Wreaths of Friendship Part 12

"There, in the stocks of trees, white fays do dwell, And span-long elves that dance about a pool."

Shakspeare, too, in several of his plays, makes us quite familiar with the fairy people. Shakspeare, you are aware, wrote in the time of Elizabeth, and as late as that period, there were thousands in England and Scotland in whose creed the existence of such a race of spirits was a very important article. It was not long, however, after this, before the superst.i.tion about the fairies--which, at the worst, was a very foolish affair--began to decline. But that decline brought a dark night to thousands of poor, innocent men and women; for then came the era of witchcraft, and persons of every rank, convicted of this imaginary crime, were hurried to the scaffold or the stake.

In the beginning of the seventeenth century, Dr. Corbett, Bishop of Oxford and Norwich, wrote a very humorous satire on the fairy superst.i.tion, called "The Fairies' Farewell, a proper new ballad to be sung or whistled to the tune of Meadow Brow." Perhaps I cannot better take leave of these very curious imaginary people, than to employ a couple of stanzas from the bishop's playful ballad:

"Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days, On many a gra.s.sy plain; But since of late Elizabeth, And later James came in, They never danced on any heath, As when the time hath been.

"By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession; Their songs were Ave Marias, Their dances were processions; But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas, Or further for religion fled, Or else they take their ease."

THE HERMIT.

A Traveler was once pa.s.sing through a great wilderness, in which he supposed no human being dwelt. But, while riding along in its gloomiest part, he was surprised to see a hermit, his face covered with a long beard, that hung down upon his breast, sitting on a stone at the entrance of what seemed a cave.

The hermit arose as the traveler drew up his horse, and speaking kindly to him, invited him to accept such refreshment as it was in his power to offer. The traveler did not refuse, but, dismounting, tied his horse to a tree, and, following the pious man, entered the narrow door of a little cave which nature had formed in the side of a mountain. All the hermit had to set before the traveler, was water from a pure stream that came merrily leaping down the hill side, and some wild fruit and nuts.

"Tell me," said the traveler, after he had eaten, "why a man with a sound body, such as you possess, and a sound mind, should hide away from his fellow-men, in a dreary wild like this?"

"For pious meditation and repentance," replied the hermit. "All is vanity in the world. Its beauties charm but to allure from heaven. And worse than this, it is full of evil. Turn where you will, pain, sorrow, and crime meet your eyes. But here, in the silence of nature, there is nothing to draw the mind from holy thoughts; there is no danger of falling into temptation. By pious meditation and prayer, we are purified and made fit for heaven."

"Not so," answered the traveler; "pious meditation and prayer are of no avail without good be done to our fellow-men. Piety is nothing without charity; and charity consists in willing well and doing well to our neighbors. 'And now abideth faith, hope, and charity,' says the Apostle, 'but the greatest of these is charity,' Hermit, you are not wise thus to retire from the midst of the busy world. Your service cannot be acceptable to G.o.d. Go back again among your fellow-men, and faithfully perform your real duties in life. Heal the sick, comfort the mourner, bind up the broken heart, and in the various walks of life do good to friend and enemy.

Without this, how can you hope in the judgment to hear the Lord say, 'As much as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me?'"

The hermit, at such unexpected words, bowed his head, and was silent. The traveler went on, and said--

"You have committed a common error, in supposing that in holy meditation, as it is called, there was any thing particularly pleasing to G.o.d. But reason will tell you why the widow's mite is more acceptable in heaven than the most pious thoughts of idle self-righteousness. Hermit! go back again into the world, and there act your part as a man in the great social body.

Only by this means will you be prepared to live and act in the great body of angels in heaven."

The hermit could not reply, but still sat with his head bowed to his bosom, and his eyes upon the ground. The words of the stranger fell with strokes of reproof upon his heart.

When the traveler returned that way, he sought for the hermit, but found him not at the door of his cave. He entered, but the place had been a long time deserted. The erring man had gone back into the world, and taken his place among his fellows. And he had done right. No man is wise who retires from society, and shuts himself up in the hope of becoming better through prayer and pious thoughts. Only by doing our duty to our fellow-men, in some particular pursuit in life, can we hope to grow better and wiser?

A PICTURE.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A PICTURE.]

What have we here? That kind-looking old gentleman must have something for these children; his hand is in his pocket, and they are all gathering around him. I wonder who he is, and what he is going to give them?

"He's their uncle, may be."

"Or their grandfather."

"Or somebody else that is kind to children."

No doubt of it in the world. He is some one who likes children, you may be sure. And I suppose he's got a pocket full of sugar-plums or nuts for his favorites. The little girl who has seized his cane, I rather think, will get the largest share; but I don't suppose her young companions will be at all displeased at this, for no doubt she is a very good girl, and beloved by all. Indeed, if we may judge by the faces of the children, not one of them will look at what the other receives, to see if he has not obtained the largest share.

This is not always so, however. I know some little boys and girls, who, when their parents, relatives, or friends give them cakes, candies, or playthings, immediately look from what they have themselves to what the others have received, and, if one thinks his share smaller or inferior, becomes dissatisfied, and, from a jealous and envious spirit, sacrifices his own pleasure and that of all the rest. Because there is a square inch more of cake in his brother's piece, that which he has doesn't taste good.

If he have one sugar-plum less than the others, they become tasteless, and he throws them all, perhaps, upon the floor.

How bad all this looks, and how very bad it really is! The friends of such children are never encouraged to make them presents. They rather avoid doing so; for they know that their greedy, envious, covetous spirit, will turn the good things they would offer them into causes of strife and unhappiness.

THE BOY AND THE ROBIN.

I.

So now, pretty robin, you've come to my door; I wonder you never have ventured before: 'Tis likely you thought I would do you some harm; But pray, sir, what cause have you seen for alarm?

II.

You seem to be timid--I'd like to know why-- Did I ever hurt you? What makes you so shy?

You shrewd little rogue, I've a mind, ere you go, To tell you a thing it concerns you to know.

III

You think I have never discovered your nest; 'Tis hid pretty snugly, it must be confessed.

Ha! ha! how the boughs are entwined all around!

No wonder you thought it would never be found.

IV.

You're as cunning a robin as ever I knew; And yet, ha! ha! ha! I'm as cunning as you!

I know all about your nice home on the tree--'Twas nonsense to try to conceal it from me.

V.

I know--for but yesterday I was your guest-- How many young robins there are in your nest; And pardon me, sir, if I venture to say, They've had not a morsel of dinner to-day.

VI.

But you look very sad, pretty robin, I see, As you glance o'er the meadow, to yonder green tree; I fear I have thoughtlessly given you pain, And I will not prattle so lightly again.

VII.

Go home, where your mate and your little ones dwell; Though I know where they are, yet I never will tell; n.o.body shall injure that leaf-covered nest, For sacred to me is the place of your rest.