Chapter 6

The day before her death, a company of people passed by her, bearing in their hands some rare and fragrant blossoms, to which she felt a strange attraction. This gave place to a deep thrill of sorrow as she heard them describe the lovely plant which grew in a beautiful garden, and which by their description she knew was her own home, which she in her folly had left.

"Had I but accepted the conditions of growth, I too might have been a lovely plant, giving and receiving pleasure," she said, after the people had passed on. "But now, alas!" and her breath grew quick and short, "if I had only some one to profit by my last words, telling of my life of folly, I might not have lived wholly in vain." But there was nothing about her which she could discern save a tuft of moss upon the cold, hard rock which must now be her death-bed.

But behind the rock, on the south side, there was growing a family of wild daisies, who were going to migrate to a warmer part of the country to plant their seeds before the winter came on. This was one of the conditions which Providence ever has around the most seemingly deserted and desolate, that her words might not only profit them, but that they could convey the benefit of them to all wayward seeds who were unwilling to accept the natural conditions of growth. And thus the seed, though dying with its mission unfulfilled, did not live wholly in vain; for its wasted life saved others from a similar fate.

XXI.

ONLY GOLD.

A parent sent his children forth one day into a fertile land to gather fruits, flowers, and whatever was beautiful to adorn their homes. They wandered till nightfall, gathering their treasures, while their joyous laughter filled the air, and made music to the listening laborers in the fields.

Just as the shadows of evening came on they approached an open field: it was barren of verdure, but the ground was covered with golden stones, which glittered strangely in the setting sun. They gathered as many as they could with their other treasures, and then all but one of the group began to prepare for home, while he lingered, eager to gather the shining pebbles.

"We must return," they all said in chorus to him. They disliked to leave without him; but darkness was fast coming on, and they must obey their parents' command and return before the shades of evening had covered the earth. One voice after another died away on the air as they pleaded vainly for him to go with them, but he heeded them not: the golden stones were far more precious in his eyes than kindred, home, or friends; and they departed sorrowfully without him, while he remained and added stone to stone, till he was obliged at last, from exhaustion, to lie down on the damp ground.

It was not like his warm bed in his pleasant home; and he missed the cheerful voices of his brothers, and more than all his parents' fond goodnight, after the evening prayer. He slept; but his dreams were wild and feverish, and there was no atmosphere of love about him to soothe the weary brain.

The next day at noon his parents sent a messenger to him, bidding him return. But the love of his golden stones was paramount to the wishes of kindred, and the unnumbered comforts of a happy home; and his reply to the messenger was, "I will return, when I have enough of these," pointing to a large collection which was already higher than his head. At nightfall hunger seized him. He felt too weary to go in search of food, but the demand of nature asserted its claim, and he dragged himself to a field near by, where grew berries and fruits in abundance. His spirits rose after the cravings of hunger were satisfied, and he lay down again by his precious pile of stones.

The days glided into weeks, and still he fed upon the berries and gathered the golden pebbles. His father had ceased to send messengers to him, knowing that nothing but a long experience would teach his child the value of life's many blessings, and that gold _alone_ has no power to bless us. The father suffered much in knowing and realizing that his son must learn the truths of life through such severe lessons; but wisdom told him it could not be otherwise.

The chill air of autumn came, and no longer could the fruits and berries ripen for him. He saw some laborers one day in a field near by, eating their meal which they had brought from their homes. Oh; what would he not now give for some of their meat and bread! "I will go to them," he said, "and offer some of my golden stores in exchange for just a few morsels."

He did so; and they only smiled at his offer, saying, "What would then refresh and fit us for the rest of our day's labor? Surely your gold would not."

"But it would help you to buy more," he replied.

"Yes, to-morrow: but we cannot spare a morsel to-day, for we need all our supply to strengthen us for our work."

He turned away in deep thought. Was he not losing all of life's joys and comforts in living thus alone only to amass such quantities of gold? But as he looked again on the shining treasures his ambition arose with increased power; and he forgot, for a time, his hunger in his toil. Then a new thought came to him. "Now that the fruits are gone I can go to the forest and gather nuts. They will be better food, too, for these chilly autumn days. Surely I am provided for, at least till winter," and he left his labor and repaired to the woods, where he feasted and gathered enough for many days.

The household mourned much for their absent brother. They missed him in their daily joys, and every hour they watched, waited, and hoped to see him return. They almost rejoiced when the bleak winds of autumn swept the foliage from the trees, because they could look farther down the road for their brother.

"I shall soon be able to travel and see the world," said the youth to himself every day as the pile of gold grew higher; but, alas for human calculation! he awoke one morning to find his huge mountain of gold one solid mass. The action of the light, heat, and atmosphere had fused them together, and no exertion of his could break off even the smallest atom.

Must he return with not even one golden pebble? for he had gathered them all--not one was in sight, no more were to be found.

His golden dream of travel was over, and, worse, the freshness and buoyancy of youth had departed. His limbs, alas! were stiff and sore. He had a mountain of gold, not one atom of which he could use for himself or others. And now he must return to his father's house empty-handed, and void of truths or incidents to relate to his brothers.

But some kind angel led him home, where his blessings were yet in store, awaiting his return. One evening when the shadows crept over the earth, he walked up the well-known path. The brothers had long before ceased to watch for his coming; and great was their surprise to see him again among them, although not the brother of that happy, sunny day of long ago. He told them sadly of the result of his long toil, while they related to him the good results of their few golden pebbles, which they brought home, and with which their father had purchased land, which was now yielding them rich returns, aside from the health and pleasure which they derived from its culture, the labor of which they performed with their own hands. "Health, wealth, and happiness combined," he murmured sadly, as he felt keenly that his youth and opportunities had departed.

Are there not too many who seek for gold alone, forgetting the joys which it purchases, and forgetting that its possession alone has no value? Rightly acquired and used it alleviates and mediates, but gathered and amassed for itself only it is but a mountain of shining ore, valueless and unsatisfying to its possessor.

"Fool that I have been thus to waste my time and strength!" said the long-absent son that night as his father bade him welcome.

"If wisdom is purchased by the experience, it matters not how great the price," answered his parent.

"But I have lost my youth and my strength," responded the son.

"Which loss will be compensated by more thought and greater ability to labor mentally," said his parent consolingly.

In after years the youth who had wasted his bodily strength became a worker in words of cheer and hope to others, and hence he had not wholly lived in vain. He learned to love the angel Truth so well that she came to his side each day, and gave him sweet counsel and many lessons for mankind.

But he had purchased the light at a cost which few can afford to give.

XXII.

THE SACRIFICE.

A large party of travelers on their way to a distant country were obliged to pass through a dense forest to reach it. Their leader went forward, and, seeing the darkness of the dense woods, was convinced of the impossibility of his people going through it, without the aid of a light to guide them. He sat beside the mossy stones at the entrance, trying to devise some means by which to light up the darkness. There seemed but one way, and that almost hopeless, as it involved a sacrifice of life, and he knew too well the nature of the trees to expect any of them to give themselves up for his travelers. How could he ask it, as he stepped into the deep wood, and looked on their grand proportions and rich foliage? His was no enviable position to entreat them to give up the existence which must be dear to themselves,--to pass from the known to the unknown life.

Vainly he tried to think of another way to accomplish his purpose. None presented itself; so with glowing words he appealed to their nobler selves, telling them all the great need of the travelers who were obliged to pass that way. First he appealed to a fine birch which bordered the forest.

"Not I, indeed!" answered the tree. "Do you think I would give my life to light a few people through this woodland? I prefer to live a few years longer."

He next addressed a walnut. She shook a few leaves from her branches, and made a similar reply, preferring to live in her own form, and amid her sister trees, to going she knew not whither.

"Are there none here," he continued, "who are willing to sacrifice their lives for the needs of others?"

He looked around the forest in vain: all were silent, and he was about to return to the people, when a large and stately oak spoke in clear and ringing tones, saying, "I will give my body that the travelers may have light."

"What! that grand old body of yours, that has been so many years growing and maturing to its present stately and fair proportions!" exclaimed several of the trees.

"You are not only rash, but foolish," remarked a small fir growing by its side.

"Beside taking away the pride of our grand old forest," said a delicate birch, that had always admired the oak.

"Just throwing your life away," broke in a tall and rather sickly pine.

"When will you be ready for me?" asked the oak of the leader, who had stood admiring its beautiful proportions, and sorrowing within himself that it must be so.

At the close of the next day the travelers came to the edge of the forest, and tarried while their leader lit the fire at the roots of the oak. Now the flames went upward and flashed in the darkness; for it was evening, and not a star was visible. The flames rose upward and touched not even the bark of another tree, but wound closely around the oak, as though it knew its work and that the light of that tree only was needed to pass the travelers through in safety. It touched their hearts to thus witness that the life of the noble oak must be sacrificed, and they offered, with one accord, a silent prayer that its life might be extended in a higher form. Having passed through, they tarried at the end of the forest until the flames died away, and then pursued their journey.

* * * * *

Years passed away. From the pile of ashes left by the departed oak sprang lovely flowers, which charmed the eyes of all the trees in the forest, and atoned, in a great measure, for the loss of their noble companion.

After a brief period workmen were seen in the forest felling the trees.

"Ah!" exclaimed the old pine who had refused to give its life for the travelers, "I don't see as we have gained anything. If our life is to go, it might as well have gone by the fire as by the axe."

"Just so," answered the beach, "only if we had perished by the fire we might now be coming again into another form of life, as our oak seems to be, from that pile of dust and ashes; for see what lovely blossoms are coming forth from that unsightly heap of dust."

"I heard the workmen say that all these trees were to be cleared away, and houses erected on the land," remarked a trembling ash, and her leaves quivered beyond their wont with the terror of this new thought.

"And that will surely be the end of us," moaned the pine.

"Our happy life is all over now," said a small fir, who would have continued bemoaning their destiny had not her attention at that instant been arrested by two forms entering the forest. They went to the spot where once stood the brave oak, and gazed admiringly on the lovely tinted blossoms. They had heard of the sacrifice of the tree, and had come to gaze upon its resurrection.

"We will gather some for our festival to-night," they said, and stooped to pluck the fragrant blossoms.

The fire had not destroyed the consciousness of the oak: its soul was still alive, enjoying its new form of existence, and it sent forth thrills of gratitude, which took the form of sweetest odor, filling the air around with fragrance. "Instead of losing my life it is being extended, even as the good leader of the people said," were its words as the two departed, bearing the flowers, instinct with its oak life, away.

Many went to the forest while the workmen were there, to gather the seeds of the rare blossoms to plant in their gardens.

How much of human life did the soul of the oak learn as it went forth thus amid the throngs of people; and how it rejoiced that it had given its life for the good of others, knowing not that greater bliss was in store for it! It was held in the hands of the aged; it crowned fair brows; it was carried to the bedside of the suffering; it was laid upon the caskets of the dead; it was planted by the door of the cottage and reared in the conservatories of the rich,--everywhere admired and welcomed. Was not this life indeed worth all the pain and heat of the flames, and the loss of its once statelier and loftier form?

It never sighed for its forest home, but often longed to know of the fate of its brother trees. One day a child, bearing in her hand one of its blossoms, wandered to the ground where once arose the tall trees. The eyes of the oak, through the flower, looked in vain for its kindred. None were standing. They had all been felled and their wood converted into dwellings,--a useful but less beautiful form of existence than that which the oak possessed,--and they learned, after a time, that it is only by apparent destruction that life can be reconstructed. But they could only have the experiences which came within the scope of their life; and the oak was more than ever satisfied with its own, and rejoiced that it had passed through the refining element, losing thereby only its grosser form. It filled the air with the fragrance of its gratitude. Whenever it wished to journey, the winds, who were its friends, conveyed its seeds to any portion of the earth it designated. Its blossoms were not only bright to the eye, and their odor sweet to the sense of smell, but the leaves of the plant were healing. Three forces connected it with human life: so that it was in constant action, and its highest joy lay in the consciousness of its increased usefulness.

XXIII.

STRANGERS.

In a large and elegant mansion dwelt a wealthy man who had three lovely daughters. The house was built on an eminence upon the banks of a river which wound like a thread of silver through the valleys for many miles. Afar from the mansion were a large number of cottages, in which dwelt carpenters, shipbuilders, gardeners, and some of every trade. Most of them were good and honest people, though tinged with the love of earthly gains, and many of them, too, often crushed many of the soul's finer and better emotions in the greedy love of material things. The owner of the mansion sorrowed over this failing of theirs, and, to rid them of it, devised a plan by which to give those who wished an opportunity to be led by their better nature, and forget, for the time, self and gain.

Accordingly, he told his daughters to deck themselves in their richest apparel and ornaments, which were rare and choice, and then to throw over the whole large and unsightly cloaks, so that the disguise might be perfect, and conceal all the splendor beneath. To each he gave a purse filled with gold to bestow upon the one who should welcome and give them shelter.

At evening he went forth with them to the narrow street, and bade them knock at the doors of the cottages, while he waited outside, and see who would admit and give food and shelter to travelers in need. They obeyed him, and first approached a dimly-lighted cottage. Making known their presence by a gentle rap, the door was opened by a woman of large and coarse features, whose eyes had no welcome in their rude stare. She scarcely waited for the words of the travelers to be spoken, ere she gruffly answered, "No: we have neither room nor food for beggars," and closed the door abruptly.

They applied next upon the opposite side, saying to the man who opened the door, "Can you feed and give shelter to three weary travelers?"

"We have no food to waste, and our home is scarcely large enough for ourselves," he replied, and quickly shut the door upon them.

The same answer came from all, and they turned to their parent, saying, "Shall we try any more?"

"There are but two more: try all; see if one at least can be found not wholly selfish; and, as you are not truly in need of their bounties, you can well afford to importune and be denied." He then guided his children to the end of the street.

"This one looks quite gay compared with the others," said the eldest of the daughters, as they all looked on the well-lit rooms, and beheld forms flitting to and fro within.

"We shall certainly be admitted here," said the others.

But the parent kept his council, and was invisible while they rapped at the door, which was opened by a bright and rather stylish-looking girl, who gazed wonderingly on the group.

"Can you give us shelter for a night, and a little food?" asked the eldest.

"Not we, indeed: we have just spent all our money for a merry-making for our brother Jack, who has just come home from sea. Not we: we have not one bit of room to spare; for all our friends are here."

"But we are weary, and ask rest and food," pleaded one of the three; and her eyes wandered to the well-filled tables.

"Yes: but what we have is for our company and ourselves--not for beggars," said the girl, and she closed the door upon them.

"Shall we try again, father?" they said to their parent.

"Just this one, which is the last," he answered, leading them to the door of a cot where dwelt a poor and lonely widow.

They paused at the threshold, for a voice was heard within, low and sweet; yet they heard the words of the kneeling form, in deep petition, saying, "Give me, O Father, my daily bread; forgive me my trespasses, and lead me not into temptation. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and forever. Amen."

She arose at that instant. A gentle knock was heard. Without delay she opened it, and smiled upon the strangers, who asked for more than she could give.

"I have shelter, but no food; yet enter and be welcome," she said, and opened wide the door.

They passed in, and left their parent, whom they knew would soon follow, outside.

"I grieve that I have no food to offer thee," said the woman, "but come to my fireside; for the evening air is chilly, and you must need rest."

She placed for them her only chairs beside the fire, saying, "I am glad you come to-night; for this is my last fuel, and to-morrow eve it will be all dark and chill within my dwelling."

The eldest bowed to the woman gracefully, and threw aside her cloak; and at once the others followed her example.

Great was the surprise of the widow. She thought her senses had departed, and, for an instant, had no voice, no words, naught but wonder beaming from her eyes, so sudden and great was the surprise. Another gentle rap at that instant seemed to help her to find herself, and she was hastening to open it, when the eldest one said, "It is our father, come to thank you for admitting angels in disguise; for, though not angels in form, we hope to prove such by our administration to your needs." And they laid upon her only table the purses of gold.

"He will ever give daily bread to those who forget not to entertain strangers," said their father to the widow, as they took their leave of one who had not refused to receive strangers.

The next morning there was great commotion in the neighborhood; for the widow had been seen to exchange gold for bread at one of the shops; but greater still was their surprise when she told them, as they flocked around her dwelling, that it was given by three strangers who had asked for bread and shelter the night before.

"Three strangers!" exclaimed they all. "They must be the same that called at our dwellings. What fools we were that we did not let them in!"

"Nay: it but shows how dead you were in sympathy for human need," spoke a voice among them, which, as they turned, they found to be that of the owner of the mansion.

Shame and confusion came over their faces; for he had long been their benefactor, both in words of counsel and deeds of kindness. Their eyes fell to the ground, as he in gentle tones chided them for their lack of kindness and want of faith in the Father's love. "He who giveth not in another's need shall receive none in his own," he continued; "and let the lesson taught you by the experience you have just had, and the example of the poor widow, last you through all the years of your life; for she refused not the strangers whom you turned from your doors the shelter which they apparently needed."

"But they were not cold and hungry," said one of the group.

"The demand upon your sympathies was just the same; for you knew not to the contrary," he answered, and they could not but feel the truth of his words.

The lesson was not lost; for in after years they grew less mercenary, more kindly of heart, and never again closed their doors to strangers asking aid.