Part 3
So he disguised himself in a way that no one would know him, and went forth on his search through the streets of the city. And first he came into the house of a man who by long years of labor had heaped up great riches, and now, having withdrawn from all business affairs, was living in ease and luxury. But in a little while the king saw that this life, so different from that he was accustomed to, had become irksome and tedious, and that in his heart he wished himself back at buying and selling again. He looked out of his front window and said:
“Oh that I were only in the place of my opposite neighbor, whom I see going out early to business every morning!”
Leaving this man’s house, the king found an entrance into that of the neighbor whom he envied, who was still engrossed in trade as the other had formerly been. Already rich, he was adding to his wealth year by year; but in doing this he had to labor so hard, and to carry so heavy a load of care, that no time or space for enjoyment was left him.
“I am living but a slave’s life,” he said. “Would that I were well out of it, like my neighbor across the way, whom I see driving out in his carriage every afternoon!”
Passing out of this street, where many rich merchants lived, the king went into another, near by, and entered the house of a man whom he himself had appointed to a responsible post under his own government.
“Without the weight of anxiety which oppresses me,” said the king, “yet with honors sufficient, and an ample provision for all his wants, shall I not here find a happy man?”
But it was not long before the king heard him, one day when he thought he was alone, muttering to himself:
“Why did I ever accept this post, or choose this service for my calling, only to bear the envy of those below me, and the scorn of those above? How much better off and more independent would I have been engaged in some business of my own, like my well-to-do friends around the corner!”
“I will seek for my object in a lower sphere of life and occupation,” said the king; and, passing into an obscure back street, he went into the shop of a mechanic who was working at his bench with saw and plane as a carpenter.
“Below the level of ambition and above that of want,” continued the king, “surely here I shall find the object of my search.”
So he entered into conversation with the man, talked with him about his trade, admired his handiwork, and said:
“Whatever else you lack, my friend, I am sure that here in perfect independence you enjoy content.”
“Content at this trade!” exclaimed the man. “I would rather have been brought up to any other. What with low wages and high lumber, there is nothing left when your work is done. I don’t know who you may be; but if you’re thinking of going into this business, let me warn you against it. For my part, I don’t see why some people have it so hard and others so easy. There’s a couple of rich men that I work for over in the main street, that have both of them made big fortunes since I came into this miserable little shop. And around the corner from them is another man I do odd jobs for—one of the king’s officers; he has I don’t know how many servants to wait on him, and plenty of money. Yes, and even the king himself, if a poor man may look so high—there he is with nothing to do but enjoy himself and rule over the rest of us. What justice is there in all this? Everybody has all he wants, and is happy, but me.”
Discouraged at his repeated failures, the king turned away from the crowded city and went into the country. There, as he walked along a quiet road by himself, he came to a little cottage with a bench beside the door. In front of it was a flower-bed filled with pinks and lady-slippers; in the rear, a small plot of ground that appeared to have been just digged. A shovel and a hoe were lying there, evidently left only for the dinner-hour. The door of the cottage was open, and a laboring-man well on in years was seen within at his noonday meal.
The king, in the guise of a wayfarer, stopped before the gate, and was at once asked to enter and be seated at the table. Accepting the invitation, he sat down and partook of the humble repast. As soon as it was finished the two betook themselves to the bench beside the door. Said the king:
“You have a hard time, I fear, my friend. This is but a little plot from which to get your living.”
“But you’ve no idea,” replied the man, “how much this ground yields. It is planted in potatoes, and a finer crop you never saw. I’m just digging them, and shall have enough to last me on till spring, with some to sell—yes, and a few to give a poor neighbor, beside.”
“But is that all you have to depend upon?” asked the king.
“Oh no,” replied the man; “I go out to day’s work on the farms around, and, beside being able to pay for some new clothes, I’ve put by a barrel of flour for the winter; it stands over in that far corner. And you see my woodpile stretching along the fence yonder. I’ve had to work hard for these things, but they are all that I need, and I am content.”
“‘Content’!” cried the king, as though he could not believe his own ears. “But have you no other wants beside these?”
“I might have,” said the man. “There are plenty that offer me their company, but I refuse to entertain them.”
“Are you, then, quite satisfied?”
“Not with myself, but I am with my lot.”
At this the king was silent, for he saw that his companion was speaking the truth, though he could not comprehend it.
“But understand me,” continued the man. “It is not because I have no trials to bear that I am content, for I have my share of them. Here is the rheumatism in this arm, which often will not let me sleep, and sometimes keeps me from work for days together. And then, what is harder still, my landlord is not always kind, or even just.”
“Why, is not this cottage your own?” said the king.
“Oh no,” replied the man; “I’m not so rich as that. And yet, as I was going to say, taking it all in all, I have in my lot a bigger proportion of good than most people, and a better chance to be what I ought to be. And to this end I can see how even my trials are a help.”
The king, rising from the table, bade his humble friend adieu and went his way, but pursued his search no farther.
“I have found content in another,” he said, “and learned, too, how to get it for myself. It is to accept not only my good things, but also my evil things, as a precious part of my portion. I will go back to my throne esteeming even it in this light, and so, instead of trying to cast them off, shall be happier in bearing the burdens which it lays upon me.”
* * * * *
Were we able to look into the secret thoughts of those whom we envy, we should often find that what we covet in their lot, is borne by them as a trial and a cross.
THE LEARNED OWL.
AN owl that had long separated himself from his companions that he might devote his nights to study and become learned, employed himself afterward in trying to impart his learning to the other owls. Having called them together, he discoursed about different animals and reptiles and fishes which they had never heard of before; but he found that, while a few seemed anxious for instruction and listened patiently, the most of his hearers made some excuse for flying away while he was still talking, so that by the end of his discourse scarcely a half dozen of them remained.
As he was ambitious to be considered an interesting as well as instructive speaker, he was greatly discouraged at this result, and at once retired to the woods, into a thick clump of hemlocks whose dark shadows never admitted a ray of the sun, and there, all alone, he thought over the matter, trying to decide what was best to be done.
He remained for several days thus engaged, when suddenly, as if the whole difficulty were solved, he gave a cheerful hoot, and flying forth, summoned all the owls to a meeting in the apple-orchard near by at twelve o’clock the following night. When the time arrived, but a small audience appeared in the trees immediately around him, though many were on those farther off—as we might say, on the back seats—from which, in case they grew weary, they could retire unseen.
“I’ve come this time,” he began, “not to talk about animals or reptiles or fishes, but about owls.”
At once he could see an awakening of interest in the birds that were near him. Then he went on to tell all he knew about owls—their ancestors who had lived long ago, the different kinds that are living now, the big owls and the little owls, their habits, their dispositions, their pleasures, and their pains, not, of course, omitting courtship and marriage. Very soon he saw the birds that had lodged on the distant trees flying nearer, and as he went on they came one by one into the very tree where he stood, until all the owls that lived in the neighboring woods were gathered close around him; nor were they willing to leave while he continued his discourse. And after that, all he had to do was to vary somewhat his treatment of the same theme to secure a punctual and full attendance.
* * * * *
This fable proves that owls, like men, prefer to hear about things in which they feel the interest of kindred. The speaker or the book that can awaken our human sympathies is the one, as we know, that commands the largest audience and the closest attention.
THE HORSE AND THE GRASSHOPPERS.
A HORSE, while feeding in a meadow, frightened the grasshoppers at his feet, so that they flew up thickly on every side. Some chickens, discovering this, gathered around and accompanied him, eagerly devouring the insects. The horse did not notice them for a time and continued to move slowly along, thus providing them with an abundant supply. But, at length spying them at their repast, he suddenly raised his head, saying:
“How are you going to pay me back for all this trouble I am taking for you?”
At which one of the chickens replied:
“You don’t eat grasshoppers yourself, neither are you going out of your way to stir them up for us. Why, then, should we pay you at all?”
The horse, not able to answer this question, began sullenly to feed again, when the chicken continued:
“If you had done us this favor willingly and kindly, we would have eaten the grasshoppers and returned you our thanks; but, as you do it against your will, we will eat them just the same, and return you nothing.”
* * * * *
In serving our own interests we sometimes, without intending it, serve the interest of others. It is better to do this graciously and make them our friends than to do it grudgingly and make them our enemies.
THE BARK AND THE LIGHTSHIP.
A BARK on her outward voyage passed the lightship moored on a shoal that lay in the track of vessels near the coast. Said the bark as she sailed by:
“Here you are still, held fast by your chain, for ever tossing and uncomfortable, but making no headway, or profits, either.”
“True,” replied the lightship. “Yet this is my appointed work. I am no idler.”
Long months rolled around; the bark had crossed the ocean, and was on her homeward voyage. She neared the land in stormy weather. Night came on, and the lead, though it was kept going, failed to show just where she was drifting. Then anxious fears arose, and were growing each moment more intense, when suddenly a bright flash gleamed through the darkness. It was the lightship, giving warning of the shoal and pointing out the deeper channel.
Once more the vessels lay side by side.
“You have saved me,” cried the bark, “and the rich cargo that I carry. Now I understand why you seek not selfish profits, and most gladly, out of gratitude, will I share mine with you.”
“Oh no,” replied the lightship; “you have sailed over perilous seas to gain them, and they justly belong to you. That is your calling; and the greater your gains, the better am I pleased. But my calling is to lie here and do what good I can. For this I receive wages sufficient for my need, and with them I am content.”
* * * * *
While some men devote their lives to business and accumulate fortunes—properly and honestly, it may be—others devote theirs to the good of their fellow-men, knowing they will receive in return a bare living, and nothing more.
THE UNHONORED SERVANT.
A CERTAIN king was accustomed from time to time to appoint the members of his household, some of them to be rulers over provinces, some over cities, and some to fill private positions of honor and profit. It was considered not only a reward of obedience, but a special mark of his confidence and approval, to receive such appointment.
After many had been thus promoted, one remained in the palace who seemed to be overlooked and neglected. It was evident that this was not from any fault of his own, or from any want of regard on the part of the king, for all could see that he was loyal and upright and enjoyed the king’s favor; yet others who had come later into the palace were chosen before him.
At length one of the king’s counsellors ventured to ask him the reason of this, saying:
“This man for many years has obeyed you with all faithfulness and devotion, yet others are sent forth to fill stations of honor, while he remains here in his place as a servant. Why is this?”
The king answered:
“I keep him thus, not as a mark of my displeasure or of his want of desert, but because he is the one whom I cannot part with, even to bestow honors and riches upon him, but must have ever near me. Neither will he be a loser by it in the end.”
* * * * *
A place in the heart is better than a gift from the hand, and he whom the King will reward may well wait patiently.
WINGS.
ONCE a caterpillar, as it fed on a tree, was given the power of speech. It said:
“What wonderful eyes I have! I can see the whole of this leaf at one time—not only the part I am feeding on, but its whole length and breadth.”
“Let me tell you,” replied the tree, “there are eyes that can see not only one leaf, but all the leaves on a tree—yes, and on a whole woods—at a glance.”
“It may be so,” said the caterpillar, “and then it is only doing what I do, though on a larger scale.—And what wonderful feet I have!” continued the caterpillar. “I can creep from the ground up to your topmost bough, between the rising and the setting of the sun.”
“And I can tell you,” replied the tree, “there are feet that can pass over a space equal to that in a moment, and in one short hour can go farther than you in all the days of your life.”
“It may be so,” said the caterpillar, “and then it is only doing what I do, though on a larger scale.”
“But this is not all I have to tell you,” continued the tree. “There are beings that can dart from the ground up to my highest branch without so much as touching me with their feet, and that can pass swiftly from tree to tree, borne through the air on wings.”
“That is impossible,” said the caterpillar. “There may be stronger eyes that can see farther even than mine, and quicker feet that can travel faster; but, as for wings to fly through the air with, that cannot be. You are talking of things you know nothing about, or else are only trying to deceive me. After such an absurd statement, I will not listen to you any more, or believe anything you say.”
The summer passed, and autumn came with its cloudy days and chilly nights. The leaves of the tree shrivelled up and dropped to the ground, and one frosty morning the caterpillar was found suspended from a naked twig by a thread of its own spinning, shut up in its cocoon. And there it slept, unconscious from day to day, and month to month, through the long winter. The fierce storm could not weaken its hold, or shake it loose, as it hung secure, tossed to and fro by the blast.
But at length spring approached. The buds began to swell and the young leaves to appear. The blossoms on the fruit trees opened, and the birds sang among them. And one morning the imprisoned caterpillar revived in its narrow cell, and, rending its walls asunder, came forth and basked in the sunshine. But what are these at its side gently expanding and unfolding? It spreads them forth, and, loosening its hold upon the twig, floats away on the breeze. It mounts up, it flies, it lodges on a lofty bough, and flies from one to another again and again.
“Was it I,” it says, astonished, “that declared there were no beings with wings, and that to pass from place to place through the air was impossible? Now am I made to see that it was not the tree, but myself, who spoke about things I knew nothing of; now am I made to feel the denseness of my own ignorance. If this, which is so unlooked for and so far beyond the reach of my understanding, has been done to me, I will wait and see what yet remains to be done, nor ever again limit the power that created me at first, and still goes on perfecting its own work.”
* * * * *
He who can speak most wisely within the circuit of his knowledge if he venture beyond it utters foolishness.
STANDPOINTS.
A POOR man who supported his family by daily labor used to deal with the two storekeepers of his native village. Of one he bought flour and meat; of the other, materials for his own and his children’s clothing. Being a good workman and honest as well as industrious, he was accustomed to settle his accounts at both stores every Saturday night.
All went on well and to the satisfaction of both buyer and seller as long as health lasted. But at length sickness came, and Saturday brought the laborer no wages. Still, he hoped for the return of strength by another week, and then to be at work again. But strength did not return. Week after week passed, and it seemed farther away than ever. The storekeepers’ accounts remained unsettled. The matter was becoming a serious one for them. What should they do?
At this point one of them opened his ledger, went over every item set down there, and, after footing up the total amount, calculated the interest on it to the last cent. Then he sat thinking about what he could do with the money if he only had it in hand; and this was the standpoint from which _he_ looked at the debt.
The other storekeeper also went over his ledger and footed up the amount. But after doing so he shut the book up again, and, putting on his hat, went to see the man who owed him the money. Entering his humble cottage, he sat down at his bedside and looked into his honest, suffering face, and on his wife and children in poverty around him; and here was the standpoint from which _this_ storekeeper looked at the debt.
The sick man died, and his family was left penniless. The storekeeper who had visited him, still looking at the debt, as it were, from the lowly bedside, thought it was right to cross it off his books and forgive it altogether. The other storekeeper, viewing it from his counting-room only, thought it right to get the money if he could. Had he not furnished all the articles that were charged for? Had not the man’s family taken them and used them? The money was his, and he meant to have it. So he held the dead man’s wife and children responsible, and, though they had a hard time to earn their daily bread, he made it harder by demanding something each month till the last cent was paid.
Time rolled on, and the years that gather, an ever-increasing load, upon poor and rich alike, began to bow the forms of the two storekeepers. Old age overtook them, and finally the hour when each in turn must leave store and ledger to know them no more. Then it was found that he who had remitted the poor man’s debt had left to his family a moderate competency, with a good many accounts in his ledger balanced by the one word written over against them, “FORGIVEN.”
The other storekeeper had left his family rich, with scarcely an account that had ever been due him unpaid, and the few that were, remained so only because neither force nor persuasion could bring the money. But in the village where they had lived and died it was noticed, long after both storekeepers and their ways of doing business were forgotten, that the smaller inheritance increased in the hands of those who received it, while the larger one, in the hands receiving it, seemed mysteriously to melt away.
* * * * *
According to the standpoint from which we look at a thing will be our views of right and wrong respecting it; but we are accountable for the choice of that standpoint.
THE MAN WITH A MENAGERIE.
A MAN who kept a menagerie had trouble with several of the wild beasts, which, although they were confined in strong cages, sometimes became excited and made violent efforts to escape. There was one in particular—a tiger—that caused him special concern. By continued watchfulness and careful treatment, however, the animal was at length brought into a quiet and submissive state, seeming to be asleep most of the time. Nevertheless, knowing his savage nature, his owner was diligent in examining the different parts of his cage—the iron bars in front, and the bolts in the rear—every day.
But, after doing this for many weeks without a recurrence of any cause for alarm, the man dismissed his fears and began to forget there had ever been any cause for them. Then, insensibly to himself, he relaxed his vigilance, until the matter passed out of his mind and he thought no more about the tiger than he did about the antelope, the deer, or any other harmless specimens in his collection.
This state of things had lasted without any mishap for a long time, when one day, while passing through his menagerie, as he came in front of the tiger’s cage he made a misstep; his foot slipped, and he fell. Like a flash—as soon as he saw him fall—the tiger sprang to his feet and dashed with savage fury against the bars in front of him, which, not being properly secured, parted and allowed him to pass between them.
As he lighted on the ground all the weak and defenceless animals around him were panic-stricken, uttering cries of terror. And truly it looked for the moment as though he might slay both them and their fallen master unrestrained. To make it worse, his keeper, who alone had any control over him, was absent, but fortunately not beyond the sound of the tumult. This man hastened to the rescue, and by skill in soothing as well as courage in quelling succeeded after a time in getting the brute back to his den.
Then was the owner glad, breathing freely once more. Yet for hours afterward his face remained pale and his hand trembled.
“I am thankful,” he said, “for this great deliverance. Never shall I forget it, nor lessen my watchfulness over this furious beast’s cage; for no matter how silent it seems, or how little danger appears to be within, I know only too well that the tiger is there still.”
* * * * *
Our evil passions may lie dormant until we almost think they have ceased to exist, and yet, if not sleeplessly guarded, may rise up and gain the mastery over us at any time.
TWO OUTLOOKS.
TWO persons live in the same house, which has both a front and a back view. The front view is over a quiet lake, with green fields and mountains beyond—beautiful always, in summer, in autumn, in winter. The back view is hemmed in by old broken-down walls, ruinous outbuildings and a pigsty.
One of the inmates of the house takes her work and sits habitually by the front window. Her face is bright and beaming, and the neighbors often hear her sing.