What the Moon Saw: and Other Tales Part 47

but then came another strain--

"The life of earth is the scent of the rose, With its sunshine and its pleasure."

And if one strophe sounded painfully--

"Each mortal thinks of himself alone, This truth has been manifested"--

on the other side the answer pealed forth--

"A mighty stream of warmest love, All through the world shall guide us."

She heard, indeed, the words--

"In the little petty whirl here below, Each thing shows mean and paltry;"

but then came also the comfort--

"Many things great and good are achieved, That the ear of man heareth never."

and if sometimes the mocking strain sounded around her--

"Join in the common cry: with a jest Destroy the good gifts of the Giver."

in the blind girl's heart a stronger voice repeated--

"To trust in thyself and in G.o.d is best; His good will be done for ever."

And whenever she entered the circle of human kind, and appeared among young or old, the knowledge of the true, the good, and the beautiful beamed into their hearts. Whether she entered the study of the artist, or the festive, decorated hall, or the crowded factory, with its whirring wheels, it seemed as though a sunbeam were stealing in--as if the sweet string sounded, the flower exhaled its perfume, and a living dew-drop fell upon the exhausted blood.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BLIND GIRL'S MESSENGERS.]

But the evil spirit could not see this and be content. He has more cunning than ten thousand men, and he found out a way to compa.s.s his end. He betook himself to the marsh, collected little bubbles of the stagnant water, and pa.s.sed over them a sevenfold echo of lying words to give them strength. Then he pounded up paid-for heroic poems and lying epitaphs, as many as he could get, boiled them in tears that envy had shed, put upon them rouge he had sc.r.a.ped from faded cheeks, and of these he composed a maiden, with the aspect and gait of the blessed blind girl, the angel of thoroughness; and then the Evil One's plot was in full progress. The world knew not which of the two was the true one; and, indeed, how should the world know?

"To trust in thyself and in G.o.d is best; His good will be done for ever,"

sung the blind girl, in full faith. She intrusted the four green leaves from the Tree of the Sun to the winds, as a letter and a greeting to her brothers, and had full confidence that they would reach their destination, and that the jewel would be found which outshines all the glories of the world. From the forehead of humanity it would gleam even to the castle of her father.

"Even to my father's house," she repeated. "Yes, the place of the jewel is on earth, and I shall bring more than the promise of it with me. I feel its glow, it swells more and more in my closed hand. Every grain of truth, were it ever so fine, which the sharp wind carried up and whirled towards me, I took up and treasured; I let it be penetrated by the fragrance of the beautiful, of which there is so much in the world, even for the blind. I took the sound of the beating heart engaged in what is good, and added it to the first. All that I bring is but dust, but still it is the dust of the jewel we seek, and in plenty. I have my whole hand full of it." And she stretched forth her hand towards her father. She was soon at home--she had travelled thither in the flight of thoughts, never having quitted her hold of the invisible thread from the paternal home.

The evil powers rushed with hurricane fury over the Tree of the Sun, pressed with a wind-blast against the open doors, and into the sanctuary where lay the Book of Truth.

"It will be blown away by the wind!" said the father, and he seized the hand she had opened.

"No," she replied, with quiet confidence, "it cannot be blown away; I feel the beam warming my very soul."

And the father became aware of a glancing flame, there where the shining dust poured out of her hand over the Book of Truth, that was to tell of the certainty of an everlasting life, and on it stood one shining word--one only word--"BELIEVE."

And with the father and daughter were again the four brothers. When the green leaf fell upon the bosom of each, a longing for home had seized them, and led them back. They had arrived. The birds of pa.s.sage, and the stag, the antelope, and all the creatures of the forest followed them, for all wished to have a part in their joy.

We have often seen, where a sunbeam bursts through a crack in the door into the dusty room, how a whirling column of dust seems circling round; but this was not poor and insignificant like common dust, for even the rainbow is dead in colour compared with the beauty which showed itself. Thus, from the leaf of the book with the beaming word "_Believe_," arose every grain of truth, decked with the charms of _the beautiful_ and _the good_, burning brighter than the mighty pillar of flame that led Moses and the children of Israel through the desert; and from the word "_Believe_" the bridge of _Hope_ arose, spanning the distance, even to the immeasurable love in the realms of the Infinite.

THE b.u.t.tERFLY.

The b.u.t.terfly wished for a bride; and, as may be imagined, he wanted to select a very pretty one from among the flowers; therefore he threw a critical glance at all the flower-beds, and found that every flower sat quietly and demurely on her stalk, just as a maiden ought to sit, before she is engaged; but there were a great many of them, and the choice threatened to become wearisome. The b.u.t.terfly did not care to take much trouble, and consequently he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French call this floweret "Marguerite," and they know that Marguerite can prophecy, when lovers pluck off its leaves, and ask of every leaf they pluck some question concerning their lovers.

"Heartily? Painfully? Loves me much? A little? Not at all?" and so on.

Every one asks in his own language. The b.u.t.terfly came to Marguerite too, to inquire; but he did not pluck off her leaves: he kissed each of them, for he considered that most is to be done with kindness.

"Darling Marguerite daisy!" he said to her, "you are the wisest woman among the flowers. Pray, pray tell me, shall I get this one or that?

Which will be my bride? When I know that, I will directly fly to her, and propose for her."

But Marguerite did not answer him. She was angry that he had called her a "woman," when she was yet a girl; and there is a great difference. He asked for the second and for the third time, and when she remained dumb, and answered him not a word, he would wait no longer, but flew away to begin his wooing at once.

It was in the beginning of spring; the crocus and the snowdrop were blooming around.

"They are very pretty," thought the b.u.t.terfly. "Charming little la.s.ses, but a little too much of the schoolgirl about them." Like all young lads, he looked out for the elder girls.

Then he flew of to the anemones. These were a little too bitter for his taste; the violet somewhat too sentimental; the lime blossoms were too small, and, moreover, they had too many relations; the apple blossoms--they looked like roses, but they bloomed to-day, to fall off to-morrow, to fall beneath the first wind that blew; and he thought that a marriage with them would last too short a time. The pease blossom pleased him best of all: she was white and red, and graceful and delicate, and belonged to the domestic maidens who look well, and at the same time are useful in the kitchen. He was just about to make his offer, when close by the maiden he saw a pod at whose end hung a withered flower.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"That is my sister," replied the Pease Blossom.

"Oh, indeed; and you will get to look like her!" he said. And away he flew, for he felt quite shocked.

The honeysuckle hung forth blooming from the hedge, but there was a number of girls like that, with long faces and sallow complexions. No, he did not like her.

But which one did he like?

The spring went by, and the summer drew towards its close; it was autumn, but he was still undecided.

And now the flowers appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but in vain; they had not the fresh fragrant air of youth. But the heart demands fragrance, even when it is no longer young, and there is very little of that to be found among the dahlias and dry chrysanthemums, therefore the b.u.t.terfly turned to the mint on the ground.

You see this plant has no blossom; but indeed it is blossom all over, full of fragrance from head to foot, with flower scent in every leaf.

"I shall take her," said the b.u.t.terfly.

And he made an offer for her.

But the mint stood silent and stiff, listening to him. At last she said,

"Friendship, if you please; but nothing more. I am old, and you are old, but we may very well live for one another; but as to marrying--no--don't let us appear ridiculous at our age."

And thus it happened that the b.u.t.terfly had no wife at all. He had been too long choosing, and that is a bad plan. So the b.u.t.terfly became what we call an old bachelor.