Part 43

"I know him," said the woman in the black garments; "but before I tell you, you must sing me all the songs that you have sung to your child. I love those songs; I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your tears when you sang them."

"I will sing them all, all!" said the mother. "But do not detain me, that I may overtake him, and find my child."

But Night sat dumb and still. Then the mother wrung her hands, and sang and wept. And there were many songs, but yet more tears, and then Night said, "Go to the right into the dark fir wood; for I saw Death take that path with your little child."

Deep in the forest there was a cross road, and she did not know which way to take. There stood a Blackthorn Bush, with not a leaf nor a blossom upon it; for it was in the cold winter time, and icicles hung from the twigs.

"Have you not seen Death go by, with my little child?"

"Yes," replied the Bush, "but I shall not tell you which way he went unless you warm me on your bosom. I'm freezing to death here; I'm turning to ice."

And she pressed the Blackthorn Bush to her bosom, quite close, that it might be well warmed. And the thorns pierced into her flesh, and her blood oozed out in great drops. But the Blackthorn shot out fresh green leaves, and blossomed in the dark winter night: so warm is the heart of a sorrowing mother! And the Blackthorn Bush told her the way that she should go.

Then she came to a great Lake, on which there were neither ships nor boat. The Lake was not frozen enough to carry her, nor sufficiently open to allow her to wade through, and yet she must cross it if she was to find her child. Then she laid herself down to drink the Lake; and that was impossible for any one to do. But the sorrowing mother thought that perhaps a miracle might be wrought.

"No, that can never succeed," said the Lake. "Let us rather see how we can agree. I'm fond of collecting pearls, and your eyes are the two clearest I have ever seen: if you will weep them out into me I will carry you over into the great greenhouse, where Death lives and cultivates flowers and trees; each of these is a human life."

"Oh, what would I not give to get my child!" said the afflicted mother; and she wept yet more, and her eyes fell into the depths of the Lake, and became two costly pearls. But the Lake lifted her up, as if she sat in a swing, and she was wafted to the opposite shore, where stood a wonderful house, miles in length. One could not tell if it was a mountain containing forests and caves, or a place that had been built. But the poor mother could not see it, for she had wept her eyes out.

"Where shall I find Death, who went away with my little child?" she asked.

"He has not arrived here yet," said an old gray-haired Woman, who was going about and watching the hothouse of Death. "How have you found your way here, and who helped you?"

"The good God has helped me," she replied. "He is merciful, and you will be merciful too. Where shall I find my little child?"

"I do not know it," said the old Woman, "and you cannot see. Many flowers and trees have faded this night, and Death will soon come and transplant them. You know very well that every human being has his tree of life, or his flower of life, just as each is arranged. They look like other plants, but their hearts beat. Children's hearts can beat too. Think of this. Perhaps you may recognize the beating of your child's heart. But what will you give me if I tell you what more you must do?"

"I have nothing more to give," said the afflicted mother. "But I will go for you to the ends of the earth."

"I have nothing for you to do there," said the old Woman, "but you can give me your long black hair. You must know yourself that it is beautiful, and it pleases me. You can take my white hair for it, and that is always something."

"Do you ask for nothing more?" asked she. "I will give you that gladly." And she gave her beautiful hair, and received in exchange the old Woman's white hair.

And then they went into the great hothouse of Death, where flowers and trees were growing marvellously intertwined. There stood the fine hyacinths under glass bells, some quite fresh, others somewhat sickly; water snakes were twining about them, and black crabs clung tightly to the stalks. There stood gallant palm-trees, oaks, and plantains, and parsley and blooming thyme. Each tree and flower had its name; each was a human life: the people were still alive, one in China, another in Greenland, scattered about in the world. There were great trees thrust into little pots, so that they stood quite crowded, and were nearly bursting the pots; there was also many a little weakly flower in rich earth, with moss round about it, cared for and tended. But the sorrowful mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard the human heart beating in each, and out of millions she recognized that of her child.

"That is it!" she cried, and stretched out her hands over a little crocus flower, which hung down quite sick and pale.

"Do not touch the flower," said the old dame; "but place yourself here; and when Death comes--I expect him every minute--then don't let him pull up the plant, but threaten him that you will do the same to the other plants; then he'll be frightened. He has to account for them all; not one may be pulled up till he receives commission from Heaven."

And all at once there was an icy cold rush through the hall, and the blind mother felt that Death was arriving.

"How did you find your way hither?" said he. "How have you been able to come quicker than I?"

"I am a mother," she answered.

And Death stretched out his long hands toward the little delicate flower; but she kept her hands tight about it, and held it fast; and yet she was full of anxious care lest he should touch one of the leaves. Then Death breathed upon her hands, and she felt that his breath was colder than the icy wind; and her hands sank down powerless.

"You can do nothing against me," said Death.

"But the merciful God can," she replied.

"I only do what He commands," said Death. "I am his gardener. I take all his trees and flowers, and transplant them into the great Paradise gardens, in the unknown land. But how they will flourish there, and how it is there, I may not tell you."

"Give me back my child," said the mother; and she implored and wept. All at once she grasped two pretty flowers with her two hands, and called to Death, "I'll tear off all your flowers, for I am in despair."

"Do not touch them," said Death. "You say you are so unhappy, and now you would make another mother just as unhappy!"

"Another mother?" said the poor woman; and she let the flowers go.

"There are your eyes for you," said Death. "I have fished them up out of the Lake; they gleamed up quite brightly. I did not know that they were yours. Take them back--they are clearer now than before--and then look down into the deep well close by. I will tell you the names of the two flowers you wanted to pull up, and you will see what you were about to frustrate and destroy."

And she looked down into the well, and it was a happiness to see how one of them became a blessing to the world, how much joy and gladness she diffused around her. And the woman looked at the life of the other, and it was made up of care and poverty, misery and woe.

"Both are the will of God," said Death.

"Which of them is the flower of misfortune, and which the blessed one?" she asked.

"That I may not tell you," answered Death; "but this much you shall hear, that one of these two flowers is that of your child. It was the fate of your child that you saw--the future of your own child."

Then the mother screamed aloud for terror.

"Which of them belongs to my child? Tell me that. Release the innocent child! Let my child free from all that misery! Rather carry it away! Carry it into God's kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my entreaties, and all that I have done!"

"I do not understand you," said Death. "Will you have your child back, or shall I carry it to that place that you know not?"

Then the mother wrung her hands, and fell on her knees, and prayed to the good God.

"Hear me not when I pray against Thy will, which is at all times the best! Hear me not! hear me not!" And she let her head sink down on her bosom.

And Death went away with her child into the unknown land.

THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

It was terribly cold; it snowed and was already almost dark, and evening came on, the last evening of the year. In the cold and gloom a poor little girl, bareheaded and barefoot, was walking through the streets. When she left her own house she certainly had had slippers on; but of what use were they? They were very big slippers, and her mother had used them till then, so big were they. The little maid lost them as she slipped across the road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly fast. One slipper was not to be found again, and a boy had seized the other, and run away with it. He thought he could use it very well as a cradle, some day when he had children of his own. So now the little girl went with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and a bundle of them in her hand. No one had bought anything of her all day, and no one had given her a farthing.

Shivering with cold and hunger she crept along, a picture of misery, poor little girl! The snowflakes covered her long fair hair, which fell in pretty curls over her neck; but she did not think of that now. In all the windows lights were shining, and there was a glorious smell of roast goose, for it was New Year's Eve. Yes, she thought of that!

In a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sat down, cowering. She had drawn up her little feet, but she was still colder, and she did not dare to go home, for she had sold no matches, and did not bring a farthing of money. From her father she would certainly receive a beating, and besides, it was cold at home, for they had nothing over them but a roof through which the wind whistled, though the largest rents had been stopped with straw and rags.

Her little hands were almost benumbed with the cold. Ah, a match might do her good, if she could only draw one from the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her hands at it. She drew one out. R-r-atch! how it spluttered and burned! It was a warm bright flame, like a little candle, when she held her hands over it; it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she sat before a great polished stove, with bright brass feet and a brass cover. How the fire burned! how comfortable it was! but the little flame went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the burned match in her hand.

A second was rubbed against the wall. It burned up, and when the light fell upon the wall it became transparent like a thin veil, and she could see through it into the room. On the table a snow-white cloth was spread; upon it stood a shining dinner service; the roast goose smoked gloriously, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more splendid to behold, the goose hopped down from the dish, and waddled along the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl. Then the match went out, and only the thick, damp, cold wall was before her. She lighted another match. Then she was sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree; it was greater and more ornamented than the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. Thousands of candles burned upon the green branches, and colored pictures like those in the print shops looked down upon them. The little girl stretched forth her hand toward them; then the match went out. The Christmas lights mounted higher. She saw them now as stars in the sky: one of them fell down, forming a long line of fire.

"Now some one is dying," thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star fell down a soul mounted up to God.

She rubbed another match against the wall; it became bright again, and in the brightness the old grandmother stood clear and shining, mild and lovely.

"Grandmother!" cried the child, "O! take me with you! I know you will go when the match is burned out. You will vanish like the warm fire, the warm food, and the great, glorious Christmas tree!"

And she hastily rubbed the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches burned with such a glow that it became brighter than in the middle of the day; grandmother had never been so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew in brightness and joy above the earth, very, very high, and up there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care--they were with God.

But in the corner, leaning against the wall, sat the poor girl with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the Old Year. The New Year's sun rose upon a little corpse! The child sat there, stiff and cold, with the matches, of which one bundle was burned. "She wanted to warm herself," the people said. No one imagined what a beautiful thing she had seen, and in what glory she had gone in with her grandmother to the New Year's Day.

FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT

Prune thou thy words; the thoughts control That o'er thee swell and throng:-- They will condense within thy soul, And change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run In soft luxurious flow, Shrinks when hard service must be done, And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears, Where hearts and wills are weigh'd, Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, Which bloom their hour, and fade.

_--J. H. Newman_

CONTENTMENT

My mind to me a kingdom is; Such perfect joy therein I find, As far exceeds all earthly bliss That world affords, or grows by kind: Though much I want what most men have, Yet doth my mind forbid me crave.

Content I live--this is my stay; I seek no more than may suffice: I press to bear no haughty sway; Look--what I lack, my mind supplies! Lo! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.

I see how plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soonest fall; I see how those that sit aloft Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind could never bear.

I laugh not at another's loss; I grudge not at another's gain; No worldly wave my mind can toss; I brook that is another's pain. I fear no foe: I scorn no friend: I dread no death: I fear no end.

Some have too much, yet still they crave; I little have, yet seek no more: They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich, with little store. They poor, I rich: they beg, I give: They lack, I lend: they pine, I live.

I wish but what I have at will: I wander not to seek for more: I like the plain; I climb no hill: In greatest storm I sit on shore, And laugh at those that toil in vain, To get what must be lost again. --This is my choice; for why?--I find No wealth is like a quiet mind.

_--Unknown_

THE SEARCH FOR PEACE

Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave, Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave, And ask'd, if Peace were there? A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No:-- Go seek elsewhere."

I did; and going did a rainbow note: Surely, thought I, This is the lace of Peace's coat: I will search out the matter. But while I look'd, the clouds immediately Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy A gallant flower, The Crown Imperial: Sure, said I, Peace at the root must dwell. But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour What show'd so well.

At length I met a reverend good old man: Whom when for Peace I did demand, he thus began: "There was a Prince of old At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But after death, out of his grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat: Which many wondering at, got some of those To plant and set.

"It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth: For they that taste it do rehearse, That virtue lies therein; A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth By flight of sin.

"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you; Make bread of it:--and that repose And peace, which everywhere With so much earnestness you do pursue, Is only there."

_--G. Herbert_

A SONG OF PRAISE

To God, ye choir above, begin A hymn so loud and strong That all the universe may hear And join the grateful song.

Praise Him, thou sun, Who dwells unseen Amidst transcendent light, Where thy refulgent orb would seem A spot, as dark as night.

Thou silver moon, 'ye host of stars, The universal song Through the serene and silent night To listening worlds prolong.

Sing Him, ye distant worlds and suns, From whence no travelling ray Hath yet to us, through ages past, Had time to make its way.

Assist, ye raging storms, and bear On rapid wings His praise, From north to south, from east to west, Through heaven, and earth, and seas.

Exert your voice, ye furious fires That rend the watery cloud, And thunder to this nether world Your Maker's words aloud.

Ye works of God, that dwell unknown Beneath the rolling main; Ye birds, that sing among the groves, And sweep the azure plain;

Ye stately hills, that rear your heads, And towering pierce the sky; Ye clouds, that with an awful pace Majestic roll on high;

Ye insects small, to which one leaf Within its narrow sides A vast extended world displays, And spacious realms provides;

Ye race, still less than these, with which The stagnant water teems, To which one drop, however small, A boundless ocean seems;

Whate'er ye are, where'er ye dwell, Ye creatures great or small, Adore the wisdom, praise the power, That made and governs all.

_--P. Skelton_

THE TRAVELLER

How are thy servants blest, O Lord! How sure is their defence! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help, Omnipotence.

In foreign realms, and lands remote, Supported by Thy care, Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, And breathed in tainted air.

Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, Made every region please; The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd, And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas.

Think, O my soul, devoutly think, How, with affrighted eyes, Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep In all its horrors rise.

Confusion dwelt in every face, And fear in every heart; When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art.

Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord, Thy mercy set me free; Whilst, in the confidence of prayer, My soul took hold on Thee.

For though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave, I knew Thou wert not slow to hear, Nor impotent to save.

--The storm was laid; the winds retired, Obedient to Thy will; The sea that roar'd at Thy command, At Thy command was still.

_--J. Addison_

TRUE GREATNESS

The fairest action of our human life Is scorning to revenge an injury: For who forgives without a further strife His adversary's heart to him doth tie: And 'tis a firmer conquest truly said To win the heart, than overthrow the head.

If we a worthy enemy do find, To yield to worth, it must be nobly done:-- But if of baser metal be his mind, In base revenge there is no honor won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow? And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield; Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor: Great hearts are task'd beyond their power but seld: The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain does this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

_--Lady E. Carew_

CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE

How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumors freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend;

--This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And having nothing, yet hath all.

_--Sir H. Wotton_

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD, FOR HIS HOUSE