps have your walk for naught," answered Error, who bade a hasty good-by to her sister and entered the enclosure, which must have been beautiful in summer with its smooth lawns, fine trees and beds and flowers. She gave the bell a sharp ring, and was summoned into an elegant drawing-room full of gaily dressed people. Error was neither timid nor bashful, and she accepted the offered courtesies of the family as one would a right. She seated herself and explained to them the object of her call, dwelling largely on the grandeur of her elegant home amid the stars, and tenderly and feelingly upon her relationship with the G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses, and the numerous feasts which she had attended, so that at her conclusion her hostess felt that herself and family were receiving rather than bestowing a favor.

The evening was spent amid games and pastimes till the hour for retiring, when they conducted her to a warm and elegantly furnished room, so comfortable that it made her long, for a moment, for her sister to share it with her; for, despite the difference in their natures, Error loved her sister. The soft couch, however, soon lulled her to sleep. She, slumbered deeply, and dreamed that Truth was walking all night, cold and hungry, when suddenly a lovely form came out of the clouds. It was none other than Astrea, whom she had seen often in her starry home, talking with Truth. She saw her fold a soft, delicate garment about the cold form of her sister, at the same time saying, in reproving tones, to herself, "This is not the only time you have left your sister alone in the cold and cared for yourself. The sin of selfishness is great, and the G.o.ds will succor the innocent and punish the offender."

She closed, and was rising, with Truth in her arms, to the skies, when Error gave such a loud shriek that Astrea dropped her, and a strong current of air took the G.o.ddess out of sight. It was well for the earth, which might have been forever in darkness, that Truth was dropped, though hard for her.

Error awoke from her dream, which seemed more real than her elegant surroundings, and resolved to go in search of Truth when the morning came; but a blinding storm of snow and sleet, and the remonstrance of the family, added to her own innate love of ease, left Truth uncared for by one whose duty it was to seek her.

The days glided into weeks, and yet Error remained, much to the wonder of the poorer neighbors around, that Mrs. Highbred should encourage and keep such a companion for her daughters. They could see at a glance that Error was superficial, that she possessed no depth of thought or feeling; and their wonder grew to deep surprise when they saw all the gentry for miles around giving parties in honor of her. Everywhere she was flattered and adored, until she became, if possible, more vain and full of her own conceit.

"You should see the feasts of the G.o.ds in our starry realms," she would say, as each one vied with a preceding festivity to outshine its splendor.

After Error left her sister, Truth walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the cottage on the hill-side. She went slowly up the path, which wound in summer by beds of roses, to the door, and rapped gently. It was opened by a fair and beautiful woman, who bade her "walk in" in tones which matched the kindness of her features. The next moment Truth felt her gentle hands removing her hood and cloak, and felt that she was welcome. A table covered with a snowy cloth stood in the centre of the room, on which was an abundant supply of plain, substantial food, more attractive to a hungry traveler than more costly viands. A chair was placed for her by the bright fire, while the air of welcome entered her soul and drew tears from her deep, sad eyes.

It was so seldom she was thus entertained--so often that the manner of both high and low made the highway pleasanter than their habitations.