CHAPTER IV.

THE LAST LOAD OF HAY, AND "THE TWO LITTLE BUDS AND THE LIGHTNING."

WHILE these pleasant rambles and excursions were going on, of course there was no time for sewing. Marian's working-materials were all put out of sight, and so were those little garments which she intended to make for the poor widow's children. For two or three days after the visit to Hareby Wood, there were no long rambles, and the young people amused themselves at home; so that had Marian been inclined to bestow even a portion of her leisure upon the work she undertook—voluntarily, in the first instance—she might have made great progress.

It is the fault of many children that when they commence a thing, they work very hard indeed for a short time, and then, for want of a little perseverance, it is left unfinished. This habit of beginning many things and completing none, was a great failing of Marian's. When they were at home, Mrs. Ingram took pains to correct this bad habit in her daughter; and though she kindly allowed her ample time and opportunity to consider whether she should really like to undertake any fresh piece of work, yet, when once begun, she did not allow her to throw it aside until it was finished. And Marian had been daily expecting a reminder from her mother respecting those little garments, which pressed with a very heavy weight, considering how small they were, upon the girl's mind. But not a word was said, either by her or Uncle Paul, although Marian had found out that he was very keen-sighted with regard to the faults of children, though so gentle in his rebukes, and anxious to make the young happy.

Now, Marian felt that she was doing wrong in neglecting to complete her undertaking; she knew that she was allowing a bad habit to gain more ground upon her, yet size lacked resolution to conquer the disinclination to resume her labours. Often when she went into the fields, she quite dreaded a meeting with the poor woman or her children, lest their looks should appear to ask why she was so tardy in fulfilling her promise. But nothing of the kind happened. Mamma and Uncle Paul never uttered a word on the subject; and Marian, while wishing that she had never talked about what she meant to do, began to think at last that her pledge to the poor widow was forgotten by everybody. She missed the pile of little garments, too, from the top of the work-basket, but she did not ask for them "then."

She thought to herself: "The first rainy-day that comes, I will begin to sew again, and it will be time enough to inquire when I want them. If I say anything now, perhaps I shall have to stay in-doors, and this is such a lovely afternoon, I 'must' enjoy it. Beside, it is good for my health to be out in this fresh pure country air."

Whenever people "want" very much to follow Inclination instead of Duty, they generally find out some way of shewing that it will benefit them either in mind or body, and poor Marian was no exception from this rule. Thus the time wore on very pleasantly in a general sense, but still Marian could not help a feeling of self-reproach that came in the quiet hours, and reminded her of her unfulfilled promise to the poor widow, and of her unfinished work.

One lovely afternoon, just after dinner, Uncle Paul said; "Children, the last loads of hay will be brought home to-night, and there will be a little rejoicing amongst the work-people. Nothing like a harvest-home, you know; but still it is the fashion, in this part of the country, to deck the last wagon with green-boughs, and then the youngsters ride into the steelyard amongst them, and shout and hurrah. Now, as I have you young visitors, I should like you to go into the field, and when the last load is safely in the stack-yard, I daresay you will have no objection to distribute a few hot buns and some milk to the haymakers' children. They will come in their holiday-frocks and pinafores to-day."

Kate and Bernard vowed they should like much to attend to the wants of Uncle Paul's poorer guests, and thanked him for giving them the opportunity; but Marian's face was red and hot, and she remained silent.

She was thinking: "Ah, if I had only given a little time, and deprived myself of an hour or two's amusement each day, the poor widow's children might have had neat new clothes! As it is, they are all unmade, and for the present useless."

Most likely Uncle Paul noticed the expression of his niece's face, but he made no remark about it. He only added: "Make haste, then; get on your bonnets, and we will go to the field directly that we may have one more rest under the sweet-scented haycocks, before the last is put upon the wagon, and brought home into the stack-yard."

Marian was very silent on the way to the field, but all the rest were as full of spirits as possible. They chose a pleasant spot to sit in; and the hay was piled so nicely in the form of seats that mamma declared it made the most delightful of cushions. Bernard and Kate then ran off towards the work-people, but Marian sat still with her mother and Uncle Paul, though she was longing to take a fork and help like them to gather up the hay that remained.

An hour afterwards, Bernard came bounding towards them. "You have lost your chance of any more haymaking for this year, Marian," he said; "the wagon is just off with this load, and the remainder, which will not fill it again, will be the last. I suppose you will come, by and by, to help to stick the green-boughs on the children's bonnets and hats, for they all intend to be decorated, I can tell you."

"Bring Kate here, then," replied Uncle Paul; and while the wagon is away, "I will tell you just a short story."

The announcement of a tale from Uncle Paul was always sufficient to bring Kate to his side as soon as she could get there. She needed no second summons to take her place on the scented heap of hay, and then Uncle Paul told them all about—

"THE TWO LITTLE BUDS AND THE LIGHTNING."

"'I think I shall live to see another day's sunshine!' said a large blue convolvulus, as she watched the sun sinking in the west. 'It cannot be true that a flower so beautiful and perfect as I am, can be intended to last only a single day! To be sure, all the other flowers, my companions that are still open, tell me that they have lived no longer than myself. That is likely enough, though; and as we all opened together this morning, most probably we shall close at the same time, to re-open when the sun comes round again to the place in which I first saw him. If I thought I were going to fade and die, I would say a few warning words to these young buds that I see around me. But it cannot be. I shall have an opportunity of talking with them to-morrow: another day's experience will give more weight to my warnings.'

"Just then the evening breeze blew rather chilly across the flower, and she felt herself beginning to shrink inwards with an involuntary motion. The movement was a warning, to tell her that life was nearly ended for her.

"'I am going to sleep!' said she. She did not believe it could be Death so close at hand, and she so young and beautiful. Alas that it should be so! The young and the beautiful die as well as the old and withered. The convolvulus saw all around her the shrivelled forms of numbers of other kindred flowers, and yet she thought within herself that death would not touch 'her.' The sun was all the while sinking slowly, and the breeze blew colder and colder round the frail flower, making the corolla shrink again.

"'Ah!' said she. 'This going to sleep is not a pleasant sensation. Perhaps I feel it the more, because it is my first time of closing up. I shall be stronger and better able to bear it to-morrow.'

"She talked of to-morrow, though she felt that the light of day was going away from her, and that she was beginning to look like those other withered-up forms around her, which were a few hours before as beautiful as herself. So that it was only at the last moment of her life that she began to imagine it possible that death, and not sleep, had seized upon her fair form, and faded her lovely hues.

"Then in a voice like a faint sigh—which the wind was obliging enough to carry to the two buds respecting which she was solicitous—she said: 'When the sun shines upon you next, you will know what life is. You will enter into its full enjoyment, but your existence depends upon his presence. When he disappears, you will die as I am dying now, and your beauty will be gone, never to return. I ought to have known what to expect, from what has happened to others of my race, but I have lived my short life as if it were never to end. If the time were to come again, I would—'

"Here the good-natured zephyr, which had hovered round the dying flower in order to fulfil her last wishes, and deliver the message with which she charged him, began to sigh and moan as he wandered in and out of the leaves. The convolvulus was dead! Faithful to his trust, the wind told the buds all that their departed relative had said. It was quite dark while they listened to his sad story; and after they had thanked him, they asked him to describe the appearance of this life-giving sun, whose presence would bring the power to see him to themselves.

"'What is the sun like?' asked one of the buds.

"The wind thought it was a queer question, for as the bud had never yet been opened, it could not know what anything was like.

"'He is like nothing else,' replied the wind softly. 'You will see him shine out bright and glorious, high up in the sky. His rays will warm you; and you will gradually increase in strength and beauty, so long as he shines upon you. Yet do not forget that your existence depends upon his presence, and that when you lose sight of him, you will die.'

"'What a sad fate!' said both the little buds together. 'Oh, if we might live a little longer than one short day!'

"The night-dew which lay upon their leaves dissolved into round drops, and fell as if the plant were in tears at the prospect of death; and the little buds murmured again, as they swayed themselves to and fro, to think that they were not longer lived.

"'Take comfort,' said the zephyr kindly; 'you are more fortunate than you think; you know exactly how long you have to live, and can prepare accordingly. I can assure you that few are so favoured, though all know they must die some time.'

"'What! Will all the roses, lilies, pansies, and other flowers whose scent you have brought us, die too?' asked the buds.

"'Every one!' replied the zephyr. 'Moreover, they are very liable to die violent deaths. Only this very day, I saw numbers of them severed from their parent-stems by the gardener's hand, and I know they must die the sooner for it. He passed all the flowers of your kind without taking one, because, he said, they would close so soon, it was not worth while to take them. Thus, you see, the very thing you regret has its advantages. Every station has some peculiar to itself, if we only take pains to find them.'

"'But this death must be so terrible!'

"'Not always,' replied the zephyr. 'I have passed in at windows into the habitations of men, and though I must confess that I have seen many who were afraid to meet it, I have known others who rejoiced at its approach. Take comfort, little flowers! In 'your' short life, you may gladden some eye and heart by your beauty; and if you are the means of doing that, or of leading any to think of the Great Hand that made you, you will not have lived in vain. At the worst, remember you share the common lot. The beasts and birds, worms and insects, 'all die.' The stately oak may live a thousand years, but must yield at last; and there are even some amongst the children of men who die as young as the frailest flower of the field.'

"The little buds were greatly cheered and comforted by the words of the zephyr, and they thanked him very heartily.

"'I am glad if I have been of service,' the zephyr replied; 'and now I must away.'

"The buds begged him to stay longer, at least till they could shew their gratitude by opening their azure cups for him to drink the morning dew from them. It could not be. The zephyr was obliged to go.

"'I am a great traveller, and roam the earth over,' answered he. 'It is not often that I stay anywhere so long as I have done with you; but I am in a soft mood to-night. I must be many a mile away before morning.'

"He sighed as he left them; but duty called, and, whatever his inclinations might be, he would not allow them to interfere with what was right. He bade the little buds 'good-night,' said that a brother of his from the East was about to pay them a visit, but he hoped they would not see much of him, as he was scarcely to be deemed a desirable acquaintance.

"Their gentle friend had scarcely made his exit, when the two little buds became sensible of the arrival of another member of the same family—a boisterous individual, who saluted them so rudely that he knocked them one against the other without the least ceremony. They very heartily wished him a thousand miles away; and no wonder, considering their peculiar circumstances. The rain began to fall next in very large drops, which half-drowned the poor little buds, and were nearly knocking them off their stems. How anxiously they looked for the appearance of the bright sun! For they began to fear that, if they were long exposed to such rough usage, they should not survive to see the light of day. All at once, a brilliant light shone out upon the poor trembling buds.

"'This is surely the sun!' cried they, for the light was so bright and dazzling that it darted down the centre of their corollas. Before the exclamation had all escaped them, they were again left in total darkness; but a hollow rumbling sound, which shook the very earth in which they stood, next alarmed them more than the glare had done. Then one little bud began to doubt whether that could have been the sun.

"'There was light enough, to be sure,' it said, 'but warmth there was none. It dazzled for a moment, and then disappeared so very suddenly that I only felt the darkness the more.'

"'Beside,' replied the other, 'when the sun comes, it will remain as long as our life lasts, and we have not yet grown into perfect life.'

"At this moment, both the buds were startled by another bright flash, and then another. The pouring rain fell heavily on their tender forms, and the rumbling noise increased in loudness. The buds shook and trembled with terror. They knew not what to think, for they had not been forewarned, and they could not help imagining that if the sun's presence were to be ushered in thus awfully, they should dread instead of hoping for his coming.

"A rose that was near at hand, and had overheard the conversation, now bowed her queenly head—for she pitied the frail buds—to explain matters to them.

"'These flashes of light,' she said, 'are not caused by the sun's rays. His presence brings warmth and comfort; but Lightning, as these flashes are called, often brings destruction. I have seen it dart through a great tree, and cleave it quite in two, leaving the halves black, scorched, and withered. But do not be frightened. I cannot say that I ever knew it attack such humble individuals as yourselves: that great tree is in far more danger,' and she bent towards an oak in the neighbourhood.

"The little buds thanked her humbly for the information, and began to feel the truth of what the zephyr had previously told them—namely, that every station has its advantages as well as trials. They heard the rumble of the thunder, and saw the lightning without fear, and, after a time, both ceased entirely. The boisterous wind took its departure, and was, followed by a gentler brother from the South, whose company was a very pleasant change for them.

"By and by, a soft but continuous light reached them, and they felt constrained to open their corollas to greet it. Then they saw the sun, and felt its warm-rays shining upon them. The south wind waved them lightly to and fro, and thus shook off the heavy drops which still clung to them; and as the sun rose higher, he dried up the rest with his kindly beams. The buds were now fully expanded into flowers, as perfect as those which had decked the plant the day before. The rain had done them no harm, but rather good, and they turned themselves towards the source of light, conscious of what they owed to him, and resolved to rejoice in the good they possessed 'while it was theirs,' yet prepare themselves to resign life without a murmur when called upon. The flowers were in the full pride of their beauty still, though it was far past noon, and the sun was beginning to decline, when two young girls entered the garden, and advanced towards them.

"'See,' said one of the girls, 'what a lovely colour! This blue is like a reflection from the sky.' As she spoke, she bent over the twin-flowers in turn, and seemed to be drinking in joy at the sight of their beauty.

"'They are lovely,' replied her companion; 'and, as you say, they are as a reflection from the sky, for the same God that made them, spread that glorious firmament over our heads.'

"'How perfect they are!' said the first speaker, still stooping over the blossoms. 'Is it not wonderful that these flowers, which are but to last a single day, and then to die, are endowed with such marvellous beauty?'

"'It is indeed,' was the answer. 'And surely He who made them had a purpose in thus forming them. Surely, "we" may learn a lesson from them also.'

"'What! To admire the wisdom of their Creator and ours?'

"'Everything we see teaches that. But does it not seem, sister, that these flowers especially remind us that, even as our Creator has finished with equal pains the stately oak, and the blossom which lives and dies within a day, so should we perform those duties which are comparatively trifling in our eyes with as much zeal as we give to the greater ones.'

"'Doing with our might whatsoever our hand findeth to do,' added the other sister softly. 'Thanks, little flowers, for the lesson you have taught us!'

"The two girls passed their hands tenderly over the bright convolvuluses once more, and then left them, tremulous with delight.

"'Ah,' said they both together, 'what joy it is to think we have not lived in vain! But this morning, we were lamenting at the thought of coming death; now, we shall give up life with such different feelings, for we know that a remembrance of us will remain in the hearts of the gentle and good! We have done all we could do; "we have sown the seed of a right thought, and who knows what good actions may spring from it?"'

"Calmly and quietly, the twin-flowers waited for death; and when the sun sunk in the west, they closed for ever, gladdened by the knowledge that they had not lived in vain."

As Uncle Paul ceased, he saw that Bernard's face was grave, and that down Marian's cheeks the tears were trickling fast, while Kate clung more closely than common to his side. The story had brought "solemn" thoughts to them all, but "sad" ones to Marian only.

"I did not wish to make you unhappy, my darlings," said Uncle Paul tenderly. "But is it not as well to look at both sides of the picture? Death is as certain to overtake each of us as it is the little flower which lives but for a day. And yet, while we love to look at all which belongs to life, we shrink from looking at what is every night brought a day nearer to each of us. Uncle Paul is growing old, my darlings; his hair is white. It is summer 'here' now, but for all that, 'he' is in the winter of life. He does not know whether the season will be a short or a long one; but he knows it is the last of the four, and that his spring, summer, and autumn are gone already. He looks back on them, and often wishes that he had done more and better than he has. So he preaches to you, children, that you may begin to work while it is yet your spring-time, and have the less to regret should you live until life's winter."

There was no answer in words when Uncle Paul finished speaking; but Kate kissed his cheek again and again, and passed her little fingers lovingly through his white hair; while Bernard pressed his hand, as if by way of pledge that his words should not be thrown away. Down Marian's cheeks the tears now flowed like rain, and Uncle Paul guessed that conscience was reminding her of a neglected duty. So putting Kate aside, after a loving caress, he passed his kind arm round Marian, and said:

"Dear child, I have a word or two to say to you in particular. Shall I send these others away, and whisper them in your ear only?"

He waited for her reply, and Marian answered in a low voice: "No, dear Uncle Paul; let them hear what you say to me. Then we shall all learn something more from your story."

"I was thinking, my darlings," said Uncle Paul, "that when we do a single kind act, from the mere impulse of a moment, and not habitually because it is right, we are like the flash of lightning, which dazzles for a moment, but makes the darkness seem all the greater when it is gone. For instance, Marian here worked very hard for a little while to perform an act of kindness. Her gift to the poor widow's children came upon them as unexpectedly as the flash of lightning, and her promise of further help raised a degree of hope in their minds, which, not having been fulfilled, must have caused far greater disappointment than the mere absence of the promised comforts could have occasioned. The disappointment was thus the greater darkness that followed the flash of light and hope. Now, the true and steady charity which springs from the habitual feeling and principle of right, is just like the bright sun, whose course is continued, to cheer and bless, from year to year, and whose mode of noting is only varied for the benefit of what it shines upon.

"Uncle Paul has done preaching now, children," added the dear old man; "and see, here comes the empty wagon, in good time, to fetch the last load of hay!"

Marian dried her tears, and they all rose from the ground to go and meet the merry group of children who had come in the wagon. Amongst them Marian distinguished the forms of the poor widow and her little folks, and she whispered to her uncle: "I am so sorry I have been lazy and forgetful of my promise, Uncle Paul. I shall be punished by the sight of those children who might have had their new clothes, if I had worked in my spare hours half as hard as I did at first."

"They are not ragged, though, Marian," said her uncle.

To the young girl's great astonishment, she saw that the widow's children were dressed in new frocks and pinafores of the very same stuff as she had chosen.

"One would think, Uncle Paul," she remarked, "that some good industrious fairy had taken pity on them, and finished my work."

"It was some one who is both good and industrious, but no fairy, Marian." Uncle Paul glanced towards Mrs. Ingram as he spoke, and Marian knew the truth.

"Oh, mother," said she, "I know now why you have spent an hour or two every day shut up in your own room. You were doing the work which my hands ought to have finished."

"Yes," interposed her uncle, "mamma has acted the part of the good fairy this time, and I hope the lesson will not be lost upon you, my dear. For, remember, through using up the 'fragments' of her time only, she has been enabled to confer a great benefit on these poor people. She has joined us in all our excursions and rambles, yet the remnants of leisure, well used, have sufficed for this work. You may cast aside fragments of anything else you please, and pick them up afterwards, but time once thrown away, is gone for ever."

There was no more preaching—as Uncle Paul called his kind warnings—after this. Bernard, Marian, and Kate found enough to do in decorating the little children with flowers, and the wagon with green-boughs; and when the small remaining portion of hay was put into it, the youngsters all rode home together in triumph. When they reached Hay-Lodge, the large kitchen was quite a sight. Long tables were set out, and covered with white cloths, and large cups placed on them. These, the three children filled with new milk, and as soon as the spice-buns were drawn hot from the oven, all the young guests were seated at table, and liberally supplied with them, to their great satisfaction, by Bernard, Marian, and Kate.

After the meal, they had a hearty romp on the lawn; and at eight o'clock, each child was supplied with another bun, and sent home in high glee, and very grateful to Uncle Paul for the treat he had given them. Only city-children, like the little Ingrams themselves, can understand how delightful these country scenes are.

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