The Angel Children Part 4

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 people she 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 and sweetest 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 pa.s.sing 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 arms and 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 pa.s.sing 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 her when 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 gra.s.s 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 coa.r.s.e 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 coa.r.s.e 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 had left 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 little lip 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 creep away 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 along there 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 pa.s.sed out from the church, the s.e.xton 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 of the 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 they picked 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 G.o.d.

THE STORY OF MAGGIE'S JOURNEY.

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 must follow this servant whom he has sent to bring me. But, O, Maggie, do follow me _some 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 rose from 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 princ.i.p.al 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, and as 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, _wondering_ what 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.