In a garden there once grew a beautiful, blossoming thorn. When the spring came, for a fortnight it was always clothed with a robe of white blossoms. They seemed at once relics of winter and promises of summer.
It was as if Winter, in departing from the earth, had left behind a fragment of his snowy vestments; and Spring, touching them with her magic wand, had transformed them from snow-wreaths into wreaths of snowy blossoms. They were beautiful even in fading; and for many days after the whiteness had gone, they glowed into a delicate pink, and strewed the earth with silky petals when they fell. On this thorn, one spring, a little brown leaf-bud formed, at the foot of a green twig, the cradle of the green twigs of the next spring. But it happened that, as this brown leaf-bud watched the beauty of the flowers, it grew discontented with its destiny.
"Why am not I a flower-bud?" it murmured, inside its little brown casing. "That would be worth living for!--to fill the air with delicate fragrance, to be sung to by the birds, to be gathered by human hands as a treasure; or even to live unnoticed by any one, but only to be a flower!--a beautiful, fragrant creature, with a coat of many colours, and a crown of golden stamens, and with promise in its heart;--that would be worth living for! But to be a leaf-bud,--a brown, dark, hard leaf-bud!--it would be better to die at once."
And a discontented shiver ran through its veins; and all that summer it never cared to drink in sun or rain, but sat and shivered, and shrivelled on its stem, while all around it meek and happy buds were growing strong and full of life, nourished by the same rain and sunshine. And in the spring, when the white shower of snowy flowers came again on the thorn-tree, and the other leaf-buds had expanded into green twigs, waving and whispering in the breeze, with each a new bud at its feet, the envious and discontented bud had shrivelled and narrowed itself into a thorn, which pierced the hand of the child, as it reached up to gather the spray of fair white blossom.
In a field near this garden there grew a green shrub which at the top expanded into luxuriant branches, giving shade at mid-day to man and beast. But from the lower branches, instead of broad green leaves, grew long sharp spines. One summer day, these spines said to each other, in their short and broken speech, for they could not wave and rustle in the wind like the leaves,--
"We are not worthy to live on the same tree with the beautiful forest leaves which wave in the fresh air above us. We can make no refreshing sound as they do; we give no shade as they do to any creature; and we only p.r.i.c.k any one that tries to touch us. But it is very pleasant to us to be allowed to grow from the same trunk as they; and it is very kind of the sweet leaves to sing to us as if we belonged to them, and not to be ashamed of us. We are certainly most happily situated; so far beyond what we have any right to expect!"
But all the leaves rustled in a joyous chorus, and said, "You are our elder sisters, meek and useful spines! If it had not been for you, we should never have come into life at all, and man and beast would have had no shade from us. The hungry cattle would have eaten us before we unfolded, and our parent-tree would never have grown to what it is, had it not been for you, our faithful and patient guardians. If you had rebelled against the gracious hand that moulds us all, and which prevented your expanding into leaves, we should all have perished together long ago. We owe our life to you!" murmured the leaves.
And the rough spines quivered through all their faithful hearts at the words of the leaves.
Then the master pa.s.sed by, and he said: "Well done, my faithful spines!
you have done your work, and guarded my treasures well. But for you my trees would have had no leaves, and my fields no shade."
And the spines wondered, and rejoiced greatly; for they had never thought that, in meekly and contentedly bearing their rough lot, and being what they were meant to be, they were serving the master, and doing such good work for others.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Thorns are abortive leaf-buds. Spines are the lower leaves of plants metamorphosed into bristles, to guard the young tree from the attacks of cattle. This little parable was suggested by a pa.s.sage in "Modern Painters."
_Parables in Household Things._
The sick girl lay in her shaded room, in the street of a great city, and thought, "If I could only leave this prison of mine, and look at the beautiful world, I know I should grow happier and holier with every breath I drew. The th.o.r.n.y buds on the brown branches in spring would give me promise of resurrection; every b.u.t.terfly would tell me of life through death; every flower would lift my heart to Him who cares for our little pleasures; every bubbling spring would murmur to me of the living water; every corn-field and garden would repeat the sacred parables. But here I can see nothing of G.o.d"s making but the sky, and that is too high and far. I want some steps to take my feeble thoughts gently up to heaven. But around me are only manufactured things, which speak to me only of earth, and time, and man."
She leant back listlessly on her couch. Twilight came over the room, the glowing coals stirred quietly as they burned away, and then it seemed as if an angel"s hand touched her ears and opened them, for the dark and silent room became full of soft and soothing harmonies. All the mute and inanimate things about her found voices and spoke comfort to her heart.
Together they said,--"It is true we are only manufactured things; but do not despise us for that! We came originally, as much as you yourself, or the flowers, and the trees, and the sunbeams, from one Divine Hand. It is only that we have been trained and moulded by human hands to be what we are. And just so are you; G.o.d creates you, but life moulds you. Your trial and your training come like ours, mostly through human hands, although you are destined for higher places and more blessed services.
Listen to us, for we have messages for you, each one of us."
Then the stones from the wall said,--"We come from the mountains far away, from the sides of the craggy hills. Fire and water worked on us for ages, but only made us crags. Human hands have made us into a dwelling where the children of your immortal race are born, and suffer, and rejoice, and find rest and shelter, and learn the lessons set them by our Maker and yours. But we have pa.s.sed through much to fit us for this. Gunpowder has rent our very heart; pick-axes have cleaved and broken us, it seemed to us often without design or meaning, as we lay misshapen stones in the quarry; but gradually we were cut into blocks, and some of us were chiselled with finer instruments to a sharper edge.
But we are complete now, and are in our places, and are of service. You are in the quarry still, and not complete, and therefore to you, as once to us, much is inexplicable. But you are destined for a higher building, and one day you will be placed in it by hands not human; a living stone in a heavenly temple."
Then the gla.s.s water-beaker said,--"I was hard flint and waste sand on the desolate sea-sh.o.r.e once; but human hands gathered me, and fused me in furnaces heated seven times, and took me out to let me cool, and cast me in again, and shaped and cut me, till at last I carry your water from the spring, and am pressed with many a thankful glance to your parched lips. I am complete. But you, when you have pa.s.sed through your fires, will be a vessel of living water in a better hand, and bear many a draught of refreshment to weary and thirsty hearts."
"I also have been in many furnaces," said the china flower-vase. "The colours you so often admire in me have been burnt in slowly, stage by stage, every fresh colour requiring a fresh fusing in the furnace. But you, when your trial is over, shall carry flowers of Paradise and leaves from the tree of life for the healing of the nations."
"And I," said the clock, "am scarcely an individual being. I am a little world in myself--a wondrous combination of mechanism. Each of my wheels and springs, with my unwearied pendulum, has its own history of fires, and blows, and ruthless instruments. None of us could form the slightest idea, as we lay dismembered in our various workshops, what we were designed for. Only in combination with every other part, has any part of us any meaning. You are not a little world like me, but a fragment of a great world. When all that belong to you are gathered together, you will understand it all as we do now. And your voice will mark with joyous music the flight of blessed ages, which only lead to others more and more blessed throughout eternity."
"And I," said the bronze pastil-burner, "came from ages of darkness in the depths of the earth. Human hands brought me to the light, moulded and sculptured me, and set me here to burn sweet perfumes, and diffuse fragrance around me. But you will be an incense-bearer in a Temple by-and-by, and from you shall stream a fragrance of love and praise acceptable to G.o.d."
"The quarries were my birth-place also," said the alabaster night-lamp; "but you shall be a light-bearer, when your training is complete, of a light which is life, and which has no need of night, like my dim flame, to make it visible."
"I," sang the guitar, with the wooden frame and metallic strings, "am a twofold being. I lived and waved in the forest once; and then the woodman"s axe was laid on me, and I fell--I fell, and the life departed from me; and from a living, life-bearing tree, I became mere inanimate timber. More blows, more tearing with saws, more sharp cutting with knife and chisel, and I became melodious again, simply from being united with these metallic strings, which never had life, but lay silent in mines, till the hand of man woke them into music. And thus together we respond to your gentle touch, and soothe for you many a lonely hour.
Life from death, music through fires of trial: this is also your destiny. Hereafter every nerve of your tried and perfected being shall respond to the slightest touch of the Hand you love, filling heaven with happy music."
"As for me," said the pages of the hymn-book, "my discipline has, perhaps, been the severest of all. Once rustling in the flax-field, rejoicing in the dews and sunshine, I was torn, racked, twisted, and woven by many iron hands into linen. Then, for a time, treated carefully, decorated and treasured, and washed and perfumed, I was afterwards thrown scornfully away. Yet, even in that low estate, I found comfort. Even as a rag I bound up the wounds of suffering soldiers in a military hospital. But I was to sink lower yet. I was thrown into a mill, and pounded, crushed, and torn, till I was a mere shapeless pulp.
Yet from those depths my true life began. Process after process succeeded, till here, at last, I am to speak to you undying words of hope and love. And you also, one day, shall shine forth a living epistle, proclaiming to angels and to men for ever and for ever such words as speak to you from my pages now!"
The sick girl smiled, and was comforted. "Yet," she said, "the fires are fierce, the blows are heavy, the trial is long. The end is, indeed, well worth them all; but sometimes the end seems distant."
"Yes," responded the hymn-book; "my history resembles yours in one happy feature more than that of any of us besides. For even in your days of training you are of service. You may clothe cold limbs, and bind up many wounds even now, as I did when I was a poor linen-rag. And, more than that, even now, in your time of trial, the ministries you are destined for at last may be begun. Even now you may be a living epistle, a book wherein many may read lessons of hope and patience, and sing praises, as they look on you, as you do when you look on me."
"Yes," responded the stones; "even now you are a living stone. The temple you are to form is building even now."
And the pastil-burner:--"Even now your prayers and praises may rise like sweet incense."
And the water-gla.s.s:--"Many a draught of living water may you carry, even now, in the dry and thirsty land, to hearts that need it."
And the night-lamp:--"Even now in the night, thou, child of the day, sheddest light around thee--a little light, it may be, in a narrow circle, yet though, thou mayest not know it, cheering and guiding not a few, even now."
And the guitar:--"Many a strain of thankful song has come from the depths of your heart, even now, in these your days of trial, to blend with my harmonies, and to soar to regions which my poor metallic music can never reach!"
And all the mute things sang together--"We are complete, and rejoice to serve you, vessels meet for your using. One day you also shall be perfected, a vessel meet for the Master"s use. And then He will take you into His house, unto the temple which is a home, and your home for ever.
Like us, when you are perfected, you shall serve; but, unlike us, even whilst you are being perfected, you may serve!"
Then the sufferer turned over the leaves of another Book, and saw how the Master had written His parables, not in streams and corn-fields, and birds and flowers, and fruitful earth, and starry sky alone, but in common household things, and common human ties. And henceforth, not nature only, but every-day cares, and duties, and relationships, and all things around her, became for her illuminated with the lessons of His love.
"_Things Using Us._"
It was my first visit from a home full of children, and not too full of Things, to a house where there were no children, and where the Things were in the greatest abundance and the completest preservation. Gardens and hot-houses without a broken stem; flowers evidently never gathered except by strictly authorized hands. Rooms studded fearlessly with ornaments from all ends of the earth and all kingdoms of nature; stuffed birds in domed gla.s.s sepulchres, wonderful to me, and unlife-like as the Tomb cities of Egypt; delicate fragile porcelain, and exquisite statuettes, evidently needing no protection from little investigating fingers; carpets needing no protection from little stirring feet.
Gradually there settled down on me an awe-stricken sense of being perpetually watched with anxious solicitude, and of having to walk mentally, morally, and corporeally quite upright in the middle of all clear s.p.a.ces, so as not to interfere with any of the sacred Things wherewith I was surrounded; until, finally, came the retiring to rest on an ancient damask-curtained bed, in a stately, solemn chamber, with a heavy consciousness of being like an insignificant, and, at the same time, rather dangerous fly in a world constructed with no reference to flies,--a crushing conviction of _having_ nothing, and consequently _being_ nothing in a universe of Things,--a mingled feeling of responsibility and insignificance culminating in a depressed apprehension of accountability to the lords and possessors of this universe of possessions, who thus graciously suffered an extraneous atom endowed with a perilous power of motion to enter it.
All this came to a climax when the housekeeper, who had herself, in some dim traditional past, watched over the slumbers of children now developed into the guardians of similar shrines, "tucked me up" and left me alone with the Things.
Ah, the mockery of that "tucking up" in the vast s.p.a.ces of a bed which reckoned its chronology by centuries! She might as well have talked of "tucking up" a mouse under the dome of St. Paul"s.
Visions of a cozy crib at home, flanked by sundry other cribs and cradles, and soothed by a dim murmur of nurses" voices through the half-open door, came tenderly over me, with a wonder how it looked that evening to the two loving faces which bent over it every night. But the very thought of those faces broke the icy spell which had been freezing me, and seemed to fold me up to sleep.
Then, all at once, from all corners of the antique room, came the strangest chucklings and gurglings of half-suppressed laughter; and the fire in the vast old chimney began to make the most uncouth caperings and flickerings, as if it were dancing to some wild elfish music.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the little Dresden china Cupids around the toilet-gla.s.s (and that they should laugh might not seem so strange); but the solemn old bed itself chuckled a fat "Ho! ho! ho!" until its heavy draperies shook again; the very tongs held its sides for laughing; and the little modern poker, which did all the work, screamed a plebeian "He! he! he!" in response.
"We shall never recover it!" they all laughed in chorus. "This child is making the old mistake! She thinks _we_ belong to the _people_ of the house! She thinks it is _they_ who use _us_, instead of their belonging to us, and our using them!"