PART II

Out in the garden closes, In the shining, summery weather, Blossoming lilies and roses Wondered and laughed together:— “What a wide, wide world of bliss, Of loveliest gleams and glowings! We had never a vision like this, In the fairest of hope’s foreshowings.”

_A White Rose_

What a beautiful thing is light! What marvellous thing is motion! The sunbeams in followless flight, The shimmer and swell of the ocean!

_A Pink Rose_

And the sky, what a wonder of blue! And the dawn, what a dazzle of splendour!

_A Red Rose_

How light is the fall of the dew, And the kiss of the breezes, how tender!

_A Pink Rose_

So blithe is the brown birds’ song, So clear is the ether they swim in!

_A Lily_

So kindly are men and so strong So gentle and gracious are women!

_A White Rose_

Such gladness to bud and to bloom Sweet odour and honey outgiving!— How could we, down here in that gloom, Conceive of this rapture of living?

_A Lily_

And yet, I was ever at strife With a hope—that was half a sorrow; So vain, in that underground life Seemed thought of a radiant morrow!

_Lilies and Roses_

On lines that to us were unknown! For written was all our story; To the Lord of the garden alone Be honour and praise and glory. For had He not planted with care, And loosened the earth from around us, We never had grown to be fair, Nor blossom nor blessing had crowned us!

“SPIRIT” AND “LIFE”[18]

MARGARET EMMA DITTO

Two little souls were speeding their outward way from God. Angels folded their white wings in wondering silence, and watched the little ones go forth upon their unknown mission. The sky parted to let them pass, and “trailing clouds of glory” the two souls swept on into that unmeasured space where there is no light but the stars, and no sound but the voice of their harmonies. Then the two little souls spoke. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” asked each of the other.

“I am Spirit,” “I am Life,” they made answer.

“It is all one,” sang the little souls together. “We are the same. We came from God; we are going to dwell with men.”

So they sang very happily as they sped along, and their voices were attuned to the music of the great spheres.

When the little souls reached the earth they said good-bye to each other, for each little soul had a house of his own. Not an immovable house made of wood and stone, but a tiny tabernacle that could be moved about. It was made of flesh and blood and skin and soft bones. It was the form of a little child.

“Oh, how nice!” cried each little soul, quickly speeding through the house from top to toe, and pulling the strings which set the breath to coming and going, and the little fingers and toes to quirking and nestling.

“I must take a peep out of the windows,” cried each little soul, as he pulled up the curtains and looked out. “Oho! our baby has blue eyes like the violets,” shouted the noisy children.

“Ah, the Prince looks upon us; his Royal Highness has eyes like his father the King,” said the grand courtiers, speaking low, with deep reverence, for one of the little souls had found its home in a peasant’s hut, the other in the palace of a great king.

The little souls never saw one another again until they had spent their time on earth and were flying back to God. Again they were speeding their way through the unmeasured spaces of the stars.

The souls knew each other, remembering the time when they had gone out from God to dwell among men. They gazed with joy at each other, for these returning souls were full of gracious loveliness, such as earthly eyes have not seen.

“Sweet Life, you are no longer a little soul,” said Spirit; “you are strong and beautiful; you must have dwelt in a great house.” “Ay,” replied Life, serenely, “it was a perfect house, for the greatest of builders made it for me.”

“Then it was spacious and lofty and beautiful, and it stood in a high and sunny space?”

“Oh no; it was none of these,” replied Life. “It was narrow and infirm, and it trembled in the blast. No one who saw it desired it. But I loved it because it was the Gift of God, and I was so thankful. It stood in a deep valley, the shadows of the mountains made it dark, and I could not look far away. I could not look down: there was only one way to look, and that was up, and my light came not from this side or that, but straight down from the Father of Lights, and so I was a shining one, though I lived in a dark place.”

“What did you do in your house?”

“Always I toiled and served and suffered and loved, for some needed me who were poorer and weaker than I. Sometimes I was hungry and thirsty and in pain, but oftener I shared my loaf and cup, and helped the pain of others, and I kept the door ajar so that the poor and troubled ones, those who were cast down and ashamed, could come in without knocking and rest in a warm place; and they loved me—the poor, the weak, and the little ones. They are weeping now because my house is empty, and I shall look out of the windows no more: it is cold, the hearth fire can never glow again. But my house was weak and crumbling down upon me. I could stay no longer. So I came away and left it fallen, prone upon the ground—earth to earth.”

“My house,” said the Spirit, “was not like that; it was noble and strong. It stood on high among the kings of the earth, and looked over my broad dominions. My house had towers of strength and halls of bounty and fair gardens with pleasant fruits. Every one who saw it desired it for its beauty and feared it for its strength. It could not be shaken in the rudest blasts, and the shock of war could not make it tremble or force its gates.”

“What did you do in your house?”

“Always, like you, I toiled and served and suffered and loved, but not like you in the way of doing, for I was a king with sceptre and crown, and what I did was done in the royal manner. I could not share my cup and loaf with the hungry, nor lay my hand on the brow of pain as you did, but I could make laws and find out wisdom that would strengthen the land and bring bread and meat and health to my poor people. I could not take the suffering ones into my own house as you did, for they were many and my house was but one; but my house should stand a castle in their behalf—a stronghold and defence—and so standing it met its doom; in the prime of its glory it reeled, turret and foundation, beneath the onslaught of the oppressor, and with a great fall it lay prone on the battle-ground, crumbling back to earth.”

* * * * *

A herald went through the land crying, “The King is dead! the King is dead!”

“So is good Barbara,” answered the peasants. “She was born the same night as the King, and she died the same day.”

* * * * *

The two souls swept on through the wide spaces of the stars, on and on through the pearly gates of heaven. Angels folded their wings, and looked with tender awe upon these gracious beings who had come from the earth.

“We cannot tell who they are,” said the angels.

“One was a King. One was a peasant. But one cannot tell which was the King and which was the peasant,” said the angels: “these beings are alike wondrous fair and noble.”

The two souls swept on, with equal stroke of their shining wings, through the serried ranks of the heavenly host, and God did not welcome these home-coming souls as king or peasant, but He gave to each a new name—the new name which He has promised to him that overcometh.

A CHILD’S EASTER

ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON

Had I been there when Christ, our Lord, lay sleeping Within that tomb in Joseph’s garden fair, I would have watched all night beside my Saviour— Had I been there.

Close to the hard, cold stone my soft cheek pressing, I should have thought my head lay on His breast; And dreaming that His dear arms were about me, Have sunk to rest.

All through the long, dark night when others slumbered, Close, close beside Him still I would have stayed, And, knowing how He loved the little children, Ne’er felt afraid.

“To-morrow,” to my heart I would have whispered, “I will rise early in the morning hours, And wand’ring o’er the hillside I will gather The fairest flowers;

“Tall, slender lilies (for my Saviour loved them, And tender words about their beauty spake), And golden buttercups, and glad-eyed daisies, But just awake:

“‘Grass of the field’ in waving, feath’ry beauty, He clothed it with that grace, so fair but brief, Mosses all soft and green, and crimson berry, With glossy leaf.

“While yet the dew is sparkling on the blossoms, I’ll gather them and lay them at His feet, And make the blessed place where He is sleeping All fair and sweet.

“The birds will come, I know, and sing above Him, The sparrows whom He cared for when awake, And they will fill the air with joyous music For His dear sake!”

And, thinking thus, the night would soon be passing, Fast drawing near that first glad Easter light. Ah, Lord, if I could but have seen Thee leaving The grave’s dark night!

I would have kept so still, so still, and clasping My hands together as I do in prayer, I would have knelt, reverent, but oh, so happy Had I been there.

Perhaps He would have bent one look upon me; Perhaps in pity for that weary night, He would have laid on my uplifted forehead A touch so light;

And all the rest of life I should have felt it, A sacred sign upon my brow imprest, And ne’er forgot that precious, lonely vigil, So richly blest.

Dear Lord, through death and night I was not near Thee; But in Thy risen glory can rejoice, So, loud and glad in song this Easter morning, Thou’lt hear my voice.

THE SPIRIT OF EASTER

HELEN KELLER

Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, and His mercy endureth forever. Sing unto Him a new song, for He causeth the desert to put forth blossoms, and the valleys He covereth with greenness. Out of the night He bringeth day, and out of death life everlasting. On this day a new light is upon the mountains; for life and the resurrection are proclaimed forever.

* * * * *

The bands of winter are broken in sunder, and the land is made soft with showers. Easter day bringeth the children of men near to the source of all light; for on this day the Lord declareth the permanence of His world, and maketh known the immortality of the soul. He hath revealed the life everlasting and His goodness endureth forever. Easter is the promise of the Lord that all the best and noblest in man shall be renewed, even as growth and bloom and ripening shall not cease. The bars of winter are broken, and the iron bands of death are riven. The bird is on the wing and the flight of the soul shall know no weariness. The lilies lift their holy white grails brimmed with the sunshine of God’s love. For, has not the Lord manifested His love in flowers and in the upspringing of green things? They are sweet interpreters of large certainties. Each year the winter cuts them down and each spring they put forth again. Each spring is a new page in the book of revelation, wherever we read that life is an eternal genesis, and its end is not; for it endureth forever.

THERE ARE NO DEAD

MAURICE MAETERLINCK

Adapted from “The Blue Bird”

“Tyltyl,” said Light one morning, “I have received a note from the Fairy Berlyune telling me that the Bluebird is probably in the graveyard.”

“What shall we do?” asked Tyltyl.

“It is very simple,” answered Light. “The fairy gave strict orders. You and Mytyl are to go into the graveyard alone. At midnight you will turn the diamond, and the dead will come out of the ground.”

Tyltyl did not feel pleased. “Aren’t you coming with us?” he asked.

“No,” said Light, “I shall stay at the gate of the graveyard. There is nothing to fear. I shall not be far away, and those who love me and whom I love always find me again.”

* * * * *

Light had scarcely done speaking when everything changed. The shining Temple, the glowing flowers, the splendid gardens vanished to make way for a little country graveyard lying in the soft moonlight. Tyltyl and Mytyl clung to one another.

“I am frightened,” said Mytyl.

“I am never frightened,” said Tyltyl, shaking with fear.

“Are the dead alive?” asked Mytyl.

“No,” said Tyltyl, “they’re not alive.”

“Are we going to see them?”

“Of course; Light said so.”

“Where are they?” asked Mytyl.

“Here, under the grass or under those big stones, Mytyl.”

“Are those the stones of their houses?” asked Mytyl.

“Yes.”

“When will you turn the diamond, Tyltyl?”

“Light said I was to wait until midnight.”

“Isn’t it midnight yet?”

Tyltyl looked at the church clock. “Listen, it is going to strike.”

Above the children the tones of the clock boomed out as it started to strike twelve.

“I want to go away, Tyltyl! I want to go away!”

“Not now, Mytyl; I am going to turn the diamond.”

“No, no,” cried Mytyl. “Don’t! I’m so frightened, Brother! I want to go away.”

Tyltyl tried vainly to lift his hand; he could not reach the diamond with Mytyl clinging to him.

“I am so frightened.”

Poor Tyltyl was quite as frightened as she, but at each trial his courage had grown greater.

The eleventh stroke rang out. “The hour is passing. It is time,” and, releasing himself from Mytyl’s arms he turned the diamond.

A moment of suspense followed for the poor children, Mytyl hid her face in Tyltyl’s breast.

“They’re coming,” she cried. “They’re coming.”

Tyltyl shut his eyes and leaned against a heavy stone beside him. The children remained in that position for a minute, hardly daring to breathe. Then they heard birds singing, a warm scented breeze fanned their faces and on hands and neck they felt the soft heat of the balmy summer sun. Reassured, but finding it hard to believe in so great a miracle, they opened their eyes and looked about them. From all the open tombs were rising thousands of delicate flowers gradually growing more and more tall and plentiful and marvellous. Little by little they spread everywhere, over the paths, over the grass, transforming the rude little graveyard into a fairylike garden. Its sweet-scented breeze was murmuring in the young and tender leaves, the birds were singing and the bees humming gaily above glittering dew and opening flowers.

“I can’t believe it! It’s not possible!” cried Tyltyl.

The two children, holding each other by the hand, walked through what had been the graveyard, but where now no graveyard was to be seen. Vainly they searched among the flowers for a trace of the low mounds, stone slabs, and wooden crosses so lately there. In the presence of the truth they saw that all their fears of the dead were foolish. They saw that there are no dead; but that life goes on always only under fresh form. The fading rose sheds its pollen only to give birth to other roses, and its scattered petals scent the air. The fruits come when the blossoms fall from the trees; when the grub dies the brilliant butterfly is born. Nothing perishes; there are only changes.

Beautiful birds circled about Tyltyl and Mytyl. There were no blue ones among them, but the two children were so happy over their discovery that they asked for nothing more.

Relieved and delighted they kept repeating:

“There are no dead! There are no dead!”

LITTLE BOY BLUE

ALFRED NOYES

Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, Summon the day of deliverance in; We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn, As we yearn for the home that we never shall win; For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin, And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong! Ah! when shall the song of the ransomed begin? The world is grown weary with waiting so long.

Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave, There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes: Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the Grave As the skylark sings to those infinite skies! This world is a dream, say the old and the wise, And its rainbows arise o’er the false and the true But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,— Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue!

Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows, Sound but a note as a little one may, And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose, And the Healer shall wipe all tears away; Little Boy Blue, we are all astray, The sheep’s in the meadow, the cows in the corn, Ah, set the world right, as a little one may; Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!

THE END

FOOTNOTES

[1] By special permission of Pilgrim Press.

[2] From “A Little Book of Profitable Tales,” by Eugene Field, copyright 1889; published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

[3] Taken from “The Child’s Book of Saints,” by permission of the publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co.

[4] By special permission The Oxford Press, London.

[5] By special permission The Pilgrim Press.

[6] By courtesy of The Ben. H. Sanborn Co.

[7] By special permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons.

[8] From “School Reading by Grades, Third Year,” by James Baldwin. Copyright American Book Co.

[9] Courtesy of Milton Bradly Co. From “More Mother Stories.”

[10] “The Little Brown Wren,” by Clinton Scollard.

[11] By courtesy of the author.

[12] From “Pyle’s Prose and Verse For Children.” Copyright 1899, by Katherine Pyle, American Book Co.

[13] By permission of The Macmillan Co.

[14] Found in England.

[15] From “Why the Chimes Rang,” by Raymond MacDonald Alden. Copyright 1908. Used by special permission of The Bobbs-Merrill Co.

[16] Reprinted by permission. Copyright 1908, by Henry Holt & Co.

[17] By special permission. Copyright 1910, Little, Brown Co.

[18] By permission. Copyright 1889, by Harper & Brothers.