Chapter 2

"Oh, dear!" said a voice; and the little boy could not tell whether it was the fish, or the tomtit scolding on the elder bush. "Dear me!" came the voice again; and the little fish sighed, making a bubble on the top of the water, and rings that grew and grew till they reached the other bank.

"What's the matter?" asked Boy Blue.

"I'd like a new play and new playmates," sighed the fish. "I'm so tired of the old ones!"

"Oh," said the boy, and was just about to ask, "Would I do?" when there came floating along in the air a beautiful butterfly, floating, floating like a ship in full sail.

"Oh!" cried the fish, "how beautiful! how beautiful! Come let us play together--let us play."

The butterfly rested on a thistle bloom and stirred her pale wings thoughtfully. "Play?" she said.

"Yes, let us play. How beautiful thou art!"

"And thou!" said the butterfly; "all the shine of the sun and sea gleams in thy armor. Let us play together."

"Let us play."

"Come then," said the butterfly; "come up into the fresh morning air and the sunlight, where everything smiles this sweet May day."

"There?" cried the fish; "I would die there; I would die! There is no life for me in your sunshine world. But come with me into this glittering stream; here swimming against the swift current is strong life. Come, let us play here."

But the butterfly trembled. "There?" she cried; "if I touched one single little wave I should be swept out and away forever. There is no life for me in the glittering stream."

They looked across at each other.

"But see," said the butterfly, "I will come as near as I dare to your water world;" and she spread her beautiful wings and floated down to the edge of the water. The fish with a great stroke swam toward her. But they could only touch the same bit of earth, and the waves always bore him back.

"Ah," he cried at last, "it is useless! we cannot play together."

"Ah," wept the butterfly, "we cannot play together."

"Boy Blue," said the farmer, brushing aside the long grass, "you were asleep."

"Asleep!" said the little boy, jumping up; "I couldn't have been. I heard every word the fish and the butterfly said."

The indescribable-- Here it is done; The woman soul Leadeth us upward and on.

--_From Goethe's "Faust."_

HOW MARGARET LED FAUST THROUGH THE PERFECT WORLD.

There was once a very great man who understood all of the most mysterious things in the world. He knew quite perfectly how spiders spun and how the firefly kept his lantern burning. All of these marvelous things were plain to him, for he had read everything that had been written in books, and he had spent his whole life searching and peering through a strange glass at the most wonderful small things. Always and always he was thinking in his heart, "When I know _everything_ then I shall be content, surely!"

So he went on searching and looking and reading, night and day, in his dim room. Always he was growing older and wearier, but he did not think of that; he only knew that the strange longing was growing in his heart, and that he was never any happier than before. But he would say to himself, "It is because there is something I have not learned. When I know everything, then surely the joy will come to me."

One night he shut his book and laid aside the strange glass, and sat quite still in the dim room. He had found that there was nothing more to be learned; there was nothing of all the mysteries that he did not know perfectly.

And behold, the longing was still in his heart, and no gladness came. He only felt how weary and old he was. He thought: "There _is_ no joy in the world; there is nothing good and perfect in the whole world!" He closed his tired eyes and leaned his head back. The lamp burned low, and the place was very still for a long time. And then there suddenly broke the most beautiful music right under his window; children were singing, and men and women, and above it all bells were ringing--wonderful, joyous bells.

"Can it be," said the old man--"can it be that anyone is really joyful in the world?" He rose up and went to the window, and thrust back the great curtain.

And lo! it was morning!

The most beautiful, shining morning; people were pouring out of all the houses, smiling and singing, and bowing to one another; little children were going together with flowers in their hands, singing, and answering the tones of the great bells; and one little child, as it passed, looked right up at the great Doctor Faust, and held out its white lily. The bells chimed, and the singing grew sweeter and clearer.

"If there is something joyful in the world, surely some one will tell me," said the man; and he went out into the morning.

It had rained in the night; there were pools in the street, and the leaves glistened. "How bright the light is!" he thought, and "how strange the flowers look blooming in the sun!" But the birds flew away when he came, and this made the strange longing in the lonely man's heart grow into pain. So he stepped back in the shadow and looked into all the happy faces as they passed, and listened to the singing.

But no one stopped to tell him anything. They were so full of joy that they did not feel his touch, and his words when he spoke were swept right up into the song and the pealing of the joy-bells.

Girls in white veils, with stalks of the most beautiful lilies in their hands, passed him in a long line, and the boys came after, in new clothes, and shoes that squeaked. But he only saw their shining, upturned faces. They were so beautiful as they sang, that tears stood in the smiling eyes of all the fathers and mothers and neighbors who followed after. Little children holding each other's hands went together, and one little one had a queer woolly lamb on wheels trundling behind him.

"Can it be," said the old man, "that there is a deep joy in the world? will no one tell me?" And he turned and went with the people; and after awhile he met a young girl.

She was not singing, but the most beautiful light shone from her face; so he knew she was thinking of the deep joy, and he asked her what it was, and why the people were glad.

She looked at him with loving wonder, and then she told him it was Easter morning, when everything in the wide world remembers fully that the joy can never die. "It is here always," she told him.

"Always?" said the old man; and he shook his head sadly.

"Always," she said; and she took his hand and led him out of the throng into the most beautiful ways. He did not know that in the whole world there were such wonderful grassy lanes. Why, there were hedges with star-flowers here and there; apple trees were blooming, and between the cottages there were gardens where seed had sprung up in rows.

In some of the houses people were going about their homely tasks, and they were singing softly, or saying the most gentle words to one another as they worked. And before a very humble door, where only one tall lily bloomed, there sat a beautiful mother with a baby on her knee and a little one beside her; and they were looking straight into her eyes, listening to the wonderful story of the Easter morning. The father stopped to listen too, and in every single face shone the same holy light.

It shone even in the face of the Faust as he passed.

And behold, when Margaret looked at him he had grown young. His hair glinted in the sun and the wonder had come back to his eyes. Butterflies circled above them, and they went on and on, free and glad together, and the holy light was over everything.

But the poet tells us that afterwards Faust traveled into a very strange, far world, where there was never any silence or living flowers. Nothing was perfect or holy there, and Margaret could not go. But they tell us that whenever he looked away from this strange world, he heard again the singing, and smelled the faint fragrance of lilies, and it seemed to him that he was there again in the light, with the blessed Margaret leading him on forever.

Oh, eternal light! For I therein, methought, in its own hue, Beheld our image painted.

--_From Dante's "Paradise."_

BEATRICE.

Dear children, there is a great story of Heaven told by a poet called Dante, who dreamed that he was led through Heaven by the beautiful Beatrice.

And this is how it was. Dante had come to think so many unloving thoughts of all the people, that whenever he went about the streets of Florence where he lived, he thought he saw evil marks on all the faces. And it seemed to him that everyone in the world was lost from God. And the angry sorrow in his heart grew so great that there was not a single loving, hopeful thought in it. Then there came to him a wonderful vision. It seemed to him that Beatrice, whom he loved, came down from God and spoke to him and led him up, and showed him Heaven.

But his eyes were so dim at first, it seemed only the shining of a few small stars. But as they journeyed, Beatrice spoke to him of many things he had not understood, and while she talked, Heaven grew plainer and he saw that the stars were all shining together in a soft radiance, like the halos of many saints. And the wisdom of the world began to slip from Dante, and he stood there in Heaven as a little child.

Beatrice led him on and on, and whenever she wished him to see Heaven more plainly she talked of the world he lived in and the men he hated. Now when one who lives with God speaks of hate, it is nothing. And as he listened, Dante began to see that Man was in Heaven. When he had learned this, they went with a great flight up to God. And behold! it seemed to Dante that the higher he went in Heaven the nearer home he came, for all around him there were faces that he knew.

And they went on and on to the very highest Heaven, where God and man live together, and the angels cannot tell God from man or man from God. And Beatrice showed Dante this great mystery. And he stood still, looking, with the great light shining into his eyes.

Although he does not tell us what he saw, we know it was Florence, where he lived, and that he was looking at all the people with loving eyes, and seeing them just as those who live with God see men.

Heaven is here, little children. Let us love one another.

FROM "PARSIFAL."

[Music: By pity 'lightened, the guileless Fool;]

--_Richard Wagner._

PARSIFAL.

Long, long ago, when the old nations were child-nations, they had the most wonderful dreams and stories in their hearts; and they told them over so many, many times, with love and wonder, that they grew into Art,--poems and songs and pictures. And there is one beautiful story which you will find in many songs and poems, for almost every nation has told it in its own way. And this is it:

Long, long ago--so long that no one can tell whether it really happened or whether the old German folk only dreamed it--there was a band of knights who went away and lived together on a beautiful high mountain, far above the world, where no evil might ever come to them; and there they thought of nothing but pure and holy things. The purest knight was chosen king among them, and led them in all high things; and they lived so for many years, keeping themselves from wrong and beholding blessed wonders that the world had never seen,--miracles of light that sometimes passed above them.

But once there came an evil thought to the very king; nothing could put it away, and it was like a spear-wound in his side that nothing could heal. It was the greatest suffering; it even touched the joy of the knights, for they began to think only of what would heal the king. Many went far and wide, seeking a cure, while others dropped back to the world again; for the pattern of purity was not perfect any longer, and they seemed to forget what it had been. All the miracles stopped, and the sick king and the knights waited and waited for one who was pure enough to show them the perfect pattern again.

And one day a youth passed by who was so innocent that he did not know what wrong was. When the knights beheld him they looked in wonder, and said: "Is it not he, the innocent one, who will save us?" and they led him up to the temple. And behold, it was the time of the holy feast, when long ago the light had passed above them. And the youth stood there with great wonder and trouble in his heart, for he saw the suffering of the king, and how the knights longed and waited; he heard their voices in solemn tones, and the mourning voice of the king. And lo, while he looked, a wonderful glowing light passed above them. The knights all rose up with great joy in their hearts and looked at the boy, for the blessed miracle had come again, and it was a sign.

But Parsifal stood still with wonder and trouble in his heart; and when they asked if he knew what his eyes had seen, he only shook his head.

So the hope and joy went from the knights, and they led him out and sent him on his way.

And the boy Parsifal traveled down into the world. And as he went he met many wrongs, and he began to know what evils there were.

Now whenever one crossed his way, he went to it and handled it. But behold his mind was so pure and godlike that whenever he touched evil to learn what it was, it grew into some gentle thing in his hand. He went throughout the whole world seeking to know what evil was, but he was so mild and beautiful that wrongs fell away before him, or were healed as he passed. And he went on and on to the very kingdom of Evil, at last, and when its king saw him, he cried out with a great cry, and hurled his spear; but it only floated above the head of Parsifal, and when he seized it in his hand the whole kingdom melted away. And Parsifal found he was standing in a sunny meadow not far from the holy mountain; and he went up to the knights and stood with them in the temple, and his face was like the face of an angel. They say the king was healed as he looked, and that the wonderful light shone above them and was with them always,--forever.

Where the quiet colored end of evening smiles, Miles and miles.

--_Robert Browning._

THE ANGELUS.

Every evening after sunset, when the most wonderful soft light is in the sky and it is very still everywhere, the old bell in the steeple chimes out over the village and the fields around. No one quite knows what the evening bell sings, but the tone is so beautiful that everyone stands still and listens.

Ever since the oldest grandfather can remember, the dear bell has sung at evening and everyone has listened, and listened, for the message.

A great many people said there was really no message at all, and one very learned man wrote a whole book to show that the song of the evening bell was nothing but the clanging of brass and iron; and almost everyone who read it believed it. But there were many who were not wise enough to read, so they listened to the sweet tone just as lovingly as they had listened when they were little children.

Sometimes when the sweet song pealed out, the old shoemaker would forget and leave his thread half drawn, and while he listened a wonderful smiling light shone in his face. But whenever the little grandson asked him what the bell said to him, the old man only shook his head and pulled the stitch through and sewed on and on, until there was not any more light; and for this reason the little boy began to think that the bell was singing something about work. He thought of it very often when he sat on his grandfather's step listening to the song and watching the people. Sometimes those who had read the learned book spoke together and laughed quite loudly, to show that they were not paying any attention to the bell; and there were others who seemed not to hear it at all. But there were some who listened just as the old grandfather had listened, and many who stopped and bowed their heads and stood quite still for a long, long while. But the strangest was, that no one ever could tell the other what the bell had sung to him. It was really a very deep mystery.

Now there was a painter who had such loving eyes that even when he looked on homely, lowly things, he saw wonder that no one else could see. He loved all the sweet mysteries that are in the world, and he loved the bell's song; he wondered about it just as the little boy had done.

One evening, I think, he went alone beyond the village and through the wide brown fields; he saw the light in the sky, and the birds going home, and the steeple far off. It was all very still and wonderful, and as he looked away on every side, thinking many holy thoughts, he saw a man and a woman working together in the dim light. They were digging potatoes; there was a wheelbarrow beside them, and a basket. Sometimes they moved about slowly, or stooped with their hands in the brown earth. And while they worked, the sound of the evening bell came faintly to them. When they heard it they rose up. The mother folded her hands on her breast and said the words of a prayer, and thought of her little ones. The father just held his hat in his hand and looked down at their work. And the painter forgot all the wonder of the sky and the wide field as he looked at them, for there was a deeper mystery. And it was plain to him.

But the man and the woman stood there listening; they did not know that the bell was singing to them of their very own work, of every loving service and lowly task of the day.

The bell sang on and on, and the peace of the song seemed to fill the whole day.

Come, let us with the children live.

--_Friedrich Froebel_

FRIEDRICH AND HIS CHILD-GARDEN.

Friedrich Froebel--"Little Friedrich," they called him long ago. Is it not strange to think that the great men who bring the beautiful deeds to the world were once little children? Do you know how these children grow so great and strong that they can do a loving deed for the whole world at last? They do little loving deeds every day.

This gentle Friedrich loved more and more things every day that he lived. But when he was a little boy he was very lonely sometimes, because he had no playmates except the flowers in the old garden. It seemed to him these flowers were always playing plays together. The little pink and white ones on the border of the beds seemed always circling round the sweet tall rose, and laughing and swaying in the wind. It was so gay sometimes that he laughed aloud to see them all nodding and bowing, and the rose bowing too.

Friedrich was so gentle that his doves would flutter around his head and settle on his outstretched arms, and even the little mother bird, with her nest in the hedge, would let him stand near when she told little stories to her babies. Friedrich had no dear mother, but he had a tall, strong brother who would sometimes take him to the sweet wide meadows and tell him beautiful stories about the strange little bugs and busy bees, and stones and flowers.

But after awhile Friedrich's father thought he was growing too old to play all day long. So he said to him one day, "Friedrich, you must begin to learn." When Friedrich heard this he was glad, because he wanted to know about all the wonderful things in the world. But when he had to sit still for long hours and learn out of large books that hadn't a single picture, it was very hard. "But there is no other way, little Friedrich," his teachers told him.

As the time went on he grew as tall and strong as his brother. And then what do you think happened? Just the same thing that happened to our America when George Washington led out all the brave men. Friedrich's dear Germany was in great trouble, and she called to all her brave men to come and save her. And Friedrich marched away with all the others--marching, marching, with the drums beating and the flags flying.

Then after a long while, when peace had come back and all was quiet and joyful again, there came to Friedrich a sweet thought that grew and grew. Can you think what it was? It was half about his old garden and the playing flowers, and half about little children. Whenever he saw a child tear a flower or stone a bird he felt sad, and this thought would grow stronger in his heart.

Sometimes he would gather up all the children and take them to the meadow, and teach them about the leaves and stones, the flowers and birds and ants, as his brother used to teach him, and then they would play the very plays the wind and flowers and birds had played. So he called it his kindergarten,--his child-garden,--and he began to show to the whole world that little children must learn and grow in the same sweet way that flowers do.

And he worked years and years, teaching and working out this wonderful message that had come to him. He loved God and children and this shining thought better than himself, and he wore poor clothes and gave up things, that the beautiful deed might live in the world.

The true light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. --_St. John._

THE HOLY NIGHT.

In the far-off places of the world where men do not pass often, it is nothing to be poor. Little Hansei and his mother were poor, but that was nothing to him. They lived on the side of a great hill, where, save their small black hut with its little gauzy curl of smoke, there was no sign of life as far as eye could reach. And it seemed to Hansei that the whole world was theirs, and they were the whole world. Yet on fair days, far below, the misty towers and steeples of a city showed. But this was as unreal and unreachable as dreams and clouds to Hansei; the only difference was, a yellow road wound down to it, and if one went far enough he might some day reach that strange, misty place. But dreams--they always went at morning; and clouds--if he climbed to the highest point of the hill he could never reach them!

Sometimes people had passed that way. Once a man had gone bearing a burden. Another time, as Hansei and his mother gathered up their fagots at evening, a man and woman passed together; the sunset light was on the woman, and she sang as she went. Again, men in dark robes and hoods passed by; some had ridden on mules, some were grave and walked, reading from small books, others laughed. And these were all (except a peddler who had lost his way) that Hansei had ever seen go by.

People seldom went that way; the road was steep, and there was an easier way down at the other side, his mother said.

Once Hansei asked her if those who had passed were all the people there were besides themselves. His mother said, "There are others off there," pointing to the city.

Every morning before it was light Hansei's mother went away to the other side of the hills somewhere.

The first time he awoke and found the black loaf and water waiting and his mother gone, he had cried and searched and called her over and over. "Mother! Mother!" he had cried as loud as he could call down the yellow road.

"Mother! Mother!" had come a strange voice from beyond the hills; and Hansei's heart had leaped with a new joy. He cried back wildly, "Where are you?"

"Where are you?" cried the voice again.

"I am here!"

"I am here!"

"Come to me!"

"Come to me!"

All day Hansei and the strange voice from beyond the hills called and cried to each other. Hansei thought: "It is true there are others off there, and some one is calling to me."

At night the mother came back. Hansei asked: "Where have you been?" and put up his arms. His mother said: "At the other side of the hill," and touched his head gently.

"What did you do so long?"

"I made lace."

"What is lace?"

"It is like that a little," and she pointed to a cobweb stretching from a dead twig to a weed. Hansei looked and slowly put his foot through it.