Her room could keep her no longer; out she had to fly into this new splendor, the night splendor.
"The good Lord will take care of me," she thought, "I am not bent upon wrong."
As she was about to fly off through the silver light to her favorite meadow, now lying full under the moon, she saw a winged creature alight on a beech-tree leaf not far away. Scarcely alighted, it raised its head to the moon, lifted its narrow wings, and drew the edge of one against the other, for all the world as though it were playing on a violin. And sure enough, the sound came, the silvery chirp that filled the whole moonlit world with melody.
"Exquisite," whispered Maya, "heavenly, heavenly, heavenly."
She flew over to the leaf. The night was so mild and warm that she did not notice it was cooler than by day. When she touched the leaf, the chirper broke off playing abruptly, and to Maya it seemed as if there had never been such a stillness before, so profound was the hush that followed. It was uncanny. Through the dark leaves filtered the light, white and cool.
"Good night," said Maya, politely, thinking "good night" was the greeting for the night like "good morning" for the morning.
"Please excuse me for interrupting, but the music you make is so fascinating that I had to find out where it came from."
The chirper stared at Maya, wide-eyed.
"What sort of a crawling creature are you?" it asked after some moments had pa.s.sed. "I have never met one like you before."
"I am not a crawling insect. I am Maya, of the nation of bees."
"Oh, of the nation of bees. Indeed ... you live by day, don"t you? I have heard of your race from the hedgehog. He told me that in the evening he eats the dead bodies that are thrown out of your hive."
"Yes," said Maya, with a faint chill of apprehension, "that"s so; Ca.s.sandra told me about him; she heard of him from the sentinels. He comes when twilight falls and snouts in the gra.s.s looking for dead bodies.-- But do you a.s.sociate with the hedgehog? Why, he"s an awful brute."
"I don"t think so. We tree-crickets get along with him splendidly. We call him Uncle. Of course he always tries to catch us, but he never succeeds, so we have great fun teasing him. Everybody has to live, doesn"t he? Just so he doesn"t live off me, what do I care?"
Maya shook her head. She didn"t agree. But not caring to insult the cricket by contradicting, she changed the subject.
"So you"re a tree-cricket?"
"Yes, a snowy tree-cricket.-- But I must play, so please don"t keep me any longer. It"s full moon, a wonderful night. I must play."
"Oh, do make an exception this once. You play all the time.-- Tell me about the night."
"A midsummer night is the loveliest in the world," answered the cricket. "It fills the heart with rapture.-- But what my music doesn"t tell you I shan"t be able to explain. Why _need_ everything be explained? Why _know_ everything? We poor creatures can find out only the tiniest bit about existence. Yet we can _feel_ the glory of the whole wide world." And the cricket set up its happy silvery strumming. Heard from close by, where Maya sat, the music was overpowering in its loudness.
The little bee sat quite still in the blue summer night listening and musing deeply about life and creation.
Silence fell. There was a faint whirr, and Maya saw the cricket fly out into the moonlight.
"The night makes one feel sad," she reflected.
Her flowery meadow drew her now. She flew off.
At the edge of the brook stood the tall irises brokenly reflected in the running water. A glorious sight. The moonlight was whirled along in the braided current, the wavelets winked and whispered, the irises seemed to lean over asleep. "Asleep from sheer delight," thought the little bee. She dropped down on a blue petal in the full light of the moon and could not take her eyes from the living waters of the brook, the quivering flash, the flashing come and go of countless sparks. On the bank opposite, the birch-trees glittered as if hung with the stars.
"Where is all that water flowing to?" she wondered. "The cricket is right. We know so little about the world."
Of a sudden a fine little voice rose in song from the flower of an iris close beside her, ringing like a pure, clear bell, different from any earthly sound that Maya knew. Her heart throbbed, she held her breath.
"Oh, what is going to happen? What am I going to see now?"
The iris swayed gently. One of the petals curved in at the edge, and Maya saw a tiny snow-white human hand holding on to the flower"s rim with its wee little fingers. Then a small blond head arose, and then a delicate luminous body in white garments.
A human being in miniature was coming up out of the iris.
Words cannot tell Maya"s awe and rapture. She sat rigid.
The tiny being climbed to the edge of the blossom, lifted its arms up to the moonlight, and looked out into the bright shining night with a smile of bliss lighting up its face. Then a faint quiver shook its luminous body, and from its shoulders two wings unfolded, whiter than the moonlight, pure as snow, rising above its blond head and reaching down to its feet. How lovely it was, how exquisitely lovely. Nothing that Maya had ever seen compared with it in loveliness.
Standing there in the moonlight, holding its hands up to heaven, the luminous little being lifted its voice again and sang. The song rang out in the night, and Maya understood the words.
My home is Light. The crystal bowl Of Heaven"s blue, I love it so!
Both Death and Life will change, I know, But not my soul, my living soul.
My soul is that which breathes anew From all of loveliness and grace; And as it flows from G.o.d"s own face, It flows from His creations, too.
Maya burst into sobs. What it was that made her so sad and yet so happy, she could not have told.
The little human being turned around.
"Who is crying?" he asked in his chiming voice.
"It"s only me," stammered Maya. "Excuse me for interrupting you."
"But why are you crying?"
"I don"t know. Perhaps just because you are so beautiful. Who are you? Oh, do tell me, if I am not asking too much. You are an angel, aren"t you? You must be."
"Oh, no," said the little creature, quite serious. "I am only a sprite, a flower-sprite.-- But, dear little bee, what are you doing out here in the meadow so late at night?"
The sprite flew over to a curving iris blade beside Maya and regarded her long and kindly from his swaying perch in the moonlight.
Maya told him all about herself, what she had done, what she knew, and what she longed for. And while she spoke, his eyes never left her, those large dark eyes glowing in the white fairy face under the golden hair that ever and anon shone like silver in the moonlight.
When she finished he stroked her head and looked at her so warmly and lovingly that the little bee, beside herself with joy, had to lower her gaze.
"We sprites," he explained, "live seven nights, but we must stay in the flower in which we are born, else we die at dawn."
Maya opened her eyes wide in terror.
"Then hurry, hurry! Fly back into your flower!"
The, sprite shook his head sadly.
"Too late.-- But listen. I have more to tell you. Most of us sprites are glad to leave our flowers never to return, because a great happiness is connected with our leaving. We are endowed with a remarkable power: before we die, we can fulfill the dearest wish of the first creature we meet. It is when we make up our minds seriously to leave the flower for the purpose of making someone happy that our wings grow."
"How wonderful!" cried Maya. "I"d leave the flower too, then. It must be lovely to fulfill another person"s wish." That _she_ was the first being whom the sprite on his flight from the flower had met, did not occur to her. "And then--must you die?"
The sprite nodded, but not sadly this time.
"We live to see the dawn still," he said, "but when the dew falls, we are drawn into the fine cobwebby veils that float above the gra.s.s and the flowers of the meadows. Haven"t you often noticed that the veils shine white as though a light were inside them? It"s the sprites, their wings and their garments.