Chapter 4

Meanwhile the other bird was speeding on his errand of kindness. He did not feel the weight of his burden, but went bravely on, only occasionally resting on a water-spout or a parapet, just for a second or two, but never losing sight of his precious seed; though sometimes he was sadly annoyed by other Sparrows coming up, and, with great fuss and chatter, inquiring as to what he was so carefully carrying. But he was very cautious, and always kept an eye upon his treasure (answering their questions curtly), for London Sparrows have the character of being not _too_ honest, with what truth it cannot be said; let us hope the charge is unfounded. Still our hero thought it advisable to be watchful; therefore, after satisfying all curiosity on the subject, as much at least as he deemed needful, he flew off again on his mission--without telling them the ultimate destination of his seed, fearing, perhaps, they might be unable to resist the temptation of picking it out of the mould into which he intended to drop it.

By and by he left the more respectable part of the city, and winged his way as near as he could remember towards the attic window, where he had so often seen the poor work-girl busy at her weary task. But a heavy cloud of smoke darkened the air, and a perfect forest of masts bewildered him, for he had come to that part of London where the ships are to be seen--thousands of vessels from all countries of the world. Still, though he was puzzled for a while, yet he felt sure the house was near this place, as he recollected having seen these docks before. What should he do? He paused for a bit upon a slanting roof just to look around. Oh, the smuts, how they settled upon his feathers! he was obliged to preen himself, he felt so dirty; if his coat was a dingy brown, there was no occasion for its being dirty also! All at once, as he paused during the process of preening, he saw the very window right in front of him,--he recognised it by its cleanliness, such a contrast to the squalor around. Yes, there it was, the polished panes of glass glinting in the gleams of light that came now and then through the murky atmosphere; and there were the three flower-pots. Why, actually they had been washed, they looked so freshly red!--or perhaps painted.

Away he joyfully flew, his task was nearly done; but alas for hopes of birds or people! Just as he was about to alight upon the window-sill, a tiresome bird--a Sparrow--came flying towards him, exclaiming,--

'Hallo! who are you, I should like to know?' and so startled was he when accosted thus abruptly, that in his fright he dropped his dear and precious treasure.

Down, down it fell upon a deal case a man was wheeling on a truck. The man did not notice the tiny grain that fell; perhaps, had he done so, would merely have thought it was a particle of dust; but the poor bird's heart was sorely grieved as he saw it disappear, after all the trouble he had taken to bring it thus far, and he sat upon the window-ledge of the girl's room with ruffled plumage and dim eyes, utterly crushed by this untoward loss. It was too bad!

But after a while he took heart, and looked the disappointment boldly in the face, which is always the better plan than brooding over it.

'It can't be helped,' he said wisely, rousing from his sorrowful reflections, and giving his feathers a shake together. 'I did my best, and could do no more. It is a loss certainly, but no doubt there are other flower-seeds to be found, so I'll go to-morrow morning to that same garden, and see if there are any more to be had. Dear me!' he continued, glancing up with his now bright eyes at the sky; 'why, it is getting late. I must make haste home, or else my friends will be anxious, and fear that I have come to grief.'

So saying, he flew away, not without a note of farewell to the girl, who had been looking at him all the time he sat there so disconsolately, wondering in her own mind why he was perched there so ruffled and sad, little dreaming of his kindly intentions towards her--how should she?--so away he went, and reached his place of abode just as his brothers and friends were going to roost.

You may be quite sure he was received with a perfect volley of questions.

'Where have you been?' asked some who were ignorant of his scheme.

'How did you manage?' questioned others who knew.

'What sort of a place is it?' inquired several.

Poor little bird! he was obliged to confess his failure, which he did with reluctance; yet still he bore his disappointment so cheerfully and bravely, they could not help sympathizing with him, promising to help in the good work next time. Even the Sparrow who had jeered somewhat at him was really sorry, and consoled him so kindly, that he went to sleep with his head tucked under his wing, in a far happier frame of mind than he could have supposed possible, after such a grievous sorrow.

And the seed?

As it was being jostled on the top of the packing-case, it thought to itself:

'There's an end to me, I suppose. I shall be shrivelled up to nothing for want of nourishing earth, and shall do good to no one. What a pity that dear little Sparrow's kind intention was frustrated by that meddlesome and inquisitive bird! I am sure I would have done my duty to the utmost, and realized his wish by growing as fast as possible, and looking cheerful and gay when in flower. Well, well, it is no use being unhappy; I must only wait patiently, hoping that a chance of doing good may occur. Who knows what may happen?'

And at that very moment, the truck the man was wheeling gave a lurch, and in consequence the tiny seed rolled along until it slipped down a crevice in the lid, and found a comfortable resting-place inside amongst some soft hay with which the case was packed.

'This is cosy,' it remarked, nestling in the warmth; 'perhaps after all I am reserved for some good purpose. I had become desponding, but there is always a brightness behind the darkest cloud.'

So it cuddled down contentedly, not knowing or heeding whither it was taken, only resting satisfied with the reflection that whatever happened was for the best. And so the packing-case was put on board one of the great ships in the docks, and in a few days away sailed the ship, packing-case, and little seed, far over the ocean, leaving England many thousand miles behind.

Not having been to Australia, we cannot describe what the little seed next beheld. But when the sun once again shone upon it, it was in a very different country to this dear land of ours.

The case had been emptied of its contents, and the hay and straw with which it had been packed was thrown aside upon the ground, and there lay the seed, so tiny that it was quite unheeded, indeed it is to be doubted whether it was even seen; but the loving God, who has created nothing in vain, had still a use for the small grain. A soft wind came and carried it to some moist earth, into which it sank, thankful for the rest and quiet after the past turmoil.

But its work was not finished.

By and by came up a little slender green shoot, then a leaf or two, and after a while, in due season, some pretty bell-shaped flowers, almost white, with just a tinge of delicate purple, made their appearance, and there they swayed in the breeze--English Wood Anemones in a distant land.

And in this distant land a young English girl had her home; and bright and beautiful it was, with huge trees and gorgeous flowers, unheard of and unseen in the country village from which she had come. But, bright and beautiful as her new home was, she often sighed for the green hedgerows and sweet wayside flowers of dear old England; not that she murmured because God had sent her thither, only the love of her old home and old home memories yet lingered in her heart.

Think, then, what her joy was, when, one day as she wandered alone, gazing on gorgeous blossoms rich in brilliant colours, down at her feet she spied, waving its delicate-tinted elf-bells in the warm, soft breeze, the Wood Anemone.

Could it be possible? That well-known English flower blooming there! How could it have come across the ocean?

Ah, how often had she seen it at home--for England is ever home to those who are far away--seen it in the early spring days clustering thickly in the woods and copse, heralding the cuckoo, and bringing with it a promise of summer days to come.

'Dear, dear little flower!' she cried, kneeling down and kissing, in excess of joy, its delicate petals. 'Welcome a thousand times, for you bring with you memories from the old land. I will not gather your pretty flowers, nor take them away to myself, but will leave you here, so that others, perhaps more home-sick than I, will take heart, and be cheered by your soothing though silent message.'

And the young girl was right.

Others passing by--some poor wanderers, footsore and weary--were cheered by the bonnie wild-flower, which, happy in giving happiness to others, swayed its tiny bells as it danced in utter gladness, whispering to the wild bees who also came to visit it,--

'I thought at one time, when the Sparrow let me fall, that there was no more use for me in the world, that my work was finished; but God had still a mission for me, and I have done what others equally small can do--given happiness, and cheered those who came across my path. It is not much to do,' it continued meekly, 'not great and glorious deeds at which the world stands amazed; but it was all I could do, and was the work He meant for me--we must not despise the day of small things. The acorn is very small, yet look at the oak. A gentle word, a bright smile, is not hard to bestow, but oh, the blessing they can be to hearts pining perhaps for kindness!'

* * * * *

So the Sparrow's good intention was carried out after all.

PARABLE SIXTH.

THE CROWN IMPERIAL--HOPE.

Have you ever seen a Crown Imperial, that lovely flower which comes in the early spring-time, just after the Snowdrops have gone? You will not find it in _new_ gardens, I fear; but in those delightful shady nooks and corners where the old-fashioned flowers seem to come and go just as they please, there it is to be found, coming up year after year in all its beauty, and yet, though so lovely, meekly drooping its velvet petals, upon which tear-drops are ever resting.

It has been said that it droops thus in humiliation, because its pride was once rebuked; but I do not think that aught so lovely could be unduly proud! Even the acknowledged queen of the garden, the stately Rose, is gentle in her beauty; and 'Consider the lilies,' though 'Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed' like them, yet how meekly they bloom beneath our feet!

Then shall the Crown Imperial tell its tale to you, and see what lesson we can learn from it? No, an old yew tree shall relate the story. Listen to what it says:--

'Many, many years have I stood on this spot, from the time that I was a tiny sapling until now, when my branches spread far and wide, covering the earth beneath with shadow. Summer sunshine has touched with its fiercely scorching breath, and winter snows have shrouded me in fleecy garments, but the old yew tree has weathered so far the storms of life, growing year by year more twisted and gnarled as time passed on. I have seen the song-birds come and depart; some have even built their nests within my leafy branches. I have watched sweet flowers blossom, then fade, but among the many lovely flowerets I have loved--for the old dry tree has a tender heart, my children--there was one whose very gentleness made me love it even yet more dearly. It was a Crown Imperial.

'The spring was commencing to gladden the earth when first I perceived it, forcing its way timidly through the soft grassy lawn of an old, old garden. Who had placed the parent bulb beneath that turf was never known, for the owners of the estate had passed with their generation from the land, and strangers had come to reside in the ancient homestead, but there was this fragile plant, outliving, as it were, those who had planted it, and coming up, year after year, to gladden other eyes than those which had first beheld its beauty--like good actions and gentle words--imperishable!

'So day by day I watched it grow, stronger and stronger, higher and higher, and, as it grew, spreading gradually its beautiful, shining leaves; but when it had reached its full height, behold, it was crowned with a diadem of the softest green--an emerald crown worthy the brow of a queen!

'Then by degrees I saw its blossoms begin to unfold, the velvet petals richer far than the feeble looms of man can weave; but, as they unclosed, to my intense surprise, they were not uplifted to the sunshine and blue sky, but meekly bowed--drooping earthward.

'"They will gaze upward by and by," I said to myself, "and, when they know and feel the power of their beauty, will court the admiration they are sure to win."

'But I was wrong.

'Pride had no place within their lowly hearts--never were their flowers lifted up--their glances were ever bent in sweet humility towards the green sod from which they had sprung, and, as I gazed upon them, I saw that on each lovely petal there ever rested a tear.

'"Why this sadness?" I mused. "Surely so lovely and guileless a flower can know no sorrow, since sorrow often goes hand in hand with sin; this Crown Imperial must surely be as faultless as it is beautiful!"

'Yet I hesitated to ask the reason; there was a gentle and reserved timidity about it, that checked all questionings. The cause of this unspoken grief would be revealed to me sooner or later, I felt convinced.

'The days passed on with sunshine and shadows, and, as the hours fled, I saw with regret that stern Time had relentlessly breathed with his withering breath upon my much-loved flower! Gradually and slowly its blossoms pined, the lovely colours faded,--almost imperceptibly, 'tis true, still they faded,--its fresh green crown became less purely bright, and I knew with anguish my sweet one was dying.

'Then, and not till then, did it raise its faint eyes heavenward--they were tearless now. I could restrain my wonder no more.

'"Why, oh, why wert thou weeping and gazing ever earthward when in thy peerless beauty, sad and disconsolate--and now that thou art fading from us thou art happy?" I asked in my sorrowful regret; perhaps reproach was mingled with my complaint.

'"Is it not ever so?" the gentle flower replied. "Whilst burdened with Life's sorrows, our eyes are tear-dimmed. The cares of this world press heavily upon our hearts, so that we scarce can lift our thoughts from this earth--cold and weary though it is--to gaze upward. It is only when we are passing from all shadows into the Divine Light that we can look heavenward, yet even then the tear-drops linger. But when earthly sojourners have passed through the dark valley into the Eternal Brightness, then, and only then, will they be freed from anguish; then, and only then, will eyes be no longer dimmed by sorrow--for God Himself shall wipe away all tears!"'

PARABLE SEVENTH.

THE TWO LEAVES--DISCONTENT.

Once upon a time, as the good old fairy tales always begin, there grew by the side of a little brook a large Oak tree.

The brook was a bright, sunlit stream, gliding along so cheerfully to join the river, between grassy banks, kissing the willows which bent down towards it, or whispering softly to the blue Forget-me-nots; and so clear was it, you could see the smooth pebbles lying at the bottom, and the fish skimming along gaily, as if there were no such things in the whole world as fishing-rods.

All through the day it rippled merrily, catching every ray of sunlight that flickered through the trees or the blue sky above; but if an angry black cloud ever chanced to see itself reflected in its clear mirror, it scudded away as if ashamed of looking so dark.

But at night, when the holy stars were shining, ah, how softly the little brook murmured to them! you could almost fancy it did not babble so loudly as in the day-time, for fear lest it should wake the sleeping flowers on its mossy banks.

It was a happy little stream, so calm, so placid, no angry ripples ever disturbed its pure surface, over which the Swallows lightly skimmed. And it meandered along for many miles; sometimes you would lose sight of it altogether, then out it would come from some quiet, grassy nook, gaily sparkling, and glide with a merry sound, as if laughing, towards the steady rushes, and they would sway to and fro at its approach, dancing to its rippling music.

But, as I was saying, a sturdy Oak grew by the side of the brook; it had sprung from an acorn many hundred years ago, now it was very old. Wintry storms had vainly tried to subdue it; many a time they had bent its branches, plucked at its roots, but fruitless was their fury, for the noble tree firmly held its place, rearing its proud head more loftily than ever; and so the storms, finding their power availed them nought, passed away over the land, howling with rage at their failure.

Then, oh, how the birds loved the clear old tree! Summer after summer did they return to build nests among its moss-grown branches; and the branches, glad that the songsters had come back again, would put forth green leaves to hide them from prying eyes, so that they could rest there securely. Can you wonder, then, that they sang sweet songs of gratitude to it, and that the little brook should murmur her sweet melody as she glided along at its feet?

On the opposite bank grew an Aspen.

It was not so old as the Oak, who had seen it grow up from a mere sapling; still they had been neighbours for many years, and the graceful Aspen looked with love and reverence upon her aged friend's sturdy face and form. Often, in the calm summer nights, the Oak would talk to her of the days of the long-ago; you would have thought it was merely the breeze sighing amidst the branches, but it was the voice of the Oak telling of the past.

Many of the birds imagined the Aspen to be a weak, trembling tree, quivering always with fear at the slightest wind that ruffled its branches.

'Scarcely safe to build a nest in!' so said an old motherly Rook, who had reared many a brood.

But the fairies who danced beneath its shade on bright moonlight nights knew better; they knew that the fragile-_looking_ tree never trembled with fear; they had often seen it meekly bend beneath the sway of the fierce wintry blasts, knowing full well whose hand guided the storm; and when the summer came they knew that then it quivered with happiness at being created on so fair an earth, and that its leaves only shook with quiet laughter as it listened to the merry chatter of the brook.

Well--winter had passed with his frosts and snows, and spring was scattering her flowers everywhere. The Cuckoo was calling aloud, 'Cuckoo, cuckoo,' all day long, never heeding the young folks who mocked his song; even the Swallows had returned from the warm, sunny South, and were for ever skimming over the brook, just dipping their wings into its limpid waves, then off again with the joyous 'Twit, twit, twit.' The meadows, too, were yellow with buttercups, in which the cows waded knee-deep. Talk of the Field of the Cloth of Gold! Francis the First would have been a clever man could he have made such an one!--no earthly king could create golden fields like these.

All nature was rejoicing in earth's brightness, and our old friends the Oak and the Aspen as much as any. They had put forth their fresh green leaves, and beneath their shade many a tired traveller rested from the noonday sun, thanking them both in his heart for the welcome shelter.

During the winter the Oak had not been idle, for it had extended its branches far and wide; one, indeed, stretched right across the brook, in fact, almost touched its opposite neighbour, and the Aspen welcomed it gladly. You would have thought it great happiness to live in such a lovely spot, I know, but there is never perfect bliss, and if little folks _will_ be discontented, they make the prettiest place appear wretched and miserable.

Now, among the leaves of the Oak there was one that was always restless and fidgety. In vain the sweet birds perched near and sang to him, and the gentle brook murmured tales of other scenes--he never seemed happy. The fairies, too, as I before said, danced by moonlight at the very foot of the parent tree, yet even that brave sight gave him no pleasure, though his brother and sister leaves would clap their tiny hands in ecstasy.

'It disturbed his sleep,' he said. 'Why could they not dance in the day-time?--not when all respectable leaves and flowers were sleeping! making such a noise, especially that mischievous Puck!'

And, unfortunately, he grew on the branch nearest to the Aspen, and his constant grumbles made them quiver with sorrow and pain at such incessant complainings. As to his own relatives, they would not listen, but frisked about merrily enough when the zephyrs came and played with them.

'Alas!' said he one day to a little Aspen leaf that grew on a branch close by, and who had patiently borne with his ungrateful complaints; 'how sad is our lot! Here we are always attached to the same place, in a state of cruel bondage; everything around us moves: the birds, happy in their liberty, fly here and there, singing ever their songs of joy; even the beasts of the forests are free--whilst we--ah me!--we never lose our galling chains but in dying!'

'Why do you murmur thus?' asked the Aspen leaf in a sweet, tremulous voice; 'why are you not contented?'

'Oh, it is all very well for you to preach contentment,' it pertly replied, turning up its point with contempt. 'I am a leaf of intellect. I hate this aimless, monotonous life; it does very well for such silly, trembling things as you and yours,--not for me!'

For a moment the little Aspen leaf felt its pride wounded by the contemptuous speech of its neighbour, and was strongly disposed to answer in the same strain; but fortunately, a fairy who chanced to be passing at the time laid her silver wand lightly on its lips, so with a smile she merely said,--

'Yes, I know I am timid, and cling to my parent tree for security and protection. What would you do if you were free? We are so happy here, I would not leave my home; the soft breezes are ever among us with cheerful stories of the countries they have visited to amuse us; and as to the birds, why, all the day long they are singing their sweetest melodies to gladden our hearts and cheer us.'

'I have heard their songs until I am quite tired of their sameness,' was the ungrateful response; 'besides, in a few months the cold winds will be here, and then we shall fall to the ground and be trodden under foot--that will be the end of us. So I am determined to see something of the world before that time comes. I shall go off with the first north wind that visits us--so I tell you. You will not reason me out of my plan.'

'Oh, stay, stay with us!' cried the trembling listener; 'you cannot surely know the sorrow you would cause, nor the troubles you would have to endure. It is true we leave our kind branches but to die, but we are not carelessly trodden on; the rustling of we poor faded leaves beneath man's feet recall to his mind pure and holy thoughts of the unknown future, filling his heart with unuttered prayers to the Great Power who changeth not. Then, if we poor leaves can teach a lesson, we have not lived in vain. Do not murmur at your humble fate, dear friend, but stay with us, contented with your simple destiny and the goodness of God.'