You are to know that old Felice"s devotion to Pet.i.t-Poulain was human in its tenderness. As readily, as gladly, and as surely as your dear mother would lay down her life for you would old Felice have yielded up her life for her innocent, blithe darling. So old Felice was happy that pleasant time in that fair country, and Pet.i.t-Poulain waxed hale and evermore blithe and beautiful.
Happy days, too, were those for that peaceful country and the other dwellers therein. There was no thought of evil there; the seasons were propitious, the vineyards thrived, the crops were bountiful; as far as eye could see all was prosperity and contentment. But one day the holy Father Francois came hurrying down the road, and it was too evident that he brought evil tidings. Felice thought it very strange that he paid no heed to her when, as was her wont, she thrust her nose through the hedge and gave a mild whinny of welcome. Anon she saw that he talked long and earnestly with her master Jacques, and presently she saw that Jacques went into the cottage and came again therefrom with his wife Justine and kissed her, and then went away with Pere Francois toward the town off yonder. Felice saw that Justine was weeping, and with never a suspicion of impending evil, she wondered why Justine should weep when all was so prosperous and bright and fair and happy about her. Felice saw and wondered, and meanwhile Pet.i.t-Poulain scampered gayly about that velvety paddock.
That night the vineyard hills, bathed in the mellow grace of moonlight, saw a sight they had never seen before. From the east an army came riding and marching on,--an army of strange, determined men, speaking a language before unheard in that fair country and threatening things of which that peaceful valley had never dreamed. You and I, of course, know that these were the Germans advancing upon France,--a nation of immortals eager to destroy the possessions and the human lives of fellow-immortals! But old Felice, hearing the din away off yonder,--the unwonted noise of cavalry and infantry advancing with murderous intent,--she did not understand it all, she did not even suspect the truth. You cannot wonder, for what should a soulless beast know of the n.o.ble, the human privilege of human slaughter? Old Felice heard that strange din, and instinct led her to coax her little colt from the pleasant paddock into that snug and secure retreat, the thatched stable, and there, in the early morning, they found her, Pet.i.t-Poulain pulling eagerly at her generous dugs.
Those who came riding up were strangers in those parts; they were ominously accoutred and they spoke words that old Felice had never heard before. Yes, as you have already guessed, they were German cavalry-men. A battle was impending, and they needed more horses.
"Old enough; but in lieu of a better, she will do." That was what they said. They approached her carefully, for they suspected that she might be vicious. Poor old Felice, she had never harmed even the flies that pestered her. "They are going to put me at the plough," she thought.
"It is a long time since I did work of any kind,--nothing, in fact, since Pet.i.t-Poulain was born. Poor Pet.i.t-Poulain will miss me; but I will soon return." With these thoughts she turned her head fondly and caressed her pretty colt.
"The colt must be tied in the stall or he will follow her." So said the cavalrymen. They threw a rope about his neck and made him fast in the stable. Pet.i.t-Poulain was very much surprised, and he remonstrated vainly with his fierce little heels.
They put a halter upon old Felice. Justine, the farmer"s wife, met them in the yard, and reproached them wildly in French. They laughed boisterously, and answered her in German. Then they rode away, leading old Felice, who kept turning her head and whinnying pathetically, for she was thinking of Pet.i.t-Poulain.
Of peace I know and can speak,--of peace, with its solace of love, plenty, honor, fame, happiness, and its pathetic tragedy of poverty, heartache, disappointment, tears, bereavement. Of war I know nothing, and never shall know; it is not in my heart of for my hand to break that law which G.o.d enjoined from Sinai and Christ confirmed in Galilee.
I do not know of war, nor can I tell you of that battle which men with immortal souls fought one glorious day in a fertile country with vineyard hills all round about. But when night fell there was desolation everywhere and death. The Eden was a wilderness; the winding river was choked with mangled corpses; sh.e.l.l and shot had mowed down the acres of waving grain, the exuberant orchards, the gardens and the hedgerows; black, charred ruins, gaunt and ghostlike, marked the spots where homes had stood. The vines had been cut and torn away, and the despoiled hills seemed to crouch down like bereaved mothers under the pitiless gaze of the myriad eyes of heaven.
The victors went their way; a greater triumph was in store for them; a mighty capital was to be besieged; more homes were to be desolated,--more blood shed, more hearts broken. So the victors went their way, their hands red and their immortal souls elated.
In the early dawn a horse came galloping homeward. It is Felice, old Felice, riderless, splashed with mud, wild-eyed, sore with fatigue!
Felice, Felice, what horrors hast thou not seen! If thou couldst speak, if that tongue of thine could be loosed, what would it say of those who, forgetful of their souls, sink lower than the soulless brutes! Better it is thou canst not speak; the anguish in thine eyes, the despair in thy honest heart, the fear, the awful fear in thy mother breast,--what tongue could utter them?
Adown the road she galloped,--the same road she had traversed, perhaps, a thousand times before, yet it was so changed now she hardly knew it.
Twenty-four hours had ruthlessly levelled the n.o.ble trees, the hedgerows, and the fields of grain. Twenty-four hours of battle had done all this and more. In all those ghastly hours, one thought had haunted Felice; one thought alone,--the thought of Pet.i.t-Poulain! She pictured him tied in that far-away stall, wondering why she did not come. He was hungry, she knew; her dugs were full of milk and they pained her; how sweet would be her relief when her Pet.i.t-Poulain broke his long fast. Pet.i.t-Poulain, Pet.i.t-Poulain, Pet.i.t-Poulain,--this one thought and this alone had old Felice throughout those hours of battle and of horror.
Could this have been the farm-house? It was a ruin now. Sh.e.l.ls had torn it apart. Where was the good master Jacques; had he gone with the cure to the defence of the town? And Justine,--where was she? Bullets had cut away the rose-trees and the smoke-bush; the garden was no more.
The havoc, the desolation, was complete. The cote, which had surmounted the pole around which an ivy twined, had been swept away.
The pigeons now circled here and there bewildered; wondering, perhaps, why Justine did not come and call to them and feed them.
To this seared, scarred spot came old Felice. He that had ridden her into battle lay with his face downward near those distant vineyard hills. His blood had stained Felice"s neck; a bullet had grazed her flank, but that was a slight wound,--riderless, she turned and came from the battle-field and sought her Pet.i.t-Poulain once again.
Hard by the ruins of cottage, of garden, and of cote, she came up standing; she was steaming and breathless. She rolled her eyes wildly around,--she looked for the stable where she had left Pet.i.t-Poulain.
She trembled as if an overwhelming apprehension of disaster suddenly possessed her. She gave a whinny, pathetic in its tenderness. She was calling Pet.i.t-Poulain. But there was no answer.
Pet.i.t-Poulain lay dead in the ruins of the stable. His shelter had not escaped the fury of the battle. He could not run away, for they had tied him fast when they carried his old mother off. So now he lay amid that debris, his eyes half open in death and his legs stretched out stark and stiff.
And old Felice,--her udder bursting with the maternal grace he never again should know, and her heart breaking with the agony of sudden and awful bereavement,--she staggered, as if blinded by despair, toward that vestige of her love, and bent over him and caressed her Pet.i.t-Poulain.
THE RIVER
Once upon a time a little boy came, during his play, to the bank of a river. The waters of the river were very dark and wild, and there was so black a cloud over the river that the little boy could not see the further sh.o.r.e. An icy wind came up from the cloud and chilled the little boy, and he trembled with cold and fear as the wind smote his cheeks and ran its slender icicle fingers through his yellow curls. An old man sat on the bank of the river; he was very, very old; his head and shoulders were covered with a black mantle; and his beard was white as snow.
"Will you come with me, little boy?" asked the old man.
"Where?" inquired the little boy.
"To yonder sh.o.r.e," replied the old man.
"Oh, no; not to that dark sh.o.r.e," said the little boy. "I should be afraid to go."
"But think of the sunlight always there," said the old man, "the birds and flowers; and remember there is no pain, nor anything of that kind to vex you."
The little boy looked and saw the dark cloud hanging over the waters, and he felt the cold wind come up from the river; moreover, the sight of the strange man terrified him. So, hearing his mother calling him, the little boy ran back to his home, leaving the old man by the river alone.
Many years after that time the little boy came again to the river; but he was not a little boy now,--he was a big, strong man.
"The river is the same," said he; "the wind is the same cold, cutting wind of ice, and the same black cloud obscures yonder sh.o.r.e. I wonder where the strange old man can be."
"I am he," said a solemn voice.
The man turned and looked on him who spoke, and he saw a warrior clad in black armor and wielding an iron sword.
"No, you are not he!" cried the man. "You are a warrior come to do me harm."
"I am indeed a warrior," said the other. "Come with me across the river."
"No," replied the man, "I will not go with you. Hark, I hear the voices of my wife and children calling to me,--I will return to them!"
The warrior strove to hold him fast and bear him across the river to the yonder sh.o.r.e, but the man prevailed against him and returned to his wife and little ones, and the warrior was left upon the river-bank.
Then many years went by and the strong man became old and feeble. He found no pleasure in the world, for he was weary of living. His wife and children were dead, and the old man was alone. So one day in those years he came to the bank of the river for the third time, and he saw that the waters had become quiet and that the wind which came up from the river was warm and gentle and smelled of flowers; there was no dark cloud overhanging the yonder sh.o.r.e, but in its place was a golden mist through which the old man could see people walking on the yonder sh.o.r.e and stretching out their hands to him, and he could hear them calling him by name. Then he knew they were the voices of his dear ones.
"I am weary and lonesome," cried the old man. "All have gone before me: father, mother, wife, children,--all whom I have loved. I see them and hear them on yonder sh.o.r.e, but who will bear me to them?"
Then a spirit came in answer to this cry. But the spirit was not a strange old man nor yet an armored warrior; but as he came to the river"s bank that day he was a gentle angel, clad in white; his face was very beautiful, and there was divine tenderness in his eyes.
"Rest thy head upon my bosom," said the angel, "and I will bear thee across the river to those who call thee."
So, with the sweet peace of a little child sinking to his slumbers, the old man drooped in the arms of the angel and was borne across the river to those who stood upon the yonder sh.o.r.e and called.
FRANZ ABT
Many years ago a young composer was sitting in a garden. All around bloomed beautiful roses, and through the gentle evening air the swallows flitted, twittering cheerily. The young composer neither saw the roses nor heard the evening music of the swallows; his heart was full of sadness and his eyes were bent wearily upon the earth before him.
"Why," said the young composer, with a sigh, "should I be doomed to all this bitter disappointment? Learning seems vain, patience is mocked,--fame is as far from me as ever."
The roses heard his complaint. They bent closer to him and whispered, "Listen to us,--listen to us." And the swallows heard him, too, and they flitted nearer him; and they, too, twittered, "Listen to us,--listen to us." But the young composer was in no mood to be beguiled by the whisperings of the roses and the twitterings of the birds; with a heavy heart and sighing bitterly he arose and went his way.
It came to pa.s.s that many times after that the young composer came at evening and sat in the garden where the roses bloomed and the swallows twittered; his heart was always full of disappointment, and often he cried out in anguish against the cruelty of fame that it came not to him. And each time the roses bent closer to him, and the swallows flew lower, and there in the garden the sweet flowers and little birds cried, "Listen to us,--listen to us, and we will help you."
And one evening the young composer, hearing their gentle pleadings, smiled sadly, and said: "Yes, I will listen to you. What have you to say, pretty roses?"