{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_15895/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_15895","id":"gutenberg_15895","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15895","summary":null,"tags":["Allegories","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Short Stories","Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Wright American Fiction, Curtis Weyant, Mary\nMeehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                           Allegories of Life\n\n                          BY MRS. J. S. ADAMS\n\n                                 1872\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n       I. THE BELLS\n\n      II. THE HEIGHT\n\n     III. THE PILGRIM\n\n      IV. FAITH\n\n       V. HOPE\n\n      VI. JOY AND SORROW\n\n     VII. UPWARD\n\n    VIII. THE OAK\n\n      IX. TRUTH AND ERROR\n\n       X. THE TREE\n\n      XI. THE TWO WAYS\n\n     XII. THE URNS\n\n    XIII. SELF-EXERTION\n\n     XIV. THE VINES\n\n      XV. IN THE WORLD\n\n     XVI. FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY\n\n    XVII. GOING FORTH\n\n   XVIII. THE FEAST\n\n     XIX. THE LESSON OF THE STONE\n\n      XX. THE SEEDS\n\n     XXI. ONLY GOLD\n\n    XXII. THE SACRIFICE\n\n   XXIII. STRANGERS\n\n\n\n\nI.\n\nTHE BELLS.\n\n\nIn the steeple of an old church was a beautiful chime of bells, which\nfor many years had rung out joyous peals at the touch of the sexton's\nhand upon the rope.\n\n\"I'll make the air full of music to-morrow,\" said the white-haired man,\nas he lay down to his slumbers. \"To-morrow is Christmas, and the people\nshall be glad and gay. Ah, yes! right merry will be the chimes I shall\nring them.\" Soon sleep gathered him in a close embrace, and visions of\nthe morrow's joy flitted over his brain.\n\nAt midnight some dark clouds swept over the tower, while darker shadows\nof discontent fell on the peaceful chime.\n\nHark! what was that? A low, discordant sound was heard among the bells.\n\n\"Here we have been ringing for seven long years,\" murmured the highest\nbell in the chime.\n\n\"Well, what of it? That's what we are placed here for,\" said a voice\nfrom one of the deeper-toned bells.\n\n\"But I have rung long enough. Besides, I am weary of always singing\none tone,\" answered the high bell, in a clear, sharp voice.\n\n\"Together we make sweetest harmony,\" returned the bell next the\ncomplainer.\n\n\"I well know that, but I am tired of my one tone, while you can bear\nmonotony. For my part, I do not mean to answer to the call of the rope\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"What! not ring on Christmas Day!\" exclaimed all the bells together.\n\n\"No, I don't. You may exclaim as much as you please; but, if you\nhad common sympathy, you would see in a moment how weary I am of\nsinging this one high tone.\"\n\n\"But we all have to give our notes,\" responded a low, sweet-voiced bell.\n\n\"That's just what I mean to change. We are all weary of our notes,\nand need change.\"\n\n\"But we should have to be recast,\" said the low-toned bell, sadly.\n\n\"Most certainly we should. _I_ should like the fun of that. Now how\nmany of you will be silent in the morning when the old sexton comes to\nring us?\"\n\n\"I will,\" answered the lowest-toned bell, boldly.\n\n\"If part of us are silent and refuse to ring, of what use will the rest\nbe?\" said one who had remained quiet until then. \"For a chime all of\nus are needed,\" she added, sadly.\n\n\"That's just the point,\" remarked the leader. \"If all will be still, none\nwill be blamed: the people will think we are worn out and need making\nover. So we shall be taken down from this tower where we have been so\nlong, and stand a chance of seeing something of the world. For _my_\npart, I am tired to death of being up here, and seeing nothing but this\nquiet valley.\"\n\nA murmur ran from one to another, till all agreed to be silent on the\nmorrow, though many of the chime would have preferred to ring as usual.\n\nThe man who had presented the bells to the church returned at midnight,\nafter a long journey to his native valley, bringing with him a friend,\nalmost solely to hear the beautiful chime on the morrow.\n\nAs he passed the church, on his way home, the murmuring of the bells\nwas just ceasing. \"The wind moves them--the beautiful bells,\" he said.\n\"But to-morrow you shall hear how sweet they will sing,\" he added,\ncasting a loving glance up to the tower where hung the bells.\n\nA few miles from the valley, close to the roadside, stood a cottage\ninhabited by a man and wife whose only child was fast fading from the\nworld.\n\n\"Raise me up a little, mother,\" said the dying boy, \"so I can hear the\nChristmas chime. It will be the last time I shall hear them here, mother.\nIs it almost morning?\"\n\nThe pale mother wiped the death-dew from his brow and kissed him,\nsaying, \"Yes, dear, it's almost morning. The bells will chime soon as\nthe first ray comes over the hills.\"\n\nPatiently the child sat, pillowed in his bed, till the golden arrows of\nlight flashed over the earth. Day had come, but no chime.\n\n\"What can be the matter?\" said the anxious mother, as she strained her\neyes in the direction of the tower.\n\nWhat if the old sexton were dead? The thought took all her strength\naway. If death had taken him first, who would lay her boy tenderly away?\n\n\"Is it almost time?\"\n\n\"Almost, Jimmy, darling. Perhaps the old sexton has slept late.\"\n\n\"Will the bells chime in heaven, mother?\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, I hope so.\"\n\n\"Will they ring them for me if--if--I--mother! hark! the bells _are_\nringing! The good old sexton has gone to the church at last!\"\n\nThe boy's eyes glistened with a strange light. In vain the mother\nlistened. No sound came to _her_ ears. All was still as death.\n\n\"Oh, how beautiful they sing!\" he said, and fell back and died.\n\nOther chimes fell on his ear, sweeter far than the bells of St. Auburn.\n\nFor more than an hour the old sexton had been working at the ropes\nin vain. No sound come forth from either bell.\n\n\"What can be the matter?\" he exclaimed, nervously. \"For seven long years\nthey have not failed to ring out their tones. I'll try once more.\" And he\ndid so, vigorously.\n\nJust then the figure of a man stood in the doorway. It was the owner\nof the chime. He had gone to the sexton's house, not hearing the bells\nat the usual hour, thinking he had overslept; and, not finding him, had\nsought him at the church.\n\nHe tried the ropes himself, but with no more success than the sexton.\n\n\"What can it mean?\" he said, as he turned sorrowfully away.\n\nIt was a sad Christmas in the pleasant valley. To have those sweet\nsounds missing, and on such a day,--it was a loss to all, and an omen\nof ill to many.\n\nThe next day, workmen were sent to the tower to examine the bells. No\ndefect was perceptible. They were sound and whole, and no mischief-making\nlad, as some had suggested, had stolen their tongues.\n\nThe bells were taken down and carried to a distant city to be recast.\n\n\"There! didn't I tell you we should see the world?\" said their leader,\nafter they were packed and on their way.\n\n\"I don't think we are seeing much of it now, in this dark box,\" answered\none of the bells.\n\n\"Wait till we are at our journey's end. We are in a transition state\nnow. Haven't I listened to the old pastor many a time, and heard him\nsay those very words? I could not comprehend them then, but I can now.\nOh, how delightful it is to have the prospect of some change before\nus!\" Thus the old bell chatted to the journey's end, while the other\nbells had but little to say.\n\nThree days later they were at the end of their long ride, and placed,\none by one, in a fiery furnace. Instead of murmurs now, their groans\nfilled the air.\n\n\"Oh, for one moment's rest from the heat and the hammer! Oh, that we\nwere all at the sweet vale of St. Auburn!\" said the leader of all their\nsorrow.\n\n\"How sweetly would we sing!\" echoed all.\n\n\"It's a terrible thing to be recast!\" sighed the deepest-toned bell;\nand he quivered with fear as they placed him in the furnace.\n\nAt last, after much suffering, they were pronounced perfect, and repacked\nfor their return.\n\nThe same tone was given to each, but the quality was finer, softer, and\nricher than before. The workmen knew not why--none but the suffering\nbells, and the master hand who put them into the furnace of affliction.\n\nThey were all hung once more in the tower--wiser and better bells.\nNever again was heard a murmur of discontent from either because but\none tone was its mission. In the moonlight they talk among themselves,\nof their sad but needful experience, and of the lesson which it taught\nthem,--as we hope it has our reader,--that each must be faithful to the\nquality or tone which the Master has given us, and which is needful to\nthe rich and full harmonies of life.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE HEIGHT.\n\n\nThere was once an aged man who lived upon an exceeding high mountain for\nmany years; but, as his strength began to decline, he found the ascent so\ntedious for his feeble steps that he went into the valley to live.\n\nIt was very hard for him to give up the view from its lofty height of\nthe sun which sank so peacefully to rest. Long before the sleepers in\nthe valley awoke, he was watching the golden orb as it broke through the\nmists and flung its beauties over the hills.\n\n\"This must be my last day upon the mountain top,\" he said. \"The little\nstrength which is left me I must devote to the culture of fruit and\nflowers in the valley, and no longer spend it in climbing up and down\nthese hills, whose tops rest their peaks in the fleecy clouds. I have\nenjoyed many years of repose and grandeur, and must devote the remainder\nof my life to helping the people in the valley.\"\n\nAt sunset the old man descended, with staff in hand, and went slowly down\nthe mountain side. Such lovely blossoms, pink, golden, and scarlet, met\nhis eye as he gazed on the gardens of the laborers, that he involuntarily\nexclaimed, \"I fear I have spent my days not wisely on yonder mountain\ntop, taking at least a third of my time in climbing up and down. Richer\nflowers grow here in the valley; the air is softer, and the grass like\nvelvet to the tread. I'll see if there is a vacant cottage for me.\"\n\nSaying this, he accosted a laborer who was just returning from his\ntoil: \"Good man, do you know of any cottage near which I can rent?\"\n\n\"Why! you are the old man from the mountain,\" exclaimed the astonished\nperson addressed.\n\n\"I am coming to the valley to live. I am now seeking a shelter.\"\n\n\"Yonder,\" answered the man, \"is a cottage just vacated by a man and\nwife. Would that suit you?\"\n\n\"Anything that will shelter me will suit,\" was the answer. \"Dost thou\nknow who owns the house?\"\n\n\"Von Nellser, the gardener. He lives down by the river now, and works for\nall the rich men in the valley.\"\n\n\"I'll see him to-night,\" said the old man, and, thanking his informant,\nwas moving on.\n\n\"But, good father, the sun has already set; the night shades appear.\nCome and share my shelter and bread to-night, and in the morning seek\nVon Nellser.\"\n\nThe old man gladly accepted his kind offer. \"The vale makes men kindly of\nheart and feeling,\" he said, as he uncovered his head to enter the home\nof the laborer. A fair woman of forty came forward, and clasped his hand\nwith a warmth of manner which made him feel more at ease than many words\nof welcome would have done.\n\nThe three sat together at supper, and refreshed themselves with food\nand thought.\n\nHe retired early to the nice apartment assigned him, and lay awake a\nlong time, musing on the past and the present. \"Ah, I see,\" he said to\nhimself, \"why I am an object of wonder and something of awe to the\npeople of the valley. I have lived apart from human ties, while they have\ngrown old and ripe together. I must be a riddle to them all--a something\nwhich they have invested with an air of veneration, because I was not\ndaily in their midst. Had it been otherwise, I should have been neither\nnew nor fresh to them. How know I but this is God's reserve force\nwherewith each may become refreshed, and myself an humble instrument\nsent in the right moment to vivify those who have been thinking alike too\nmuch?\"\n\nHe fell asleep, and awoke just as the sun was throwing its bright rays\nover his bed. \"Dear old day-god,\" he said, with reverence, and arose\nand dressed himself, still eying the sun's early rays. \"One of thy golden\nmessengers must content me now,\" he said, a little sadly. \"I can no\nlonger see thee in all thy majesty marching up the mountain side; no\nlonger can I follow thee walking over the hill-tops, and resting thy head\nagainst the crimson sky at evening: but smile on me, Sun, while in the\nvale I tarry, and warm my seeds to life while on thy daily march.\"\n\nThe old man went from his room refreshed by sleep, and partook of the\nbread and honey which the kind woman had ready for him. Then, thanking\nthem for their hospitality, he departed.\n\nThe laborer and wife watched him out of sight, and thought they had\nnever seen anything more beautiful than his white hair waving in the\nmorning breeze.\n\nAt dusk a light shone in the vacant cottage, and they sent him fresh\ncakes, milk, and honey for his evening meal.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTen years passed away. The old man had cultured his land, and no fairer\nflowers or sweeter fruits grew in the valley than his own. He had taught\nthe people many truths which he had learned in his solitary life on the\nmountain, and in return had learned much from them. He faded slowly away.\nThe brilliant flowers within his garden grew suddenly distasteful to him.\nHe longed to look once more on a pure white blossom which grew only at\nthe mountain top. With its whiteness no flower could compare. There were\nothers, growing half way up, that approached its purity, but none equaled\nthe flower on the summit.\n\n\"I should like, of all things,\" answered the old man, when they desired\nto know what would most please him,--for he had become a great favorite\nin the valley,--\"to look once more upon my pure white flower ere I die;\nbut it's so far to the mountain top, none will care to climb.\"\n\n\"Thou _shalt_ see it!\" exclaimed a strong youth, who was courageous,\nbut seldom completed anything he undertook, for lack of perseverance.\n\nThe old man blessed him. He started for the mountain, and walked a\nlong way up its side, often missing his footing, and at one time seeking\naid from a rotten branch, which broke in his grasp and nearly threw him\nto the base.\n\nAfter repeated efforts to reach the summit, he found a sweet, pale\nblossom growing in a mossy nook by a rock.\n\n\"Ah! here it is--the same, I dare say, as those on the mountain top.\nSo what need of climbing farther? What a lucky fellow I am to save so\nmany steps for myself!\" and he went down the mountain side as fast as\nhe could, amid the rank and tangled wood, with the flower in his hand.\n\nDay was walking over the meadows with golden feet when he entered\nthe cottage and placed the blossom exultingly in the old man's palm.\n\n\"What! so quick returned?\" he said. \"Thou must have been very swift--but\nthis, my good young man, never grew on the mountain top! Thee must have\nfound this half way up. I remember well those little flowers--they grew\nby the rocks where I used to rest when on my journey up.\"\n\nThe crowd who had come to see the strange white flower now laughed aloud,\nwhich made the youth withdraw, abashed and much humbled. Had he been\nstrong of heart, he would have tried again, and not returned without the\nblossom from the mountain top. Many others tried, but never had the\ncourage to reach its height; while the old man daily grew weaker.\n\n\"He'll die without setting eyes on his flower,\" said the good woman\nwho had given him shelter the night he came to the valley. She had not\nthe courage to try the ascent, but she endeavored to stimulate others to\ngo to the top and bring the blossom to cheer his heart. She offered, as\nreward, choice fruits and linen from her stores; but all had some excuse,\nalthough they loved the old man tenderly: none felt equal to the effort.\n\nTowards noon, a pale, fragile girl, from a distant part of the vale,\nappeared, who had heard of his desire, and stood at the door of his\ncottage and knocked.\n\n\"What dost thou wish?\" he asked from within.\n\n\"To go to the mountain for the flower and place it in thy hand,\" she\nanswered, as she entered his room and meekly stood before him.\n\n\"Thou art very frail of body,\" he replied, \"but strong of heart. Go,\ntry, and my soul will follow and strengthen thee, fair daughter.\"\n\nShe kissed his hand, and departed.\n\nThe morning came, and she returned not. The end of the second day\ndrew nigh, and yet she came not back.\n\n\"Pooh, pooh!\" exclaimed one of a group of wood-cutters near by the\ncottage. \"Such a fool-hardy errand will only be met by death. The old\nman ought to be content to die without sight of his flower when it costs\nso much labor to get it.\"\n\n\"So think me,\" said his comrade, between the puffs of his pipe; \"so\nthink me. Our flowers are pretty, and good 'nough, too. Sure, he\norter be content with what grows 'round him, and not be sending folk\na-climbing.\" This said, he resumed his smoking vigorously, and looked\nvery wise.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe aged man of the mountain was passing rapidly away. The kind\nneighbors laid him for the last time on his cot, and sat tearfully around\nthe room. Some stood in groups outside, looking wistfully towards the\nmountain; for their kind hearts could not bear to see him depart without\nthe flower to gladden his eyes.\n\n\"The girl's gone a long time,\" remarked one of the women.\n\n\"The longer she's gone, the surer the sign she's reached the mountain\ntop. It's a long way up there, and a weary journey back. My feet have\ntrod it often, and I know all the sharp rocks and the tangled branches\nin the way. But she will come yet. I hear footsteps not far away.\"\n\n\"But too late, we fear, for your eyes to behold the blossom, should she\nbring it.\"\n\n\"Then put it on my grave--but hark! she comes--some one approaches!\"\n\nThrough the crowd, holding high the spotless flower, came the fair girl,\nwith torn sandals and weary feet, but with beaming eyes. The old man\nraised himself in bed, while she knelt to receive his blessing.\n\n\"Fair girl,\"--he spoke in those clear tones which the dying ever\nuse,--\"the whiteness of this blossom is only rivaled by the angels'\ngarments. Its spotless purity enters ever into the soul of him who plucks\nit, making it white as their robes. To all who persevere to the mountain\ntop and pluck this flower, into all does its purity, its essence, enter\nand remain forever. For is it not the reward of the toiler, who pauses\nnot till the summit is gained?\"\n\n\"Oh! good man, the mountain view was so grand, I fain would have lingered\nto gaze; but, longing to lay the blossom in thy hand, I hastened back.\"\n\n\"Thou shalt behold all the grandeur thy toil has earned thee. Unto\nthose who climb to the mountain summit, who mind not the sharp rocks\nand loose, rough grass beneath their tread,--unto such shall all the\nviews be given; for they shall some day be lifted in vision, without aid\nof feet, to grander heights than their weary limbs have reached.\"\n\nThe old man lay back and died.\n\nThey buried him, with the flower on his breast, one day just as the sun\nwas setting. Ere the winter snows fell, many of the laborers, both men\nand women, went up the mountain to its very top, and brought back the\nwhite blossoms to deck his grave.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe summit only has the view, and the white flower of purity grows\nupon it. Shall we ascend and gather it? or, like the youth, climb but\nhalf the distance, and cheat our eyes and souls of the view from the\nheight?\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nTHE PILGRIM.\n\n\nOne sultry summer day a youthful pilgrim sat by the roadside, weary and\ndispirited, saying, \"I cannot see why I was ordered to tarry beside this\nhard, unsightly rock, after journeying as many days as I have. Something\nbetter should have been given me to rest upon after walking so far. If it\nwere only beside some shady tree, I could wait the appearance of the\nguide. My lot is hard indeed. I do not see any pilgrim here. Others are\nprobably resting beneath green trees and by running brooks. I will look\nat my directions once more;\" and she drew the paper from her girdle and\nread slowly these words: \"Tarry at the rock, and do not go on till the\nguide appears to conduct you to your journey's end.\" She folded and\nreplaced the paper with a sigh, while the murmur still went on: \"It's\nvery hard, when beyond I see beautiful green trees, whose long branches\nwould shelter me from the burning sun. How thirsty I am, too! My bread is\nno longer sweet, for want of water. Oh, that I could search for a spring!\nI am sure I could find one if permitted to go on my journey. If the rock\nwas not so hard I could pillow my head upon it. Ah me! I have been so\noften told that the guide had great wisdom, and knew what was good and\nbest for us pilgrims; but this surely looks very dark.\"\n\nHere weariness overcame the pilgrim, and involuntarily she laid her\nhead upon the rock; when, lo! a sudden spring was touched, and the\nwaters leaped, pure and sparkling, from the hard, unsightly spot. This\nwas the guide's provision for his pilgrim. It was no longer mystical why\nhe had ordered her to tarry there.\n\nWhen she had drank, and the parched throat was cool and the whole\nbeing refreshed, the guide appeared rounding a gentle curve of the road,\nand bade her follow him through a dense forest which lay between the\nrock and the journey's end. The steps of the pilgrim now were more\nfirm, for trust was begotten within her, and the light of hope gleamed\non her brow--as it will at last upon us all, when the waters have gushed\nfrom the bare rocks which lie in the pathways of our lives.\n\nAt last we shall learn that our Father, the great Guide, leads us where\nflow living waters, and that he never forsakes us in time of need.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nFAITH.\n\n\n\"Children,\" said a faithful father, one day, to his sons and daughters,\n\"I have a journey to take which will keep me many days, perhaps weeks,\nfrom you; and as we have no power over conditions,--such as storms,\nsickness, or any of the so-called accidents of life,--I may be detained\nlong beyond my appointed time of absence. I trust, however, that you will\neach have confidence in me; and, should illness to myself or others\ndetain me, that you will all trust and wait.\"\n\n\"We will, father!\" shouted a chorus of voices, which was music to his\nears.\n\nWith a fond embrace to each, he left them. Slowly he walked down\nthe winding path which led from his home. He heard the voices of his\nchildren on the air long after he entered the highway--voices which he\nmight not hear, perchance, for many months. Sweeter than music to his\nsoul were those sounds floating on the summer air. Over the hill and\ndale he rode till night came on, and then, before reposing, he lifted his\nsoul to heaven for blessings on his household.\n\nWith the sun he arose and pursued his journey. The summer days\nwent down into autumn; the emerald leaves changed their hues for gold\nand scarlet; ripe fruits hung in ruby and yellow clusters from their\nstrong boughs; while over the rocks, crimson vines were trailing. Slowly\nthe tints of autumn faded. Soon the white frosts lay on the meadows\nlike snow-sheets; the days were shorter and the air more crisp and chill.\nAround the evening fire the household of the absent parent began to\ngather. While summer's beauties abounded they had not missed him so\nmuch, but now they talked each to the other, and grew strangely restless\nat his long delay.\n\n\"Did he not tell us,\" said the eldest, \"that sickness or accident might\ndelay him?\"\n\n\"But he sends us no word, no sign, to make us at rest.\"\n\n\"The roads may not be passable,\" replied the brother, whose faith as\nyet was not dimmed. \"Already the snow has blocked them for miles\naround us, and we know not what greater obstacles lie beyond. No, let\nus trust our father,\" he added, with a depth of feeling which touched\nthem all; and for a few days they rested in the faith that he would come\nand be again in their midst. But, alas! how short-lived is the trust of\nthe human heart! how limited its vision! It cannot pierce the passing\nclouds, nor stretch forth its hand in darkness.\n\nTogether they sat one evening, in outer and inner darkness,--again in\nthe shadows of distrust.\n\n\"He will never return,\" said one of the group, in sad and sorrowing\ntones.\n\n\"My father will come,\" lisped the youngest of them all,--the one on\nwhom the others looked as but a babe in thought and feeling.\n\n\"I am weary with watching,\" said another, as she went from the window\nwhere she had been looking, for so many days, for the loved form. \"Our\nfather has forgotten us all,\" she moaned, and bowed her head and wept.\n\nThere was no one to comfort; for all were sad, knowing that naught but a\nfew crusts remained for their morrow's food--and who would provide for\nthe coming days? Lights and fuel too were wanting, and winter but half\ngone. Even the faith of the eldest had long since departed, and he too\nhad yielded to distrust.\n\n\"My father will come,\" still whispered the little one, strong in her\nchild-trust, while the others doubted.\n\n\"It's because she's so young, and cannot reason like us,\" they said\namong themselves.\n\n\"Perhaps God can speak to her because she is so simple,\" said one of\nthe household with whom words were few.\n\nThey looked at each other as though a ray of sunlight had flashed\nthrough their dwelling. Something akin to hope began to spring in their\nhearts, but died away as the chilling blasts came moaning around them.\n\nThree days passed, while the storm raged and threatened to bury their\nhome beneath the heavy snows. There was no food now to share between\nthem. The last crumb had been given the child to soften her cries of\nhunger.\n\n\"I can stand this no longer,\" said the eldest, wrapping his garments\naround him, and preparing to go forth to find labor and bread for his\nbrothers and sisters. \"Ah, that I should ever have lived to see this\nday!\"--he murmured--\"the day in which we are deserted and forgotten\nby our father.\"\n\nThe sound of murmuring within now mingled with the sighing of the winds\nwithout. He stepped to the door; but for an instant the fierce blasts\ndrove him back--yet but for an instant. \"I will not add cowardice to\nsorrow,\" he said to them, in reply to their entreaties not to go in the\nstorm. With one strong effort he faced the chilling sleet, which so\nblinded him that he could not find the path which led to the highway;\nyet he went bravely on, till hunger and chill overcame him, and he could\nno longer see or even feel. He grew strangely dizzy, and would have\nfallen to the ground, but for a pair of strong arms which at that instant\nheld him fast. He was too much overcome to know who it was that thus\nenfolded him; but soon a well-known voice rose above the wind and the\nstorm,--he knew that his father's arms were about him, and he feared\nno more. In the hour of greatest need the father had come. There, in\nthat hour of brave effort, he was spared a long exposure to the wintry\nblast. A carriage laden with food, fuel, and timely gifts, for each, was\nalready on the road, and would soon deposit its bounties at the door of\nthose whose faith had deserted them.\n\nWhat a happy household gathered around the father that night! There\nwas no need of lamps to reveal the joy on their faces, and the darkness\ncould not hide the tears which coursed down their cheeks. The little one\nawoke shouting, in her child-trust, \"My father has come! me knew him\nwould!\"\n\nAnd they called her Faith from that hour.\n\nThe only alloy in the joy of the others was, as the kind father explained\nto them the causes of his delay, that they had not trusted him with the\nfaith of the little child; and when he told them of the strange people he\nhad been among, who needed counsel and instruction, and their great\nneed of his ministrations, they sorrowed much that doubt had shadowed\nfor a moment their trust in their father.\n\nThus do we distrust our Heavenly Parent; and when our needs rise\nlike mountains before us, and all _seems_ dark, we cry, \"Alas! he has\nforgotten us!\" And yet in our deepest night a light appears, his strong\narm uplifts us, and we are taught how holy a thing is Faith.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nHOPE.\n\n\nDarkness had been upon the earth for a long time. It was a period of war\nand bloodshed, crime and disaster.\n\nThe old earth seemed draped in habiliments of mourning; and there\nwas cause for aching hearts, for out of many homes had gone unto battle\nsons, fathers, and husbands, who would return no more. They fell in\nservice; and kind mothers and wives could not take one farewell look at\ntheir still, white faces, but must go about their homes as though life\nhad lost none of its helps.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"The poor, sad earth!\" said one of a glad band, belonging to a starry\nsphere above. \"I long to comfort its people; but my mission is given\nme to guide souls through the death valley, and bear them to their\nfriends in the summer-land. I must not leave my post of duty. Who will\ngo?\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Love, in sweet, silvery tones.\n\n\"You are too frail to descend into such darkness as at present envelops\nthe earth; beside, they need another, a different element just now, to\nprepare the way for better things.\"\n\n\"Who shall it be?\" they all said, and looked from one to the other.\n\n\"Hope,\" said their leader, the queen of the starry band.\n\nThere was to be high festival that night, in a temple dedicated to the\nMuses; and it was quite a sacrifice for any of their number to leave\ntheir happy sphere, for one so dark as that of earth.\n\nHope came forward at the mention of her name, holding in her hand\nthe half-finished garland which she had been twining for one of the\nGraces.\n\n\"Wilt thou go to earth to-night, fair Hope?\" asked the queen.\n\nThe star on her fair brow glittered brighter as she said unhesitatingly,\n\"I will.\"\n\n\"Your mission will be to carry garlands to every habitation which has\na light within. The others you cannot, of course, discern. Come now,\nand let me clasp this strong girdle about thy waist, to which I shall\nattach a cord, by which to let you down to earth.\"\n\nThey filled her arms with garlands, and flung some about her neck, till\nshe was laden and ready to go.\n\n\"Now,\" said their leader, \"descend on this passing cloud; and while\nyou are gone we will sing anthems for you, to keep your heart bright and\nlinked to ours.\"\n\nThen she fastened the cord to her golden girdle, and let her down\ngently from the skies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn a little cottage by a roadside sat Mary Deane and her sister, reading.\nThey were two fair orphans whose father and brother were lost in battle.\n\n\"Let's put out the light, and look at the stars awhile,\" said the\nyoungest.\n\n\"Not yet, dear, it's too early. There may be some passer-by, and a\nlight is such a comfort to a traveler on the road. Many a time our\nneighbor's light has sent a glow over me which has enabled me to reach\nhome much sooner, if not in better humor.\"\n\n\"As you like, sister,--but hark! I thought I heard footsteps.\"\n\nThey listened, and, hearing nothing more, finished their reading and\nretired to rest.\n\nOn opening their door the next morning, their eyes were gladdened by\na lovely garland which hung on the knob. The flowers were rich in,\nperfume and color--unlike anything they had seen on earth.\n\nMuch they marveled, and wondered from whence they came, and still\ngreater was their joy to find they did not fade.\n\nHope found a great many dwellings with lights in them, but had to pass\nmany, as there was no lamp to signal them. At the door of the former\nshe left garlands to gladden the inmates.\n\n\"It's no use to waste our oil: we have nothing to read or interest\nus,\" said one of two lonely women, on the night Hope came to the earth.\nSo they sat down gloomily together, the darkness adding to their\ncheerlessness, while a bright glow within would have gladdened them and\nall without.\n\nHope went by, laden with garlands, just as they took their seats in the\nshadows. She would gladly have left them, for she had enough and to\nspare; but, seeing no sign of a habitation, walked on.\n\nThe two women talked of the dreary world until they went to rest. What\nwas their surprise, in the morning, to find their neighbors rejoicing\nover their mysterious gifts.\n\n\"Why had we none?\" they said again and again. \"The poor never have half\nas much given them as the wealthy,\" they cried, and went back to their\ngloom and despair.\n\n\"Did you find a wreath on your doorstep this morning?\" inquired a\nbright, hopeful woman at noon, who had brought them a part of her\ndinner.\n\n\"No, indeed!\" they answered. \"Did you find one on yours?\"\n\n\"The handsomest wreath I ever saw. Who ever could have made\none so lovely? But\"--she stopped suddenly, on seeing their sad faces.\n\"You shall have part of mine: I will cut it in two.\"\n\n\"Never!\" said the eldest quickly. \"There is some reason why we\nwere omitted; and, until we can know the cause, you must keep your\nwreath unbroken.\"\n\nIt was very noble of her to come out of herself and refuse to accept\nwhat she instinctively felt did not belong to her.\n\nA week passed away. A child in the village had had strange dreams\nconcerning the gifts, which, in substance, was that a beautiful angel\nhad come from the stars above, and brought flowers to every house in\nwhich a light was seen.\n\n\"We did not have any light that night,--don't you remember?\" remarked the\neldest of the women, as their neighbor told them of the strange dream.\n\n\"There must be _something_ in it,\" answered the little bright-eyed\nwoman. \"For all the dwellings had flowers which were lighted.\"\n\n\"I suppose we ought always to be more hopeful,\" said the women\ntogether. \"The lamps of our houses should typify the light of hope,\nwhich should never be dim, nor cease burning.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHope was taken up, by a golden cord, to her abode. The starry group\nsang heavenly anthems to refresh her, and Love twined a fresh garland\nfor her brow. They held another festival in the temple, in honor of her\nand her safe return from the earth.\n\nEver since she has been the brightest light in the group; and at night,\nwhen the clouds rising from the earth obscure all the others, the star on\nthe brow of Hope is shining with a heavenly lustre, and seen by all whose\ngaze is upward.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nJOY AND SORROW.\n\n\nMany years ago, two visitors were sent from realms above, to enter the\nhomes of earth's inhabitants, and see how much of true happiness and real\nsorrow there were in their midst. Hand in hand they walked together, till\nthey entered a pleasant valley nestled among green hills. At the base of\none of these stood a cottage covered with roses and honeysuckles, which\nlooked very inviting; and the external did not belie the interior.\n\nThe family consisted of a man and wife somewhat advanced in years,\nan aged and infirm brother, and two lovely young girls, grandchildren\nof the couple.\n\nThe pleasant murmur of voices floated on the air,--pleasant to the ear\nas the perfume of the roses climbing over the door was to the sense of\nsmell. It chimed with the spell of the summer morning, and the sisters\nknew that harmony was within.\n\n\"Let us enter,\" said Joy.\n\nSorrow, who was unwilling to go into any abode, lingered outside.\n\nWithin, all was as clean and orderly as one could desire: the young\ngirls were diligently sewing, while before them lay an open volume, from\nwhich they occasionally read a page or so, thus mingling instruction with\nlabor.\n\nJoy entered, and accosted them with, \"A bright morning.\"\n\n\"Very lovely,\" answered the girls, and they arose and placed a chair\nfor their visitor.\n\n\"We have much to be grateful for every day, but very much on such a\nday as this,\" remarked the grandmother.\n\n\"You're a busy family,\" said Joy.\n\n\"Yes, we all labor, and are fond of it,\" answered the woman, looking\nfondly at the girls. \"We have many blessings, far more than we can be\ngrateful for, I sometimes think.\"\n\n\"Yes, I tell mother,\" broke in the husband, \"that we must never lose\nsight of our blessings; in fact, they are all such, though often in\ndisguise.\"\n\nAt that moment Sorrow looked in at the open door. It was so seldom\nthat _she_ was recognized that she longed to enter.\n\n\"You have a friend out there: ask her in,\" said the woman.\n\nJoy turned and motioned her sister to enter. She came in softly, and\nsat beside Joy, while the woman spoke of her family, at the desire of\neach of the sisters to know of her causes of happiness.\n\n\"Yes, they are all blessings in disguise,\" she said, \"though I could not\nthink thus when I laid my fair-eyed boy in the grave; nor, later, when\nmy next child was born blind.\"\n\n\"Had you none other?\" asked Joy.\n\n\"One other, and she died of a broken heart.\"\n\nSorrow sighed deeply, and would rather have heard no more; but Joy\nwished to hear the whole, and asked the woman to go on.\n\n\"Yes, she died heart-broken; and these two girls are hers. It was\nvery hard that day to see the hand of God in the cloud when they\nbrought the body of her husband home all mangled, and so torn that\nnot a feature could be recognized; and then to see poor Mary, his wife,\npine day by day until we laid her beside him.\"\n\n\"But the blessing was in it, mother: we have found it so. They have\nonly gone to prepare the way, and we have much left us.\"\n\nThe words of the old man were true, and it was beautiful to see the\nface of his wife as it glowed with recognition.\n\nAt that moment the sisters threw back their veils. Such a radiant\nface was never seen in that cottage as the beaming countenance of Joy;\nwhile that of her sister was dark and sad to look upon.\n\n\"Oh, stay with us,\" exclaimed the girls to Joy, as the sisters rose to\ndepart.\n\n\"Most gladly would I, but I have a work to perform in your village;\nand, beside, I cannot leave my sister.\"\n\n\"But she is so dark and sad, why not leave her to go alone?\" said the\nyoungest girl, who had never seen Sorrow nor heard of her mission to\nearth before.\n\nSorrow was standing in the door and heard her remark. She hoped\nthe day would never come when _she_ should have to carry woe to her\nyoung heart; but her life was so uncertain she knew not who would be\nthe next whom she would have to envelop in clouds. She sighed, plucked\na rose, and pressed it to her nostrils, as though it was the last\nsweetness she would ever inhale.\n\n\"How I pity her!\" said the grandmother, her warm, blue eyes filling\nwith tears, as she looked at the bowed form in the doorway.\n\n\"Ah, good woman, she needs it; for few recognize her mission to them.\nShe is sent by our master to administer woes which contain heavenly\ntruths, while I convey glad tidings. I shall never leave my sister save\nwhen our labors are divided.\"\n\nThus spoke Joy, while tears filled the eyes of all.\n\nThen the kind woman went and plucked some roses and gave them to\nSorrow, who was weeping.\n\n\"I did not half know myself,\" she said, addressing the sad form; \"I\nthought I could see God's angels everywhere, but this time how have I\nfailed! Forgive me,\" she said to Sorrow, \"and when you are weary and\nneed rest, come to our cottage.\"\n\nSorrow gave her a sad but heavenly smile, and the sisters departed to\nthe next abode.\n\n\"Did you ever see them before?\" asked the children of their grandparents\nafter the sisters had gone.\n\n\"Often: they have been going round the world for ages,\" answered\ntheir grandparents.\n\n\"But Joy looks so young, grandpa.\"\n\n\"That's because she has naught to do with trouble. She belongs to the\nbright side. She carries good tidings and pleasure to all; while Sorrow,\nher sister, administers the woes.\"\n\n\"But Joy is good not to leave her sister.\"\n\n\"She cannot,\" said the grandparent.\n\n\"Cannot! Why?\"\n\n\"Because Providence has so ordered it that Joy and Sorrow go hand in\nhand,--pleasure and pain. No two forces in nature which are alike are\ncoupled. Day and night, sunshine and shadow, pleasure and pain, forever.\"\n\n\"But I should like to have Joy stay with us,\" said Helen, the youngest,\nto her grandparent.\n\n\"We shall ever be glad to see her; but we must never treat her sister\ncoldly or with indifference, as though she had no right to be among us;\nbecause, though in the external she is unlovely, within she is equally\nradiant with her sister,--not the same charm of brilliancy, but a softer,\ndiviner radiance shines about her soul.\"\n\n\"Why, grandpa, you make me almost love her,\" said Marion, the eldest,\nwhile Helen looked thoughtful and earnest.\n\nThe seeds of truth were dropped which at some future time would bear\nfruit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was a large and elegant house at which the sisters stopped next. A\nbeautiful lawn, hedged by hawthorne, sloped to the finely-graded street;\nwhile over its surface beds of brilliant flowers were blooming,\ncontrasting finely with the bright green carpet. They ascended the\ngranite steps which led to the portico, and rang the bell. A servant\nanswered the summons, and impatiently awaited their message.\n\n\"We would see the mistress of the mansion,\" said Joy.\n\nThey were shown into an elegant drawing-room, so large they could\nscarcely see the farther end. It was furnished in a most dazzling style,\nand gave none of that feeling of repose which is so desirable in a home.\nAfter what seemed a long time, the lady of the mansion appeared, looking\nvery much as though her visitors were intruders.\n\n\"A lovely day,\" said Joy.\n\n\"Beautiful for youth and health,\" she answered curtly; \"but all days\nare the same to me.\"\n\n\"You are ill, then,\" said Joy, sympathetically.\n\n\"Ill, and weary of this life. Nothing goes well in this world: there is\ntoo much sorrow to enjoy anything. But,\" she added after a brief silence,\n\"you are young, and cannot enter into my griefs.\"\n\n\"I have come for the purpose of bringing you comfort and hope if you\nwill but accept it,\" answered Joy, modestly.\n\n\"A stranger could scarcely show me what I cannot find. Be assured,\nyoung maiden, if I had the pleasures you suppose I possess, I should not\nbe tardy in seeing them. No, no: my life is a succession of cares and\nburdens.\"\n\nJoy was silent a moment, and then said, \"But you have health, a home,\nand plenty to dispense to the needy, which must be a comfort, at least,\nin a world of so much need.\"\n\n\"My home is large and elegant, I admit; but, believe me, the care of\nthe servants is a burden too great for human flesh.\"\n\nJoy thought how much better a cottage was, with just enough to meet\nthe wants of life, than a mansion full of hirelings; and she said,\nhopefully, \"Our blessings ever outnumber our woes. If we but look for\nthem, we shall be surprised each day to see how many they are. I am\non a visit to earth,\" continued Joy, \"to see how much real happiness I\ncan find, and help, if possible, to remove obstacles that hinder its\nadvancement. This is my sister, Sorrow,\" she continued, turning to her,\n\"who, like myself, has a mission, though by no means a pleasant one.\"\n\nThe sisters unveiled their faces.\n\nA flush of pleasure stole over the sallow face of the woman as she\ngazed upon the brightness of Joy's countenance; but the look quickly\nfaded at the sight of Sorrow's worn and weary features.\n\n\"My sister must tarry here,\" said Joy, as she rose to leave.\n\n\"Here! With me? Why! I can scarcely live now. What can I do\nwith her added to my troubles?\"\n\n\"It is thus decreed,\" answered Joy. \"You need the discipline which\nshe will bring to you.\"\n\nAnd she departed, leaving her sister in the elegant but cheerless\nmansion.\n\nThe mistress of the luxurious home had one fair daughter, whom she\nwas bringing up to lead a listless, indolent, and selfish life,--a life\nwhich would result in no good to herself or others.\n\nSorrow grew sadder each day as she saw the girl walking amid all the\nbeauties with which she was surrounded, careless of her own culture.\nShe felt, also, that she must at some time, and it might be soon,\nbe removed from her luxuries, or they from her. Each hour the fair girl's\nstep grew heavier, till at last she was too weak to walk, or even rise\nfrom her bed.\n\n\"All this comes of having that sad woman here,\" exclaimed the weeping\nmother as she bent over her daughter. \"I'll have her sent from the\nhouse this day.\" And she rang for a servant to send Sorrow away.\n\nAfter delivering her message to her maid, she felt somewhat relieved.\n\nThe servant went in search of Sorrow, but could not find her either in\nthe house, garden, on the lawn, or among the dark pines where she often\nwalked.\n\nWhither had she fled?\n\nAll the servants of the house were summoned to the search; but Sorrow\nwas not to be found, and they reported to the mistress their failure\nto find her.\n\n\"No matter,\" she replied, \"so long as she is no longer among us. Go\nto your labors now, keep the house very quiet, and be sure, before dark,\nto lock all the doors, that she may not enter unperceived.\"\n\nThey need not have bolted nor barred her out; for her work was done,\nand she had no cause to return.\n\nShe was sent to the house of wealth to carry the blight of death. Her\nmission was over, and she was on her way, seeking Joy.\n\nThe young girl faded slowly and died.\n\nThe mother mourned without hope, and was soon laid beside her daughter.\nThe home passed into the hands of those who felt that none must live for\nthemselves alone; that sorrows must be borne without murmur; and joys\nappreciated so well that the angel of sorrow may not have to bear some\ntreasure away to uplift the heart and give the vision a higher range.\n\nSorrow met Joy on the road that night. There was no moon, even\nthe stars were dim; but for the shining face of her sister, she would\nhave passed her. They joined hands, and walked together till morning\nbroke. They came in sight of a low cottage just as the day dawned.\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" said Sorrow, as they approached the familiar spot, \"how\noften have I been there to carry woe! Do you go now, Joy, and give\nthem gladness!\"\n\n\"If it is the master's hour I will most gladly,\" said Joy, looking\ntenderly on the weary face of her sister, who sat by the roadside to rest\nawhile while she lifted her heart to heaven, asking that she might no\nmore carry woe to that humble home; and her prayer was answered.\n\n\"I feel to go there,\" said Joy, as Sorrow wiped her tears away. \"Wait\nhere till I return;\" and she ran merrily on.\n\nShe entered the humble home with gladness in her beaming eyes, and,\nas she bore no resemblance to her sister, they welcomed her with much\ngreeting; nor did they know but for Sorrow, Joy would not have been\namong them. She talked with them a long time, and listened patiently\nto the story of their woes.\n\nSickness, death, and adversity had been their part for many years.\n\n\"But they are passing away,\" said Joy, confidently, \"and health and\nprosperity shall yet be among you.\"\n\n\"We shall know their full value,\" whispered a voice from the corner\nof the room which Joy's eyes had not penetrated. On a low cot lay an\ninvalid, helpless and blind.\n\nThe tears fell from her own eyes an instant, and then sparkled with a\ngreater brilliancy than before, as she said, \"And this, too, shall pass\naway.\"\n\nThe closed eyes, from which all light had been shut out for seven long\nyears, now slowly opened; the palsied limbs relaxed; life leaped through\nthe veins once more; and she arose from her bed, while the household\ngathered round her.\n\nA son, who was supposed to have been lost at sea, after an absence of\nmany years returned at that moment, laden with gold and other treasures\nfar greater, than the glittering ore,--lessons of life, which, through\nsuffering, he had wrought into his mind.\n\nJoy departed, amid their tumult of rejoicing, and joined her sister.\n\nThe happy family did not miss her for a time; yet when their great\nand sudden happiness subsided into realization they sought her, but in\nvain.\n\nThey needed her not; for the essence of her life was with them, while\nshe was walking over the earth, carrying pleasure and happiness to\nthousands; yet doing the work of her father no more than her worn and\nsad-eyed sister.\n\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nUPWARD.\n\n\nThere was once an aged man who owned and lived in a large house\nthe height of which was three stories. His only child was a daughter,\nof whom he was very fond, and who listened generally to his words\nof counsel and instruction; but no amount of persuasion could induce\nher to ascend to the highest story of their dwelling, where her father\nspent many hours in watching the varied landscape which it overlooked.\nIt was an alloyed pleasure as he sat there evening after evening alone,\nlooking at the lovely cloud tints, and rivers winding like veins of\nsilver through the meadows. It detracted from his joy to know that the\nview from the lower window offered naught but trees thickly set and dry\nhedges.\n\n\"Come up, child,\" he called, morning and evening, year after year, with\nthe same result. It seemed of no avail. \"She will die and never know\nwhat beauties lie around her dwelling,\" he said, as he sat looking at the\nwealth of beauty. It seemed to him that the clouds were never so\nbrilliant, nor the trees and meadows so strangely gilded by the sun's\nrays, as on that evening. He longed more than ever to share with his\nchild the pleasure he experienced, and resolved upon a plan by which he\nhoped to attain his wish.\n\n\"I will have workmen shut out the light of all the stories below with\nthick boards, and bar the door that she may not escape. I will give her\na harmless drink to-night that will deepen her slumbers while the work\nis being done; for by these seemingly harsh means alone can I induce my\nchild to ascend.\"\n\nThat night, while she slumbered, the work was done, and she awoke\nnot at the sound of the hammer on the nails. When all was completed,\nthe father ascended to await the rays of morning, and listen for the\nvoice of his child, which soon broke in suppliant tones upon his ears:--\n\n\"Father! my father! It's dark! I cannot see!\"\n\n\"Come up, my child!\" still he cried. \"Come to me, and behold new\nglories.\"\n\nShe gave no answer; but he heard her weeping, and groped his way\nbelow to lead her up. She no longer resisted. Her steps, though slow,\nwere willing ones: they were upward now, and the father cared not how\nslow, so long as they were ascending.\n\nMany times she wished to go back, but he urged her on with gentle\nwords and a strong, sustaining arm, till the last landing was reached,\nand the light, now streaming through the open windows, made words no\nlonger needful. With a bound she sprang to the open casement, exclaiming,\n\"Father, dear father!\" and fell, weeping, on his breast.\n\nHis wish was granted; his effort was over, and his child could now\nbehold the beauties which had so long thrilled his own soul.\n\nThus does our Heavenly Father call us upward; and when he sees\nthat we will not leave the common view for grander scenes, and will not\nlisten to his voice, however beseeching, he makes all dark and drear\nbelow, that we may be led to ascend higher, where the day-beams are\nlonger, the view more extended, and the air more rarified and pure.\n\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nTHE OAK.\n\n\nAn old and experienced gardener had been watching a tree for many\ndays, whose branches and foliage did not seem to repay him for his\ncare. \"I see,\" he said, a little sadly; \"the roots are not striking deep\nenough: they must have a firmer hold in the earth, and only the wind\nand the fierce blast will do it.\"\n\nIt was now sunset, and the faithful gardener put away his tools, closed\nthe garden gates, and went into his cottage. Soon a mass of dark clouds\nbegan to gather on the horizon. \"I am sorry to use such harsh means,\"\nhe said, waving his hand in the direction of the wind clouds; \"but the\ntree needs to be more firmly rooted, and naught but a violent wind will\naid it.\"\n\nA low, moaning sound went through the air, shaking every bush and\ntree to its foundation.\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" sighed the tree. \"Oh, the cruel gardener, to send this\nwind! It will surely uproot me!\"\n\nThe tree readied forth its branches like arms for help, and implored\nthe gardener to come and save it from the fearful blasts. The flowers at\nits feet bowed their heads, while the winds wafted their fragrance over\nthe struggling, tempest-tost tree.\n\n\"They do not moan, as I do. They cannot be suffering as I am,\" said\nthe tree, catching its breath at every word.\n\n\"They do not need the tempest. The rain and the dew are all they\nwant,\" said a vine, which had been running many years over an old dead\noak, once the pride of the garden. \"I heard the gardener say this very\nafternoon,\" continued the vine, \"that you must be rooted more firmly;\nand he has sent this wind for that purpose.\"\n\n\"I wonder if _I_ am the only thing in this garden that needs shaking,\"\nspoke the oak, somewhat indignantly. \"There's a poor willow over by\nthe pond that is always weeping and--\"\n\n\"But,\" interrupted the vine, \"that's what keeps the beautiful sheet of\nwater full to the brim, and always so sparkling,--the constant dropping\nof her tears; and we ought to render her gratitude. Besides, she is so\ngraceful--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes: all the trees are lovely but me. I heard the gardener's\npraise, the other day, of the elms and the maples, and even the pines;\nbut not one word did he say about the oaks. I didn't care for myself\nin particular, but for my family, which has always been looked up to.\nWell, I shall die, like my brother, and soon we shall all pass away; but,\nunlike my brother oak, no one will cling to me as you do, vine, to his\nold body.\"\n\n\"You're mistaken, sir. The gardener said, but a few days ago, that he\nshould plant a vine just like myself at your trunk if your foliage was\nnot better, so that you might present a finer appearance by the mingling\nof the vine's soft leaves, and be more ornamental to the garden.\"\n\n\"I'll save him that trouble if my life is spared. I have no desire\nto be decked in borrowed leaves. The oaks have always kept up a good\nappearance; but oh, dear me, vine, didn't that blast take your breath\naway? I fear I _shall_ die; but, if I do live, I'll show the gardener\nwhat I can do. But, vine,\" and the voice of the oak trembled, \"tell the\ngardener, when he comes in the morning, if--if I am dead--that--that\nthe dreadful tempest killed instead of helped me.\"\n\nThe wind made such a roaring sound that the oak could not hear her\nreply, and he tried now to become reconciled to death. He thought much\nin that brief space of time and resolved, if his life was spared him,\nthat he would try and put forth his protecting branches over the beds of\nflowers at his feet, to protect them from the blazing sun, and try to be\nmore kind and friendly to all. Deeper and deeper struck the roots into\nthe earth, till a new life-thrill shot through its veins. Was it death?\n\nThe oak raised its head. The clouds were drifting to the south. All\nwas calm, and the stars shone like friendly eyes in the heavens above\nhim.\n\n\"That oak would have surely died but for the tempest which passed\nover us,\" said the gardener, a few weeks later, as he was showing his\ngarden to a friend.\n\nThe gardener stood beneath the branches, and saw with pleasure new\nleaves coming forth and the texture of the old ones already finer and\nsofter.\n\n\"It only needed a firmer hold on the earth. The poor thing could not\ndraw moisture enough from the ground before the storm shook its roots\nand embedded them deeper. If I had known the philosophy of storms\nbefore, I need not have lost the other oak.\"\n\nHere the old gardener sat beneath the branches of the oak, and they\nseemed to rise and fall as if bestowing blessings on his head. That spot\nbecame his favorite resting-place amid his labors for many years. The\noak lived to a good old age, and was the gardener's pride. Maidens\ngathered its leaves and wove garlands for their lovers. Children sported\nunder its boughs. It was blessed and happy in making others so. It\nhad learned the lesson of the storm, and was often heard to say to the\nyoung oaks growing up about it, \"Sunshine and balmy breezes have their\npart in our growth, but they are not all that is needful for our true\ndevelopment.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nTRUTH AND ERROR.\n\n\nAmid the starry realms there lived an old philosopher, a man deep in\nwisdom, who had two daughters, named Truth and Error, whom he sent to\nearth to perform a mission to its people; and though he knew that their\nlabors must be united, he could not explain to them why two so dissimilar\nshould have to roam so many years on earth together. Well he knew that,\nthough Truth would in the end be accepted by the people, she must suffer\ngreatly. His life experience had taught him that she must go often\nunhonored and unloved, while Error, her sister, would receive smiles,\ngifts, and welcome from the majority. It was a sacrifice to part with his\nmuch-loved daughter Truth, and a great grief to be obliged to send Error\nwith her. He placed them, with words of cheer and counsel, in the care of\nHyperion, the father of the Sun, Moon, and Dawn, who accompanied them in\nhis golden chariot to the clouds, where he left the two in charge of\nZephyr, who wafted them from their fleecy couch to the earth.\n\nOne bleak, chilly day, the two were walking over a dreary road dotted\nhere and there with dwellings. The most casual observer might have\nseen their striking dissimilarity, both in dress and manners. Truth was\nclad in garments of the plainest material and finish, while Error was\ndecked in costly robes and jewels. The step of the former was firm and\nslow, while that of the latter was rapid and nervous. The bleak winds\npenetrated their forms as they turned a sharp angle in the road, when\nthere was revealed to them, on an eminence, a costly and elegant\nbuilding.\n\n\"I shall certainly go in there for the night, and escape these biting\nblasts,\" said Error to her sister.\n\n\"Although, the house is large and grand,\" answered Truth, \"it does not\nlook as though its inmates were hospitable. I prefer trying my luck in\nyonder cottage on the slope of that hill.\"\n\n\"And perhaps have your walk for naught,\" answered Error, who bade\na hasty good-by to her sister and entered the enclosure, which must have\nbeen beautiful in summer with its smooth lawns, fine trees and beds and\nflowers. She gave the bell a sharp ring, and was summoned into an elegant\ndrawing-room full of gaily dressed people. Error was neither timid\nnor bashful, and she accepted the offered courtesies of the family as one\nwould a right. She seated herself and explained to them the object of\nher call, dwelling largely on the grandeur of her elegant home amid the\nstars, and tenderly and feelingly upon her relationship with the gods\nand goddesses, and the numerous feasts which she had attended, so that\nat her conclusion her hostess felt that herself and family were receiving\nrather than bestowing a favor.\n\nThe evening was spent amid games and pastimes till the hour for retiring,\nwhen they conducted her to a warm and elegantly furnished room, so\ncomfortable that it made her long, for a moment, for her sister to share\nit with her; for, despite the difference in their natures, Error loved\nher sister. The soft couch, however, soon lulled her to sleep. She,\nslumbered deeply, and dreamed that Truth was walking all night, cold\nand hungry, when suddenly a lovely form came out of the clouds. It was\nnone other than Astrea, whom she had seen often in her starry home,\ntalking with Truth. She saw her fold a soft, delicate garment about the\ncold form of her sister, at the same time saying, in reproving tones, to\nherself, \"This is not the only time you have left your sister alone in\nthe cold and cared for yourself. The sin of selfishness is great, and the\ngods will succor the innocent and punish the offender.\"\n\nShe closed, and was rising, with Truth in her arms, to the skies, when\nError gave such a loud shriek that Astrea dropped her, and a strong\ncurrent of air took the goddess out of sight. It was well for the earth,\nwhich might have been forever in darkness, that Truth was dropped,\nthough hard for her.\n\nError awoke from her dream, which seemed more real than her elegant\nsurroundings, and resolved to go in search of Truth when the morning\ncame; but a blinding storm of snow and sleet, and the remonstrance of\nthe family, added to her own innate love of ease, left Truth uncared\nfor by one whose duty it was to seek her.\n\nThe days glided into weeks, and yet Error remained, much to the wonder\nof the poorer neighbors around, that Mrs. Highbred should encourage and\nkeep such a companion for her daughters. They could see at a glance that\nError was superficial, that she possessed no depth of thought or feeling;\nand their wonder grew to deep surprise when they saw all the gentry for\nmiles around giving parties in honor of her. Everywhere she was flattered\nand adored, until she became, if possible, more vain and full of her own\nconceit.\n\n\"You should see the feasts of the gods in our starry realms,\" she\nwould say, as each one vied with a preceding festivity to outshine its\nsplendor.\n\nAfter Error left her sister, Truth walked slowly and thoughtfully\ntowards the cottage on the hill-side. She went slowly up the path,\nwhich wound in summer by beds of roses, to the door, and rapped\ngently. It was opened by a fair and beautiful woman, who bade her\n\"walk in\" in tones which matched the kindness of her features. The\nnext moment Truth felt her gentle hands removing her hood and cloak,\nand felt that she was welcome. A table covered with a snowy cloth\nstood in the centre of the room, on which was an abundant supply of\nplain, substantial food, more attractive to a hungry traveler than more\ncostly viands. A chair was placed for her by the bright fire, while the\nair of welcome entered her soul and drew tears from her deep, sad eyes.\nIt was so seldom she was thus entertained--so often that the manner of\nboth high and low made the highway pleasanter than their habitations.\nHow often had she walked alone all night unsheltered, while Error, her\nsister, reposed on beds of down! The sharp contrast of their lives was\nthe great mystery yet unrevealed. It cost her many hours of deep and\nearnest thought.\n\nIt was so rare that any one gave her welcome that her gratitude took\nthe form of silence. For an instant the kind woman thought her lacking;\nbut when her grateful look upturned to hers, as she bade her sit at\nthe table and partake of the bounties, all doubt of her gratitude\ndeparted.\n\nTruth slept soundly all night, and arose much refreshed by her slumbers.\nThe storm of the day would not have detained her from continuing\nher journey; but the warm and truthful appeal of the woman, who\nfelt the need of such a soul as Truth possessed with whom to exchange\nthoughts, induced her to remain that day, and many others, which slipped\naway so happily, and revealed to her that _rest_ as well as action is\nneedful and right for every worker.\n\nTruth became a great favorite among the poorer classes of the\nneighborhood, as she always was whenever they would receive and listen\nto her words; and it was not long before people of thought, rank, and\nculture began to notice her and court her acquaintance.\n\nMrs. Highbred, hearing of her popularity, concluded to give a party\nand invite her.\n\nError had never spoken of the relationship between them until the day\nthe invitations were sent. Then, knowing she could no longer conceal\nthe past, she availed herself of the first opportunity to communicate the\nsame to her hostess. Great was the surprise of Mrs. Highbred and her\nhousehold to learn that the quiet stranger at the cottage was the sister\nof Error.\n\n\"My sister is very peculiar, and wholly unlike myself,\" remarked Error\nto her hostess; \"and I fear you will find her quite undemonstrative.\nAlthough it is my parent's wish that I should be with her, you cannot\nimagine what a relief it has been to a nature like mine to mingle with\nthose more congenial to my tastes, even for a brief period.\"\n\n\"It must be,\" answered Mrs. Highbred sympathizingly, and Error\ncongratulated herself on having become installed in the good graces\nof so wealthy a person.\n\n\"Now,\" she said to herself, \"I need not go plodding about the world\nany longer. Truth can if she likes to; and, as she feels that she has\nsuch a mission to perform to the earth, she of course will not remain\nin any locality long. But, thanks to the gods, who, I think, favor me\nalways, I shall not be obliged to roam any longer. Truth never did\nappreciate wealth or the value of fine surroundings. She's cast in a\nrougher mold than I--\"\n\n\"Ma sends you this set of garnets, and begs you will do her the favor\nto wear them on the night of the party,\" said the bearer of a case of\njewels, as she laid them on the table, and bounded out of the room before\nError could reply. Indeed, her surprise was too great for words had the\nchild remained. \"I wonder what Truth will say when she sees them,\"\nthought Error, as she glanced again and again at the sparkling gems.\n\nNothing could be more striking than the contrast between Truth and\nher sister, both in costume and manner, as they stood apart from the\ncompany a moment to exchange a few words.\n\nError was decked in a costly robe of satin of a lavender hue, to contrast\nwith her gems; while Truth was arrayed in white, with a wreath of ivy on\nher brow, and the golden girdle around her waist which her father gave\nher at parting. She wore no gems save an arrow of pearl which Astrea gave\nher when they parted at the gate of clouds, kept by the goddesses named\nthe Seasons, which opened to permit the passage of the celestials to\nearth and to receive them on their return.\n\nThe simple dress and manners of Truth won the admiration of a few, while\nthe majority paid tribute to Error, who kept her admirers listening to\nher wonderful adventures amid the region of the stars. Truth spoke but\nseldom; but what she uttered was food for thought, instead of a\nconstellation of merely dazzling words.\n\nA careful observer might have seen that the elder members lingered,\nattracted by her simple charms, near Truth, as did also the youngest\nportion of the company, while youth and middle age could not divine her\nsphere of pure and earnest thought. The few who sought her would\ngladly have continued the acquaintance, and they invited her to their\ndwellings; but on the morrow she would set forth on her journey, feeling\nthat she had implanted in the minds of a few the love of something\nbeyond externals and mere materialisms.\n\nHer earthly mission was to traverse hill and plain throughout the land,\nand sow seeds of righteousness which would spring up in blossoms of\npearl long after her weary feet had traversed other lands and sown again\nin the rough places the finer seeds.\n\nAt early dawn Truth went forth from the cottage and the kind woman\nwho had sheltered her. They had enjoyed much together in their mutual\nrelation. Trust met trust, hope clasped hope, and each was stronger for\nthe soul exchange.\n\nWhen the sun rose in the heavens Truth was on her way, while Error,\ntossed in feverish dreams upon her bed, thought the Sun was angry with\nher, and was sending his fierce rays upon her head to censure or madden\nher. But he was only trying to waken her and urge her to go on with\nher sister. A sense of relief came when she opened her eyes and found\nit was, after all, only a dream. Yet the pleasure was brief; for a sharp\npain shot through her temples, her brow was feverish, and her pulses\nthrobbed wildly. \"Oh, for the pure air and the cool, refreshing grass!\"\nshe cried. \"Oh, better the highway with its friendly blossoms than this\ncouch of down and this stifled atmosphere which I am breathing!\" How\nshe longed for Truth then, to cool her brow with the touch of her gentle\nhand. \"Come back, oh, come to me, Truth!\" she cried, so hard that the\nwhole household heard and came to her bedside.\n\n\"She is ill and delirious!\" they cried in one voice. The family physician\nwas summoned, who pronounced the case fearful and her life fast ebbing.\n\n\"For whom shall we send?\" said Mrs. Highbred, who was unused to scenes of\ndistress and now longed to have her guest far from her dwelling.\n\n\"For her sister Truth,\" said one.\n\n\"Truth--Truth,\" said the physician. \"Is it possible?\" and he gazed\nfrom one to another for revelation.\n\n\"Truth is her sister,\" said one of the younger members, and added, \"I\nthink she is far better and prettier than Error,--\"\n\n\"Far better, far better,\" continued the physician, looking only at the\nchild, and inwardly saying, \"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings\ncome words of wisdom.\"\n\n\"I met her on the hill,--the one you call Truth,\" he said, in answer to\nthe searching look of Mrs. Highbred, who by manner and inquiry plainly\nmanifested her desire to have an end of the unusual state of things.\n\n\"I will go for her. She will return with me,\" continued the doctor,\n\"and soon we will find some spot to which we can remove Error.\"\n\nA look of relief came over the face of the lady as he departed.\n\nTruth heard not the sound of the horses, nor the rumbling of wheels\nas they approached, so intent were her thoughts on separation from her\nsister and her own strange mission to earth; and she scarce sensed\nwhither she was going, when the kind man courteously lifted her into his\ncarriage. But when she stood by the fevered, unconscious form of Error,\na few moments later, all her clearness of thought was at her command.\n\n\"Carry her to the cottage on the hill-side,\" she said, as she bound a\ncool bandage on her sister's brow.\n\nThey bore her there, and, as though in mercy, a dark cloud shut off\nthe sun's rays, and their fierce glare was obscured during transit from\nthe home of splendor to the humble cottage.\n\nThere for many weeks Truth nursed her sister, while the kind hostess\nand kind neighbors aided by words and deeds through the long night\nwatches.\n\nError arose from her illness somewhat wiser, and firmly fixed in her\ndetermination to follow Truth and share her fate to their journey's end.\n\nThus, reader, shall we ever find them together while we dwell on earth,\nand perchance in the regions above. Let us trust that they are wisely\nrelated; and, while we love, reverence, and admire the purity of Truth,\nlet us seek also courteously to endure Error as an opposing force, which,\nthough it may seem for a time to work our discomfort and hinder us in\nour progress, yet gives us strength, as the rower on the stream is made\nstronger by the counter currents and eddies with which he has to contend.\n\n\n\n\nX.\n\nTHE TREE.\n\n\nA large shade-tree grew near a house, and under its branches the children\nplayed every summer day. It seemed to take great delight in their voices,\nand shook its green boughs over their heads, as though it would join in\ntheir sports and laughter. But, alas! one day it got a foolish idea into\nits head--it grew discontented, and felt that its sphere of usefulness\nwas too limited.\n\nAt that moment dark clouds gathered, a fearful tempest arose, and a\nstrong current of wind, soon set the giant tree swinging with such\nviolence that it was torn from the earth and lay like a broken column\non the ground.\n\n\"Now I shall be something: I've got my roots out of the old earth.\nBah! such a heap of old black loam, to be sure, as I have been in! I'll\nsoon shake it off, however, and then the world will see that _I_ can soar\nas well as other things.\"\n\nThere was a terrible quaking and noise as the old tree tried to rise\nfrom its recumbent position. The sun's rays were fast parching its roots,\ncausing sharp pains to shoot through its branches.\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" said the tree. \"I hope I shall be able to get on my feet\nsoon, else people will be laughing at me for lying here so helpless.\"\n\nThe golden sun went down behind the hills. Its rays could not gild\nthe top of its branches now, and the tree missed the benediction of its\nparting rays. A feeling akin to homesickness came over it, and a longing,\nas the dews of evening came, to be once more rooted to the earth.\n\nA wild wind sang a dirge all through the night, and ceased not till day\ndarted over the hills. It was not very pleasant for the old tree to hear\nthe children's regrets and words of grief as they came around it in the\nmorning to play and sit as usual under its pleasant shade. It had hoped\nto have been far away by dawn, and thus have escaped the sound of their\nvoices.\n\n\"I'll wait till they are gone, and then I must be off,\" said the tree\nsoftly.\n\n\"Papa will cut it all up into wood, I know,\" said the youngest of the\ngroup, a bright, three-year-old boy.\n\n\"I am going to have a piece of one of the boughs to make a cane of,\"\nsaid another.\n\n\"And oh, dear me!\" sighed little blue-eyed May. \"I can't have any\nmore autumn leaves to make pretty wreaths of for mamma.\"\n\nPoor old tree! how it had mistaken its mission and its relation to the\nearth! So it is with people who lament the position in which Providence\nhas placed them. In vain the old tree tried to rise: its branches\nwithered, its leaves dropped one by one away, and rustled on the lawn. It\nfound, to its sorrow, that it was not made for the air, and that the once\ndespised earth from which it drew its nourishment was its true parent\nand source of life.\n\nOut of respect to its former protection and beauty, its owner had its\nwood made into handsome ornaments and seats for the garden to keep\nits memory alive in the minds of the children.\n\nWhen any of them repined in after years at the lot which God had\nassigned them, the folly of the tree was alluded to, and all restlessness\nwas allayed.\n\nOver the spot where it stood a beautiful rustic basket made of its own\nwood was set, from which bright flowers blossomed throughout the summer\nday.\n\n\n\n\nXI.\n\nTHE TWO WAYS.\n\n\nTwo men were informed, as they were listlessly standing and gazing\ninto a dense forest one day, that beyond it lay a fertile and beautiful\nvalley, reached only through the dark and close woods; but, when\nreached, it would repay them for all their efforts.\n\nThey started one morning, entering the forest together, and forced\ntheir way for a while through the tangled woods. They held the branches\nfor each other to pass, and walked along in social converse. Soon one\nbegan to grow restless and impatient of the slow progress made.\n\n\"I must get on faster than this,\" he exclaimed, and began to quicken\nhis pace, regardless of overhanging boughs and thorny branches, which\npierced his flesh at every step. He rushed forward, leaving his\ncompanion; and, so intent did he become on reaching the valley with all\npossible speed, that he no longer noticed the briers which pierced\nhim or the underbrush which entangled and made his feet sore. In\na few days he reached the valley, tired, worn, and bleeding from head\nto feet.\n\nThe laborers who were working in their gardens looked on him with\npity, and several, at the command of a leader, carried him to a house\n(for he could no longer walk), where he was cared for and nursed.\n\nHis companion, whom he had outrun, took a better and wiser course.\nFinding the wood so dense, he bethought himself of making a pathway\nas he journeyed. It would take much longer, but the comfort and good to\nothers who might follow could not be told. Faithfully he labored, cutting\naway the branches which impeded his progress, and clearing the underbrush\nfrom the ground; while each day, in the valley beyond, the wounded man\nwondered that he came not, and concluded that he must have perished in\nthe forest.\n\nThe days passed into weeks, and yet no sign of his companion. If he\ncould only rise from his bed, he would go in search of him; but, alas!\nhe was helpless, lame, and sore in every joint.\n\nAt the close of a beautiful autumn day, when the laborers had bound\ntheir sheaves and were going to their homes, a traveler was seen coming\nwith a firm step from the forest. On his shoulder he carried the axe,\nwhose polished edge glittered strangely in the rays of the setting\nsun. The laborers wondered why he was not torn and weary like the other.\n\n\"Thee must have had a better path than the one who came before\nthee,\" said one of the group to the stranger.\n\n\"I made a path,\" was his only answer; and then he glanced around the\nroom, as though he would find him with whom he started: for the interest\nfelt for any companionship, however brief, is not easily laid aside.\n\nThe laborers told him of his companion's inability to work, and of his\ndays of pain.\n\n\"Let me see him,\" he said; and they went with him.\n\nThe next day the traveler who had slowly journeyed, and made a path\nfor those who would come after, was able to go to his labors; while his\ncompanion was disabled for many days longer.\n\nSoon after, many others came through the forest to the valley, and\ntheir first remark was, \"Show us the traveler who made for us such a\ncomfortable path;\" and, seeing him, they all blessed him in word and\ndeed for his nobleness in making their way so easy for them.\n\n\"But for that path,\" said many to him, \"I should never have come to\nthis lovely valley.\"\n\nThere are two ways of journeying through life: one, like the first\npilgrim, who thought only of self and of speedily reaching the vale and\nthe journey's end; the other better and wiser one, productive of greater\ngood to all, of making a path, that all who come after us may be blessed\nby our labors.\n\n\n\n\nXII.\n\nTHE URNS.\n\n\nIn a peaceful valley there lived a number of people whose leader\ndwelt on the hill and guided the tillers of the soil, weaving into\ntheir lives many lessons of truth. They were supplied with water from\nthe mountain, which was sent them every morning by a carrier. It was\nthe master's rule that each should have his urn clean, that the fresh\nsupply might not be mingled with the old. For a time all were faithful:\nas each day's supply was used the urn was made clean for the new. But,\nalas for human weakness! so prone to fall from the line of duty--soon a\nmurmur was heard among the people.\n\n\"I have had no fresh water for days,\" said one of the group standing\nidly by the roadside.\n\n\"Neither have I,\" said another.\n\n\"It's no use for the master to expect us to labor,\" remarked a third,\n\"if we are not supplied with fresh water. Life is hard enough to bear\nwith all we can have to help us,\" he continued. \"Now there's our\nneighbor, Cheerful, over the way--his urn is full of pure, sparkling\nwater each morning.\"\n\n\"And why?\" broke in a voice in tones of remonstrance. The idlers\nlooked at each other, and then at the face of old Faithful, who was just\nreturning from his evening walk and had heard their words of complaint.\n\n\"Let me assure you, my neighbors,\" he said mildly, yet with force,\n\"it's all your own fault that your urns are not filled. You each know the\nmaster's command, that they should be kept clean and ready for the fresh\nsupply. Have you all been faithful to the command?\"\n\nThey thought among themselves, and answered with but partial truth,\nsaying, \"We may not always have had our urns clean, but why should\nthey be unfilled for that?\"\n\n\"Because the new water would be made unclean and useless by being\nmixed with the old, as you each can see for yourselves. Our master loves\nall alike; but he cannot supply us with fresh waters and new life if we\nhave not used the old and prepared for the new.\"\n\n\"I suppose, if we had them ever so clean now, that the carrier would\npass us by,\" remarked one of the group.\n\n\"Try, and see,\" said Faithful. \"We may always rest assured that if our\npart is done the master will do his; for no one, however kind and\nmerciful, can benefit us if we do not put ourselves in a state to be\nblessed. If the master sends us fresh water each day, and our urns are\nimpure, is it the fault of the benefactor that they are so? We must\nprepare to receive.\"\n\nFaithful went on his way. The sun sank in its bed of fleecy clouds,\nthe evening dew fell on the earth, and all was still. The lesson must\nhave penetrated the hearts of the listeners; for on the morrow their\nurns, white and clean, were full of sparkling water.\n\nDo we look into our hearts each day and see that the life from thence\nhas gone forth for good and made ready for new, or are we idly murmuring\nthat we have no life-waters? Can the Father's life inflow if we do\nnot _give_? Our souls are sacred urns, which He longs to fill to\noverflowing with pure and heavenly truths if we are willing to receive,\nand faithful to extend, his mercies.\n\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\nSELF-EXERTION.\n\n\nAn aged man who had built for himself a house upon a high elevation\nof land, and had labored many years, yea, the most of his lifetime,\nin conveying trees, plants, and flowers with which to decorate his\ngrounds, came one day in his descent upon a youth who sat by the roadside\nlooking greatly dispirited.\n\n\"Hast thou no parents nor home?\" inquired the kind man.\n\nThe youth shook his head, and looked so lonely and sad that the heart\nof the questioner was touched, and he said, \"Come with me.\"\n\nThe boy looked pleased at the invitation, and, springing to his feet,\nstood by the stranger.\n\nTogether they commenced the long and toilsome ascent; but the feet\nof the youth were tender, and ere long the aged man was obliged to carry\nhim on his back to the very summit.\n\nHe set his burden down at the door of his pleasant home, expecting to\nsee an expression of wonder or pleasure on the boy's face; but only a\nsensuous look of satisfaction at the comforts which the laborer had\ngathered about him was visible on his dull features.\n\n\"I'll let him rest to-night,\" said the kind man. \"To-morrow he shall\nhave his first lesson in weeding the beds and watering the flowers.\"\n\nAt dawn the old man arose, dressed himself, and went forth to view\nthe sun as it rose over the hills; while the youth slumbered on till\nnearly noon, and when he arose manifested no life nor interest till the\nevening meal was over. He partook largely of the bounties, and seemed\nso full of animation that the old man took courage, and smiles of\nsatisfaction settled on his features; for he thought he had found a\nhelper for himself and wife.\n\nThe next day they called him at sunrise, and after many efforts succeeded\nin arousing him from his sleep. The aged couple went to their garden\nafter the morning meal, and awaited the appearance of the youth.\n\n\"I sent him to gather ferns to plant beside these rocks: he surely cannot\nbe all this time gathering them,\" remarked the woman.\n\nThe husband went to the edge of the wood whither she had sent him,\nand found him lying upon the ground, looking dreamingly at the skies.\n\nThe good couple did not succeed in arousing him to a sense of any\nduty. He was dead to labor, and had no life to contribute to the scene\naround him.\n\n\"I fear you have made a mistake,\" said the wife of the good man when\nthe shadows of evening came and they were alone. \"I see the boy can\nnever appreciate the toil of our years. He must return and climb the\nmount for himself. He has no appreciation of all this accumulation\nwhich we have been years in gaining, nor can he have. It is not in the\norder of life: each must climb the summit himself. A mistake lies in\nour taking any one in our arms and raising him to the mount.\"\n\n\"I see it now,\" said her husband, who had, like many people, been\nmore kind than wise, and like many foolish parents who injure their\noffspring by giving them the result of their years of toil.\n\nOn the morrow, the youth was sent back. A few years after, the aged\nman saw him toiling up a steep hill, seeking to make a home of his own.\nIt was a beautiful eminence, and overlooked the fields and woods for\nmiles around.\n\n\"He will know the worth and comfort of it,\" said the old man to his\ncompanion.\n\n\"Toil and sacrifice will make it a sweet spot,\" she answered; \"and\nafter the morning of labor will come the evening of rest.\"\n\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\nTHE VINES.\n\n\nThey grew side by side. The most casual observer would have said\nthat one was far more beautiful than the other. Its height was not\nonly greater, but its foliage was brighter.\n\n\"I should think,\" remarked the vine of superior external appearance to\nthe other, \"that, for the gardener's sake, you would try and make a\nbetter appearance. I heard him remark this morning that he almost\ndespaired of your ever bearing fruit, or looking even presentable. I am\nsure we each have the same soil to draw our nourishment from, and one\nhand to prune away our deformities.\"\n\n\"I think I can defend myself to the satisfaction of both yourself and\nthe gardener; and if you will listen to me this evening, as I cannot\nspare any of the moments of the day, I will tell you what labor occupies\nso much of my time.\"\n\n\"Both myself and the gardener would be delighted to have an explanation;\nfor it has been a wonder to us both what you can be doing. You\ncertainly have not attained any height, nor put forth foliage of any\naccount for the past year.\"\n\nThe full-leaved vine spent the day fluttering her leaves in the wind and\nlistening to the praise of passers-by.\n\n\"What a difference in these vines!\" exclaimed two gentlemen as they\nwalked past the garden.\n\n\"Just what every one remarks,\" said the good-looking vine to herself;\nand, raising her head very high in the air, she put forth another shoot.\nYet, with all her fullness of conceit and vainglory, she grew very\nimpatient for the hour to arrive when her sister would be at leisure\nto talk with her.\n\nAt sunset, after the gardener had laid his tools away and closed the\ngarden gates for the evening, her sister announced to her that she was\nready to explain her strange life for the past year.\n\n\"If you can call anything 'life' which has no visible sign of growth or\nmotion,\" pertly remarked the gay vine.\n\nHer sister took no notice of the remark, though it wounded her, and\nsome of her leaves fluttered and fell to the ground. Had her sister been\nmore sensitive, she could have seen her tremble in every limb, though her\nvoice was sweet and clear as she commenced, saying, \"I have been very\nbusy the past year, but in a direction which no one but myself could\nperceive. Knowing that we are subject to periods of drought, I have been,\nand I think wisely too, occupying all my time in sending fibres into the\nearth in every direction. I have already got one as far as the brook, the\nother side of the wall. I heard the gardener say it was never dry, so I\nstruck out in that direction, and expect to bring forth fruit next year\nfor all.\"\n\n\"But could you not have put forth some leaves, at least, and made a\nmore pleasing appearance?\" inquired her sister.\n\n\"No: it took all my strength to strike into the earth. I hope to see\nthe time when no one will be ashamed of my appearance.\"\n\nThe vain vine grew quite thoughtful. Was she, after all, ahead of her\nsister? Was a good external appearance the sure sign of merit?\n\nThese questions kept her busy for many days. She reasoned them in her\nmind, but did not act on the lesson they taught. She, too, would like to\nhave made preparation for seasons of drought, but her pride stood in the\nway. She feared to lose her lovely foliage; and the month sped on.\n\nAnother year came. The earth was parched: no rain fell on the dry plants\nand leaves. The once lovely vine lost all her foliage, while her sister\nwas full of leaves and promise of fruit.\n\n\"I declare,\" said the gardener, \"it does seem strange. I expected this\nvine had lost all its life; yet it is now bright and vigorous, while the\none I looked to for much fruit is fast fading. What can be the reason?\"\n\nLater in the season, the vine which had worked so long out of sight\nhad the pleasure of seeing not only the table of its owner supplied with\ndelicious fruits from its branches, but also of hearing the gardener\nremark to visitors that the sick and feeble of the neighborhood were\nstrengthened and refreshed by the cooling grapes which she had, through\nso much exertion brought forth.\n\nThe other vine bore no fruit, and had to be pruned severely; but pride\nstood no longer in the way of her progress. She began to send forth her\nfibres into the earth, as her sister had done. It was hard at first for\nher to be obliged to listen to the praises of one whom she considered\nher inferior; but she at length attained that glorious height which\nenables us to rejoice when the earth has been made richer, no matter\nby whom or by what means.\n\n\n\n\nXV.\n\nIN THE WORLD.\n\n\nA parent who loved his son more wisely than most earthly parents, and who\nlonged to see him crowned with the light of wisdom, felt that he must\nsend him afar from himself to gather immortal truth: and his heart was\nmoved with a deeper grief at the thought that he must send him forth\nalone, and unprovided with means to procure his daily sustenance; for\nonly thus could he learn the lessons which were necessary for his soul's\ndevelopment.\n\nThe boy lay sleeping upon a soft white bed: his hands were folded\npeacefully upon his breast. Hard was the task the father knew was\nhis,--to break that sleep, that slumber so profound, and send his boy\nout into a cold and selfish world. But, shaking off the tremor and the\nweakness of his soul, he said, \"Arise, my son: I must send you forth\nupon a long and dangerous journey to gather truths to light your soul;\nand you must go without the means to procure your bread and shelter.\nIt grieves my heart, my son, that all this must be so; but yet I know\nthe journey must be taken, and all its dangers and privations met. My\nprayers and blessings will go with you, child, through all your scenes.\"\n\nThe astonished son gazed on his father's face. The parent turned and\nwept; then, wiping away the fast-falling tears, he said, \"I do not wonder\nat your earnest, curious gaze, you who have so long lived in the bosom\nof my love; but there are lessons that must be learned by every human\nsoul. I cannot tell you what these lessons are: they must be experienced,\nelse gladly would I spare you the toil, and myself the pain of parting.\"\n\nThe boy looked sad as he thought of the perils and exposures to which\nhe should be subjected, without means to procure the least comfort.\n\nThe night shades fell on the earth. Only a glimmer of daylight tinged\nthe sky when father and son parted, the one for action, the other to\nendure and wait his return.\n\nThe journey for many days lay over cheerless hills and barren plains;\nand many a tear was brushed from that young cheek by the hand which\nhis father had so warmly pressed at parting.\n\nAt the close of a dark, stormy day, weary and faint for food, he was\nabout to lie down on the damp grass, overcome with weariness, when he\nespied an elegant edifice a little way beyond.\n\n\"I will travel on,\" he said hopefully; \"for surely, in such a mansion, I\nshall find protection and food for my famished body.\"\n\nIt took much longer to reach it than he expected; but at last, with torn\nand bleeding feet, he came to the broad avenue which led to the dwelling.\n\n\"What magnificence!\" he exclaimed. \"How glad I am that my father sent me\nhither to see such wondrous things!\" With hope beaming in every feature,\nhe approached the door and knocked.\n\nIt was opened by one whose voice and face exhibited no sign of welcome.\nHe cast an impatient glance upon the traveler, who shrank abashed and\ntrembling from so rude a gaze.\n\n\"Can I find food and shelter here?\" he asked, his voice tremulous with\nemotion.\n\nThe door was shut upon him.\n\nIt was not the cold of the piercing storm which he felt then, but the\nchill of an inhospitable soul. It froze the warm current of hope that, a\nfew moments before, had leaped so wildly in his veins; and he went\nforth from the elegant mansion, and sat upon the ground and wept.\n\n\"O father! why did you send your child so far away to meet the harsh\nand cruel treatment of the world when your home abounds with plenty?\"\nsaid the weary child.\n\nThe shades of night were gathering fast. The cold, damp ground, which had\nbeen his only bed so many nights, offered a poor protection now for his\nweary form.\n\n\"I was contented there. Why did he send me hither?\" was the questioning\nof his mind as he sat alone and sad.\n\nAs he was about to lay himself upon the ground, he saw light glimmering\nthrough the trees, just as the light of hope breaks on us at the\nmoment of despair.\n\n\"I would journey thither,\" he said, despondingly; \"but rest and shelter\nwere denied me here. How can I hope to find it elsewhere?\"\n\nBut hope whispered to his weary heart; and he arose, and passed on.\n\nIt was a small, humble dwelling, but one in which dwelt loving hearts.\n\nHe turned involuntarily into the little path that wound by fragrant\nshrubs and flowers to its door, and then checked himself, as though he\ncould not bear again a cold denial. It were far easier to feel the blast\nand storm than again to hear unwelcome tones fall on his ears. Despite\nhis feeble faith, he walked to the door and gave a timid rap.\n\nThe door flew open wide, as though the hinges were oiled with love;\nand there stood before him a form all radiant with smiles of welcome.\nShe bade him enter; and the traveler, already warm with her bright\nsmiles and words of welcome, felt a glow pervade his whole being,--a\nfeeling new and unfelt before; for he had never, before this absence from\nhis father's house, known a want or woe.\n\nBoth food and shelter did the woman give unto him; and, when the morning\nsun came over the eastern hills, another sun of joy and gratitude was\nshining over his hills of doubt. And when the woman turned from his warm,\nfull thanks, and went about her daily tasks, these words came with a new\nlife and meaning to her mind: \"As ye have done it to the least of these\nmy brethren, ye have done it unto me.\"\n\nYears rolled away. The murmur of their deeds was like the distant\nrumbling of retreating clouds after a great storm.\n\nThe youth visited strange cities, saw nations at war with each other,\nand learned the conflict of the human soul, and how it battles in the\ngreat life which threatens to bear it down each hour. Amid all this\nstrife and selfishness of heart, he found many that were loyal to God and\nTruth. He daily learned rich lessons which he would not have effaced\nfor all the gold and pomp of earth.\n\nThe light of wisdom began to dawn. \"This is the experience which my\nfather saw I needed. Had he provided me with means with which to journey\nthrough the world, how different would have been my life! I then should\nhave known no value of human love and kindness. O my father! I long to\nreturn to thee, and love thee as I never could have loved thee before!\"\n\nHe sat weary, but not sad, by the roadside one day, thinking of his\nfather's love, when the sound of a traveler's approach was heard on the\nroad. He turned his eyes in its direction, and saw one of his father's\nservants on a beautiful white horse.\n\n\"Your father bids you come,\" were the welcome words that fell upon\nhis ears.\n\n\"Take thy steed,\" he said, \"and journey quickly home: he waits\nimpatiently for your return.\"\n\nFast over hill and dale he rode; and when day passed from sight, leaving\na jeweled sky to mark its absence, the long-absent son rode to his\nfather's door, and wept tears of joy upon his breast.\n\nTogether they stood, father and son, upon the Mount of Experience,\noverlooking all the scenes of life.\n\nOur heavenly Father wakes us all from the slumber of infancy and\nhelplessness, and sends us forth alone into the world to learn life's\ngreat lessons. When we have learned them well, he sends the pale\nmessenger, Death, to take us home. How blessed will be that reunion! With\nthe crown of wisdom on our heads, how sweet it will be to go no more out,\nbut dwell with him forever!\n\n\n\n\nXVI.\n\nFAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.\n\n\nIn one of the dark periods, when shadows lay upon the earth, a beautiful\nangel was sent to abide there and teach the doubting and weary of a\nFather's love and care.\n\nShe found it a tedious task, and, after many years of toil, felt that she\nneeded a helper.\n\n\"If my sister were here,\" she often said to the people, \"she could aid\nyou to greater efforts; for, while I seem to supply a needed element to\nyour souls, I only half succeed in meeting your wants.\"\n\n\"If she is but half as good as yourself we will welcome her,\" answered\nthose to whom she spoke.\n\n\"I will go for her,\" said Faith, one dark night, after she had been\ntrying to rouse the people to higher states, with what seemed to her but\nlittle success. Faith was weary, and wept; and, when her tears flowed,\nher sister, yet in the realms of peace, by a strange law of sympathy,\nknew it, and ran to her father, saying, \"I, too, must go to the earth;\nfor Faith needs me.\"\n\nHer parent sat awhile in deep thought, and Hope waited impatiently\nfor his answer, which came spoken in a firm, clear voice: \"We have done\nFaith a great wrong, I fear, in sending her alone where so much light and\ncomfort is needed. It was too much for her. Go, Hope, and my blessing\nattend you.\"\n\nShe was overjoyed at receiving her father's permission to join her\nsister; for, since Faith had gone, her beautiful home had seemed lonely.\n\nFaith sat all night with her eyes uplifted to heaven, and, when the\nmorning sun lit the hill-tops, behold! on its beams Hope was descending\nto earth.\n\nFaith was not long in ascending the hill to meet her sister. Their\nmeeting was full of joy.\n\n\"If my eyes had not been lifted heavenward, I should have missed you,\nHope: and you must have searched a long time for me; for my journeys\nare far each day,\" said Faith to her sister.\n\n\"Keep your eyes _ever_ uplifted,\" answered Hope, \"and you will see not\nonly the brightness of the heavens, but also the father's angels whom he\nchooses to send to your aid.\"\n\n\"I will,\" answered Faith; and ever after her eyes were raised heavenward.\n\nThey descended to the valley, hand in hand, and reached it as the people\nwere passing to their daily toils.\n\nHow light now seemed the labors of Faith! What a comfort it was to\nhave Hope by her when she walked along the dreary wayside; and Hope's\nbright words, how they cheered the downhearted!\n\n\"I wonder your parents ever permitted you to come to the earth alone,\"\nremarked an old and venerable woman to Faith, as the latter was imparting\nto her some truths which lay almost beyond the grasp of mortals.\n\n\"My father, as well as myself, had to learn that I needed Hope with\nme to make my work more perfect. We must first feel our own inadequacy\nbefore our helpers can be fully appreciated. I think she came in the\nright time,\" said Faith reverently.\n\n\"No doubt,\" replied the woman; \"I have often heard you say that all\nour blessings come at the needful moment; but surely Hope looks as\nthough she could endure the rough clime, and still rougher ways of our\npeople, better than yourself, although I do not know what my life would\nhave been without you.\"\n\n\"That was why I was sent here. I came to prepare the way for Hope. I was\nneeded first; and now, with my sister's brighter element, I expect to do\na good work on the earth.\"\n\n\"A blessed pair!\" exclaimed the woman, as they left her home to go\nto others more dark and drear.\n\nFaith was summoned that night to the home of a widow whose only child was\npassing away; for the clear, far-seeing eyes of Faith could see the soul\ndepart and take on its heavenly form. It was a great comfort to the\nbereaved in hours like those to have her near.\n\n\"I wonder how we lived without her,\" were household words, and words\nwhich she could hear without any semblance of vainglory; for her soul\nwas too deeply impressed with the magnitude of her mission to allow her\nto be elated or depressed by any remark that might be made.\n\nFaith's eyes followed the dying boy far into the realms of light. She\nwiped the mother's tears away, and disclosed to her sight the way the\nsoul had fled, while Hope stood by to assure her that the parting was\nnot forever. The two tarried through the night with the mother, and when\nfriends came to bury the dead form she had learned that \"the grave is\nnot the goal.\"\n\nThe sisters toiled together many years. They wove beautiful truths\ninto the minds of the people, till the once dark condition of earth\nseemed passing rapidly away. People grew trustful, and less gloomy: yet,\nwith all the teachings of Faith, and the cheering words of Hope, they\nfailed to exercise the right feelings at all times towards each other.\n\nThe sisters sat by the wayside one evening, after a hard day's toil,\ntheir eyes lifted to the stars, which seemed to look lovingly on them.\nThey sat without words, while each possessed the same unspoken wish. They\nboth longed for their sister, who at that moment was thinking earnestly\nof them.\n\nFaith glanced from the stars to the scarcely less brilliant eyes of Hope,\nand a few tears fell over her face. Even Hope sighed, and almost wished\nherself back to her starry home with her father.\n\n\"Are you sorry, Hope, that you came to earth?\" asked Faith, tenderly.\n\n\"No: but I was thinking--\"\n\n\"I know your thought: it must be the same as my own,\" said Faith.\n\n\"Yes, our sister--\" Hope ventured thus far.\n\n\"Charity come too.\" Faith finished the sentence.\n\n\"Just my wish,\" said Hope, rejoiced to find they had the same desire.\n\n\"I see,\" said Faith, \"that we are all needed here to make our work\ncomplete,\" while the brilliant eyes of Hope spoke more than words.\n\n\"I have felt for a long time,\" answered Hope, \"that another element,\nsofter, sweeter, and finer than ours, was needful for the people.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose that father would spare Charity, too?\" asked Hope\nof her sister.\n\n\"I know he would, if convinced that earth's people would receive her.\"\n\n\"Why, Faith, you speak with such confidence!\"\n\n\"Because I know how good our father is, as you do yourself, Hope. If\nneeded, she will come,\" said Faith, trustingly, thinking of her own\nexperience that lonely night.\n\n\"Charity is so delicate,\" said Hope, a little doubtfully, \"I do not quite\nsee how she could endure this cold clime.\"\n\n\"She could not without our presence to sustain her,\" answered Faith.\n\n\"But, with us to help her, she could; for we can all live wherever we\nare called to do the work of our father.\"\n\n\"Let us lift the voices of our souls,\" said Hope; and they offered a\nsilent prayer for their sister.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat night, in his abode of peace and comfort, the father walked to and\nfro; for the voices of his children on the earth, pleading for their\nsister, had reached him.\n\nIt was not without a struggle that he called the only remaining child\nto his side to look upon her for the last time for many years.\n\n\"It must be,\" he said, \"and then will my sacrifice be perfect; and from\nperfect sacrifice must fullness of good come forth. Faith alone could not\nperfect the work; Hope's added brightness was not all that was needed.\nCharity must be added.\" And he drew the fair, frail form to his side, and\ntold her to go for her mantle.\n\nHe enveloped her slight figure in the spotless garment, and, placing\nher in the care of Zephyr, the gentle west wind, who was always faithful\nto her charges, bade her depart, with his prayers and blessings.\n\nZephyr was very tender of her charge, and, after what seemed a long\njourney to Charity, she laid her on a soft bed of moss in a pleasant\nwoodland, where her sisters were gathering flowers.\n\nShe might have lain there some time had not Faith's eyes discovered\nher coming through the clouds.\n\nFull and joyous was the meeting of the three; and when the sun went\nto rest they sought shelter among the people.\n\nWith the uplifted eyes of Faith, the clear, soul-speaking face of Hope,\nand the tender, forgiving words of Charity, their united force was great.\n\nSome of the people at first refused to admit the last comer into their\ndwellings.\n\n\"Faith, with her lovely eyes, and Hope, with her bright ways, are good\nenough,\" they said; \"and why need they bring this pale, fragile one to\nearth?\"\n\nBut when once she had spoken, either in council or rebuke, to her\nlisteners, there was melody and richness in her tones: such an awakening\nof their souls' finer powers that they ever after bade her welcome.\n\nHer strength lay in her gentleness. She always went when called for, but\nnever obtruded herself on others. Very often her sisters were invited to\nthe feast of the people without her. It took time for her quality to be\nknown: she was so still and silent. Her step, too, was noiseless, and her\ndelicate feet left no prints where she trod.\n\nBefore she grew into favor with the people they used to watch for her\nfootprints to see whose guest she had been; but they found no traces,\nand learned to entertain her after a long time for the lovely qualities\nwhich she possessed.\n\nThey walk the earth now, each loved and entertained by many, while\nsome sit in the shadows, and know not that earth has the angels of Faith,\nHope, and Charity to bless them.\n\n\n\n\nXVII.\n\nGOING FORTH.\n\n\nA wise parent sent his children to a distant country to learn the lessons\nof life which experience alone can teach. Before their departure he\ncalled them to him, and, after providing them liberally with means, told\nthem that at their return he would listen to their several experiences;\nat the same time telling them to use the means which he had given them\nwell--neither to hoard, nor spend them unwisely; above all, not to bring\nthem back in their original form, but a full equivalent therefore, either\nin spiritual or material things.\n\nA year had scarcely passed, when, as the father sat looking at the\nwestern sky, the youngest son came running breathlessly up the path.\n\n\"So soon returned?\" asked his father--which caused a look of\ndisappointment to pass over the face of the youth; and his words were\nshaded with regret as he replied, \"I thought you would be glad to see\nme, and would rejoice that I got through so quickly.\"\n\n\"Not so, my son,\" replied the father. \"You cannot, in the brief time\nyou have been absent, have performed many, if any, deeds of goodness\ncompared with what you might have done by tarrying longer; and your\ngold--you surely cannot have used it all in so brief a period.\"\n\n\"Why, I've brought all the money back you gave me, father. You see,\nI got through without its costing me a penny.\"\n\n\"It grieves me more than all, my son, that you should go through\nany country and return no equivalent for deeds and kindness given. Rest\nawhile, and in a few days return to the land and the people I sent you\namong, and come not back again to me till every farthing is wisely\nspent.\"\n\nThe youth murmured within himself, but dared not reply. A few days\nlater he departed, to go over the same ground and do the work he had\nneglected for the sake of a speedy return.\n\nAt the end of the second year another returned, looking sad and\ndispirited.\n\n\"Thou hast soon returned, my son,\" said the father. \"Is thy work\ndone in so brief a period?\"\n\nThe youth hung his head, and answered slowly, \"I was so weary, father.\nI saw so much sorrow among those people, I longed to come home where\nall is rest and peace. Surely, I was right in that, was I not?\"\n\n\"Far from it, my child. If there was much sorrow there, that was the\nvery reason why you should have remained. Dost thou not remember\nthose lines I have so often quoted,--\n\n\"'Rest is not quitting the busy career:\nRest is the fitting of self to one's sphere'?\"\n\n\"I remember them well, father,\" the youth replied; \"but I never felt\ntheir meaning until now.\"\n\n\"And if you sense it now, my son, what is your duty?\"\n\n\"To return, I suppose.\"\n\n\"But how--cheerfully or otherwise?\"\n\n\"Gladly and willingly,\" said the son, born from the old to the higher\nself.\n\n\"I will provide you with more means,\" remarked his father, while a\nfeeling of joy thrilled his being at the thought that his son was going\nto give his life to human needs.\n\nThey parted on the morrow, though that separation was the nearest\napproach of their lives; for they were united by a truth which is ever\nthe essence of a divine union. Many years passed by. The hair of the\nfather grew whiter, and his ears longed to hear the voices of his sons,\nyet he would not call, in word or feeling, so long as the busy throng was\nreceiving or giving them life.\n\nOne evening, when his thoughts were taking a somewhat pensive turn,\na messenger came to his door with a letter from the long-absent and\neldest, who had not returned to his home since the day of his departure.\nIts words were these:--\n\n\"Dear Father,--I cannot come to the home I love so well, nor to\nyour side, while this land is so full of need of human words and deeds.\nWith your blessing I shall remain here my lifetime; and when age comes\non, and I can no longer serve the people, may I return?\"\n\nThe tears fell over the good man's face. God had blessed him greatly\nin bestowing on him so worthy a son; and he penned warm and glowing\nwords of encouragement to his child, and sent by the messenger, with\ngold to alleviate the wants of the needy.\n\n\"Tell him a thousand blessings await him when his work is done,\" said\nhe to the messenger as the latter mounted his horse to ride away.\n\nLong after, when the father grew old and helpless, the sons returned\nladen with rich experiences and abundantly able to care for him.\n\nThey had learned the great and valuable lesson that all must learn ere\nthey truly live,--that we must give to receive, sow if we would reap,\nand lose our life to find it.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII.\n\nTHE FEAST.\n\n\nThere was once a husbandman who had laborers in a valley, clearing it of\nstones and brush, that it might become fit for culture. He resided near,\non a fine hill, where he raised rare fruits and flowers of every variety.\nThe view from the hill-top was extensive and grand beyond description,\nand it was the kind owner's desire that each day the laborers should\nascend and be refreshed by whatever he had to offer them, beside catching\nthe inspiration of the lovely and extensive landscape. Some days he had\nnot much to offer them; at other times, the repast would be sumptuous and\nmost tempting: so those who went each day were sure of receiving in their\nseason the delicious fruits which ripened at different periods.\n\nThere had been a succession of days in which there was nothing but\ndry food on the hill, with none of the luscious fruits which invigorate\nand refresh; for they had been slow in ripening, and the kind husbandman\nwould not gather them before they were mellow and fit to spread before\nhis laborers.\n\n\"_I_ am not going to climb the hill to-day for a few crumbs,\" said one\ndissatisfied toiler, as he sat by the roadside at noon-day, looking very\nunhappy.\n\n\"Nor I!\" \"Nor I!\" added a second and a third, until there was quite\na chorus of the dissatisfied.\n\nThe remainder went up as usual. A most tempting repast was before\nthem, of fruits and cake and refreshing wines, while the table was decked\nwith rare and fragrant flowers.\n\nHow glad was the good man to spread the bounties before them! for\nwell he knew of the murmurs which had gone out of their hearts for a\nfew days past. \"Are they not all here?\" he asked of those who had\nascended the hill, while a look of disappointment came over his face.\n\n\"Oh! let us go down and tell them what a nice feast is waiting,\" said\none of the group, as he gazed on the well-filled table.\n\n\"Nay, not so,\" answered the husbandman, in a gentle but commanding\ntone. \"My people should have faith in me, and know that I spread for\nthem all I can each day. My power, even like that of the Infinite, is\nlimited by conditions. It is not my pleasure ever to have them go\nunrefreshed; but how much better for them, could they be content with\nwhatever comes each day, though sometimes meager. How it cheers me to\nsee those who have come in good courage and faith, _not_ knowing that the\nfeast was here. Eat and give thanks,\" he said; while a band played\nsome lively airs.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShall we refuse to ascend each day the mount whereon dwells our\nFather? Shall we, because some days no feast awaits us, linger in the\nvalley of doubt, and lose the bounties which his hand at other times has\nready for us? No: the faithful and believing will go up to the mount\neach day, and take without murmur the morsel, or the fruits with\nthanksgiving.\n\n\n\n\nXIX.\n\nTHE LESSON OF THE STONE.\n\n\nIt was with feelings of satisfaction and pride that a builder looked\nupon a large and costly edifice which, after much exertion, was just\ncompleted. Long had the workmen toiled to place one stone upon another.\nMany hours of thought had the designer spent in perfecting its\nproportions, and a deep sense of relief came over him as he saw the\nlast stone deposited on the summit of the structure. Yet it was only to\nbe followed by one of pain; for, as he walked one evening to enjoy the\nbeautiful symmetry of his building, he heard words of contention and\nstrife among the various stones of which it was composed.\n\n\"Just look at my superior finish,\" said one of the top pieces to those\nbeneath it. \"You are only plain pieces of granite, while I am polished,\nelegantly carved, and the admiration of all eyes. Do I not see all the\npeople, as they pass by, look up at me?\"\n\n\"Not so fast,\" replied one of the foundation stones. \"A little less pride\nwould become you; for do you not see that, but for us below, you could\nnot be so high? And it matters very little, it strikes me, what part of\nthe building we are placed in, if we but remain firm and peaceful.\"\n\nThe words of the wise stone pleased the owner so much that he\nresolved to remove a little of the vanity of the top one, and lay awake\na long time that night, thinking of some plan by which to effect his\npurpose. The elements, however, spared him any effort on his part, for\nthe next day a terrible hail-storm swept over the land, and its hard\nstones defaced all the ornaments which had led the lofty one to boast so\nloudly of its superiority.\n\n\"Oh, dear! oh, dear!\" moaned the vain piece of granite. \"How I wish I had\nbeen taken for a foundation stone, instead of being here to have all my\nbeauty destroyed by this awful storm! I'd much rather have been in the\nmiddle of the building than up here, where all the force of the storm is\nspent on my head.\"\n\nThe stone at the foundation could not help smiling, though he really\npitied the vain thing above him. \"It will teach her wisdom,\" he said to\nhimself; \"and she may learn that none in life are lowly if they bear\ntheir part, and that a lofty position is far more dangerous than a humble\none.\"\n\nThere was a fearful crash in the air at that instant. The foundation\nstone thought the building was coming down. Something struck him,\nwhich he recognized as a part of the top stone; for he had seen the\nworkmen cutting and smoothing it day after day for many weeks prior to\nits elevation. Now she could boast no more of superior finish or\nposition.\n\nThe following day, the remaining shattered portion was removed and\nleft by the roadside, where it could see another prepared to take its\nplace.\n\n\"I thought that stone was a little weak when we raised it,\" said one of\nthe workmen as it was placed aside.\n\nIt lay by the roadside until it grew to be humble and glad to be of any\nuse,--even delighted when one day the owner of the building took it to\nfinish a wall which was being built around some pasture land.\n\n\"Here I can be of use,\" she said, as the workmen deposited it on a\nsunny corner as the place it was to occupy. It was glad to be there and\nfind itself useful and at rest; for it had been obliged to listen to the\nremarks of the passers-by each day, and to endure their comments on its\nmisfortune.\n\n\"I suppose I shall never know any other life but this; so now, being\nfirmly set, I can sleep a little:\" for the stone was sadly in need of\nrest.\n\nAfter what seemed to be a long period of repose, the stone awoke, with\nnew pulsations and finer emotions thrilling within it. The sound of\nchildren's voices were heard in the air. How sweet and life-giving they\nwere! far more pleasant than the words of admiration which men uttered\nwhen she was on the building's top. A new joy was hers also, for soft\nhands were caressing her. Beautiful mosses had grown on her surface,\nand delighted children were gathering them.\n\nUseful and beautiful too! and the stone was silent with happiness.\nShe hoped the children would come again; and they did, bringing others\nwith them.\n\n\"I wonder how this beautiful moss grew on me,\" she said one day to\nherself--at least she thought no one heard her. But an older stone\nbeside her replied, \"By being perfectly quiet we become covered with\nthis lovely moss, firmer than grasses of any lawn.\"\n\nThe once vain stone grew to be perfectly contented, and never longed\nfor her former position. When the storms came, it knew it was close to\nthe earth. It had no fearful height to be pulled from, and the beautiful\nlichens which grew upon its surface were far more ornamental than its\nformer carved and elegant adornings.\n\n\n\n\nXX.\n\nTHE SEEDS.\n\n\nThey lay side by side one morning, while the gardener was preparing\nthe ground in which to plant them and many other varieties.\n\n\"Just think,\" said the more talkative one of the two, \"how sad it is\nthat we are going to be put in that dismal ground! I shall not allow\nmyself to be buried out of sight this lovely morning.\"\n\n\"But,\" answered the more quiet seed by her side, \"it is only for a brief\nperiod that we shall lie there, and then we shall be far more beautiful.\"\n\n\"What care I for beauty for others to look at? I want my freedom,\nand intend to have it, too. The wind is my friend, and I shall ask her\nto waft me over to those lovely hills, where I can see something of the\nworld.\"\n\n\"I think it would be wiser to remain where we are, and let the gardener\ncare for us: he must know what is for our good,\" remarked the gentle\nseed.\n\n\"You are too prosy by far. I think our own feelings tell us what we\nneed. So good-by,\" exclaimed the self-reliant seed, as she motioned to\nthe wind to bear her away.\n\nShe thought her breath was leaving her, as she was borne through\nthe air, and wished she were back in the garden. But when she found\nherself on the warm hill-side she felt reassured, and nestled herself\namid the soft grass, whose waving motion soon lulled her to sleep.\n\nNow the two seeds which the gardener had laid on the ground were of\na very choice and rare kind; and he felt very sad that the wind should\nhave blown one away. He took the remaining one and laid it carefully\nin the ground, with many hopes that it would spring up and bear rich\nblossoms, which would yield more seed. That night a cold wind came\non; but the little seed in the warm bed did not feel it at all, while her\nabsent sister shook all night with the cold.\n\nAfter what seemed a long time to the seed in the ground, something\nlike a new life came over her. There was a deeper pulsation through\nher being, and a strong desire to shoot upward to the light and air. This\nfeeling deepened every hour.\n\n\"At this rate I shall soon be in the air, where I can see all that is\ngoing on about me,\" she said joyfully. Then she felt very quiet, and fell\nasleep. When she awoke she saw the gardener bending over her with a\njoyful face. \"When did this happen? How came I up here in the warm\nsunlight?\" the seed exclaimed to him.\n\n\"Because the wind did not bear you away, and I could put you in the\nground, is the reason why you are here. First out of sight, then to the\nlight, my little seed! But,\" he said sorrowfully, \"I wish we had the\nother one, for your kind is rare.\"\n\nThe plant then told the gardener that her sister purposely went away,\nat which he wondered that she had power of motion until she became a\nplant.\n\n\"Oh, she asked the wind to carry her,\" answered the fresh-growing\nplant.\n\n\"If I knew where she had gone I'd search for her, and bring her back.\"\n\n\"She asked the wind to take her to yonder hill-side,\" said the plant,\nhoping, oh, so much! that he would go and find the seed, and plant it\nbeside her, that she, too, might have the pleasure of becoming a plant as\nbeautiful as herself.\n\nThe gardener went towards the hills; but the seed saw him, and\nbegged the south wind to bear her away. And she took her on her wing\nand wafted her many miles from home.\n\nThe gardener searched a long time, and was obliged to return without\nher. So he took extra care of the plant, and it grew to be the pride of\nthe garden; while the seed that had her own way was roaming over the\nworld. The truant one soon lost all her influence over the winds, who\nfinally refused to carry about a good-for-nothing seed while they had so\nmuch needful work to perform. A cold northern blast was the last one\nshe could persuade to bear her, and he dropped her on a rock, where she\nat last perished from exposure to the rain and cold.\n\nThe day before her death, a company of people passed by her, bearing\nin their hands some rare and fragrant blossoms, to which she felt a\nstrange attraction. This gave place to a deep thrill of sorrow as she\nheard them describe the lovely plant which grew in a beautiful garden,\nand which by their description she knew was her own home, which she\nin her folly had left.\n\n\"Had I but accepted the conditions of growth, I too might have been\na lovely plant, giving and receiving pleasure,\" she said, after the\npeople had passed on. \"But now, alas!\" and her breath grew quick and\nshort, \"if I had only some one to profit by my last words, telling of my\nlife of folly, I might not have lived wholly in vain.\" But there was\nnothing about her which she could discern save a tuft of moss upon the\ncold, hard rock which must now be her death-bed.\n\nBut behind the rock, on the south side, there was growing a family of\nwild daisies, who were going to migrate to a warmer part of the country\nto plant their seeds before the winter came on. This was one of the\nconditions which Providence ever has around the most seemingly deserted\nand desolate, that her words might not only profit them, but that\nthey could convey the benefit of them to all wayward seeds who were\nunwilling to accept the natural conditions of growth. And thus the seed,\nthough dying with its mission unfulfilled, did not live wholly in vain;\nfor its wasted life saved others from a similar fate.\n\n\n\n\nXXI.\n\nONLY GOLD.\n\n\nA parent sent his children forth one day into a fertile land to gather\nfruits, flowers, and whatever was beautiful to adorn their homes. They\nwandered till nightfall, gathering their treasures, while their joyous\nlaughter filled the air, and made music to the listening laborers in the\nfields.\n\nJust as the shadows of evening came on they approached an open field:\nit was barren of verdure, but the ground was covered with golden stones,\nwhich glittered strangely in the setting sun. They gathered as many as\nthey could with their other treasures, and then all but one of the group\nbegan to prepare for home, while he lingered, eager to gather the shining\npebbles.\n\n\"We must return,\" they all said in chorus to him. They disliked to\nleave without him; but darkness was fast coming on, and they must obey\ntheir parents' command and return before the shades of evening had\ncovered the earth. One voice after another died away on the air as they\npleaded vainly for him to go with them, but he heeded them not: the\ngolden stones were far more precious in his eyes than kindred, home, or\nfriends; and they departed sorrowfully without him, while he remained\nand added stone to stone, till he was obliged at last, from exhaustion,\nto lie down on the damp ground.\n\nIt was not like his warm bed in his pleasant home; and he missed the\ncheerful voices of his brothers, and more than all his parents' fond\ngoodnight, after the evening prayer. He slept; but his dreams were wild\nand feverish, and there was no atmosphere of love about him to soothe the\nweary brain.\n\nThe next day at noon his parents sent a messenger to him, bidding him\nreturn. But the love of his golden stones was paramount to the wishes\nof kindred, and the unnumbered comforts of a happy home; and his reply to\nthe messenger was, \"I will return, when I have enough of these,\" pointing\nto a large collection which was already higher than his head. At\nnightfall hunger seized him. He felt too weary to go in search of\nfood, but the demand of nature asserted its claim, and he dragged himself\nto a field near by, where grew berries and fruits in abundance. His\nspirits rose after the cravings of hunger were satisfied, and he lay down\nagain by his precious pile of stones.\n\nThe days glided into weeks, and still he fed upon the berries and\ngathered the golden pebbles. His father had ceased to send messengers to\nhim, knowing that nothing but a long experience would teach his child\nthe value of life's many blessings, and that gold _alone_ has no power to\nbless us. The father suffered much in knowing and realizing that his\nson must learn the truths of life through such severe lessons; but wisdom\ntold him it could not be otherwise.\n\nThe chill air of autumn came, and no longer could the fruits and berries\nripen for him. He saw some laborers one day in a field near by, eating\ntheir meal which they had brought from their homes. Oh; what would he not\nnow give for some of their meat and bread! \"I will go to them,\" he said,\n\"and offer some of my golden stores in exchange for just a few morsels.\"\n\nHe did so; and they only smiled at his offer, saying, \"What would then\nrefresh and fit us for the rest of our day's labor? Surely your gold\nwould not.\"\n\n\"But it would help you to buy more,\" he replied.\n\n\"Yes, to-morrow: but we cannot spare a morsel to-day, for we need\nall our supply to strengthen us for our work.\"\n\nHe turned away in deep thought. Was he not losing all of life's joys\nand comforts in living thus alone only to amass such quantities of gold?\nBut as he looked again on the shining treasures his ambition arose with\nincreased power; and he forgot, for a time, his hunger in his toil. Then\na new thought came to him. \"Now that the fruits are gone I can go to\nthe forest and gather nuts. They will be better food, too, for these\nchilly autumn days. Surely I am provided for, at least till winter,\" and\nhe left his labor and repaired to the woods, where he feasted and\ngathered enough for many days.\n\nThe household mourned much for their absent brother. They missed him in\ntheir daily joys, and every hour they watched, waited, and hoped to see\nhim return. They almost rejoiced when the bleak winds of autumn swept the\nfoliage from the trees, because they could look farther down the road for\ntheir brother.\n\n\"I shall soon be able to travel and see the world,\" said the youth to\nhimself every day as the pile of gold grew higher; but, alas for human\ncalculation! he awoke one morning to find his huge mountain of gold\none solid mass. The action of the light, heat, and atmosphere had fused\nthem together, and no exertion of his could break off even the smallest\natom.\n\nMust he return with not even one golden pebble? for he had gathered\nthem all--not one was in sight, no more were to be found.\n\nHis golden dream of travel was over, and, worse, the freshness and\nbuoyancy of youth had departed. His limbs, alas! were stiff and sore.\nHe had a mountain of gold, not one atom of which he could use for himself\nor others. And now he must return to his father's house empty-handed,\nand void of truths or incidents to relate to his brothers.\n\nBut some kind angel led him home, where his blessings were yet in\nstore, awaiting his return. One evening when the shadows crept over\nthe earth, he walked up the well-known path. The brothers had long\nbefore ceased to watch for his coming; and great was their surprise to\nsee him again among them, although not the brother of that happy,\nsunny day of long ago. He told them sadly of the result of his long toil,\nwhile they related to him the good results of their few golden pebbles,\nwhich they brought home, and with which their father had purchased\nland, which was now yielding them rich returns, aside from the health\nand pleasure which they derived from its culture, the labor of which they\nperformed with their own hands. \"Health, wealth, and happiness combined,\"\nhe murmured sadly, as he felt keenly that his youth and opportunities\nhad departed.\n\nAre there not too many who seek for gold alone, forgetting the joys\nwhich it purchases, and forgetting that its possession alone has no\nvalue? Rightly acquired and used it alleviates and mediates, but gathered\nand amassed for itself only it is but a mountain of shining ore,\nvalueless and unsatisfying to its possessor.\n\n\"Fool that I have been thus to waste my time and strength!\" said the\nlong-absent son that night as his father bade him welcome.\n\n\"If wisdom is purchased by the experience, it matters not how great\nthe price,\" answered his parent.\n\n\"But I have lost my youth and my strength,\" responded the son.\n\n\"Which loss will be compensated by more thought and greater ability\nto labor mentally,\" said his parent consolingly.\n\nIn after years the youth who had wasted his bodily strength became a\nworker in words of cheer and hope to others, and hence he had not\nwholly lived in vain. He learned to love the angel Truth so well that\nshe came to his side each day, and gave him sweet counsel and many\nlessons for mankind.\n\nBut he had purchased the light at a cost which few can afford to give.\n\n\n\n\nXXII.\n\nTHE SACRIFICE.\n\n\nA large party of travelers on their way to a distant country were obliged\nto pass through a dense forest to reach it. Their leader went forward,\nand, seeing the darkness of the dense woods, was convinced of the\nimpossibility of his people going through it, without the aid of a\nlight to guide them. He sat beside the mossy stones at the entrance,\ntrying to devise some means by which to light up the darkness. There\nseemed but one way, and that almost hopeless, as it involved a sacrifice\nof life, and he knew too well the nature of the trees to expect any of\nthem to give themselves up for his travelers. How could he ask it, as he\nstepped into the deep wood, and looked on their grand proportions and\nrich foliage? His was no enviable position to entreat them to give up the\nexistence which must be dear to themselves,--to pass from the known to\nthe unknown life.\n\nVainly he tried to think of another way to accomplish his purpose. None\npresented itself; so with glowing words he appealed to their nobler\nselves, telling them all the great need of the travelers who were obliged\nto pass that way. First he appealed to a fine birch which bordered the\nforest.\n\n\"Not I, indeed!\" answered the tree. \"Do you think I would give my\nlife to light a few people through this woodland? I prefer to live a few\nyears longer.\"\n\nHe next addressed a walnut. She shook a few leaves from her branches,\nand made a similar reply, preferring to live in her own form, and amid\nher sister trees, to going she knew not whither.\n\n\"Are there none here,\" he continued, \"who are willing to sacrifice their\nlives for the needs of others?\"\n\nHe looked around the forest in vain: all were silent, and he was about\nto return to the people, when a large and stately oak spoke in clear and\nringing tones, saying, \"I will give my body that the travelers may have\nlight.\"\n\n\"What! that grand old body of yours, that has been so many years\ngrowing and maturing to its present stately and fair proportions!\"\nexclaimed several of the trees.\n\n\"You are not only rash, but foolish,\" remarked a small fir growing by\nits side.\n\n\"Beside taking away the pride of our grand old forest,\" said a delicate\nbirch, that had always admired the oak.\n\n\"Just throwing your life away,\" broke in a tall and rather sickly pine.\n\n\"When will you be ready for me?\" asked the oak of the leader, who\nhad stood admiring its beautiful proportions, and sorrowing within\nhimself that it must be so.\n\nAt the close of the next day the travelers came to the edge of the\nforest, and tarried while their leader lit the fire at the roots of the\noak. Now the flames went upward and flashed in the darkness; for it was\nevening, and not a star was visible. The flames rose upward and touched\nnot even the bark of another tree, but wound closely around the oak, as\nthough it knew its work and that the light of that tree only was needed\nto pass the travelers through in safety. It touched their hearts to thus\nwitness that the life of the noble oak must be sacrificed, and they\noffered, with one accord, a silent prayer that its life might be extended\nin a higher form. Having passed through, they tarried at the end of\nthe forest until the flames died away, and then pursued their journey.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nYears passed away. From the pile of ashes left by the departed oak\nsprang lovely flowers, which charmed the eyes of all the trees in the\nforest, and atoned, in a great measure, for the loss of their noble\ncompanion.\n\nAfter a brief period workmen were seen in the forest felling the trees.\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed the old pine who had refused to give its life for the\ntravelers, \"I don't see as we have gained anything. If our life is to go,\nit might as well have gone by the fire as by the axe.\"\n\n\"Just so,\" answered the beach, \"only if we had perished by the fire\nwe might now be coming again into another form of life, as our oak seems\nto be, from that pile of dust and ashes; for see what lovely blossoms are\ncoming forth from that unsightly heap of dust.\"\n\n\"I heard the workmen say that all these trees were to be cleared away,\nand houses erected on the land,\" remarked a trembling ash, and her leaves\nquivered beyond their wont with the terror of this new thought.\n\n\"And that will surely be the end of us,\" moaned the pine.\n\n\"Our happy life is all over now,\" said a small fir, who would have\ncontinued bemoaning their destiny had not her attention at that instant\nbeen arrested by two forms entering the forest. They went to the spot\nwhere once stood the brave oak, and gazed admiringly on the lovely tinted\nblossoms. They had heard of the sacrifice of the tree, and had come to\ngaze upon its resurrection.\n\n\"We will gather some for our festival to-night,\" they said, and stooped\nto pluck the fragrant blossoms.\n\nThe fire had not destroyed the consciousness of the oak: its soul was\nstill alive, enjoying its new form of existence, and it sent forth\nthrills of gratitude, which took the form of sweetest odor, filling the\nair around with fragrance. \"Instead of losing my life it is being\nextended, even as the good leader of the people said,\" were its words as\nthe two departed, bearing the flowers, instinct with its oak life, away.\n\nMany went to the forest while the workmen were there, to gather the\nseeds of the rare blossoms to plant in their gardens.\n\nHow much of human life did the soul of the oak learn as it went forth\nthus amid the throngs of people; and how it rejoiced that it had given\nits life for the good of others, knowing not that greater bliss was in\nstore for it! It was held in the hands of the aged; it crowned fair\nbrows; it was carried to the bedside of the suffering; it was laid upon\nthe caskets of the dead; it was planted by the door of the cottage and\nreared in the conservatories of the rich,--everywhere admired and\nwelcomed. Was not this life indeed worth all the pain and heat of the\nflames, and the loss of its once statelier and loftier form?\n\nIt never sighed for its forest home, but often longed to know of the\nfate of its brother trees. One day a child, bearing in her hand one of\nits blossoms, wandered to the ground where once arose the tall trees. The\neyes of the oak, through the flower, looked in vain for its kindred. None\nwere standing. They had all been felled and their wood converted into\ndwellings,--a useful but less beautiful form of existence than that which\nthe oak possessed,--and they learned, after a time, that it is only by\napparent destruction that life can be reconstructed. But they could only\nhave the experiences which came within the scope of their life; and the\noak was more than ever satisfied with its own, and rejoiced that it had\npassed through the refining element, losing thereby only its grosser\nform. It filled the air with the fragrance of its gratitude. Whenever it\nwished to journey, the winds, who were its friends, conveyed its seeds to\nany portion of the earth it designated. Its blossoms were not only bright\nto the eye, and their odor sweet to the sense of smell, but the leaves of\nthe plant were healing. Three forces connected it with human life: so\nthat it was in constant action, and its highest joy lay in the\nconsciousness of its increased usefulness.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII.\n\nSTRANGERS.\n\n\nIn a large and elegant mansion dwelt a wealthy man who had three lovely\ndaughters. The house was built on an eminence upon the banks of a river\nwhich wound like a thread of silver through the valleys for many miles.\nAfar from the mansion were a large number of cottages, in which dwelt\ncarpenters, shipbuilders, gardeners, and some of every trade. Most of\nthem were good and honest people, though tinged with the love of earthly\ngains, and many of them, too, often crushed many of the soul's finer and\nbetter emotions in the greedy love of material things. The owner of the\nmansion sorrowed over this failing of theirs, and, to rid them of it,\ndevised a plan by which to give those who wished an opportunity to be led\nby their better nature, and forget, for the time, self and gain.\n\nAccordingly, he told his daughters to deck themselves in their richest\napparel and ornaments, which were rare and choice, and then to throw\nover the whole large and unsightly cloaks, so that the disguise might be\nperfect, and conceal all the splendor beneath. To each he gave a purse\nfilled with gold to bestow upon the one who should welcome and give\nthem shelter.\n\nAt evening he went forth with them to the narrow street, and bade\nthem knock at the doors of the cottages, while he waited outside, and see\nwho would admit and give food and shelter to travelers in need. They\nobeyed him, and first approached a dimly-lighted cottage. Making\nknown their presence by a gentle rap, the door was opened by a woman\nof large and coarse features, whose eyes had no welcome in their rude\nstare. She scarcely waited for the words of the travelers to be spoken,\nere she gruffly answered, \"No: we have neither room nor food for\nbeggars,\" and closed the door abruptly.\n\nThey applied next upon the opposite side, saying to the man who opened\nthe door, \"Can you feed and give shelter to three weary travelers?\"\n\n\"We have no food to waste, and our home is scarcely large enough for\nourselves,\" he replied, and quickly shut the door upon them.\n\nThe same answer came from all, and they turned to their parent, saying,\n\"Shall we try any more?\"\n\n\"There are but two more: try all; see if one at least can be found not\nwholly selfish; and, as you are not truly in need of their bounties, you\ncan well afford to importune and be denied.\" He then guided his children\nto the end of the street.\n\n\"This one looks quite gay compared with the others,\" said the eldest\nof the daughters, as they all looked on the well-lit rooms, and beheld\nforms flitting to and fro within.\n\n\"We shall certainly be admitted here,\" said the others.\n\nBut the parent kept his council, and was invisible while they rapped\nat the door, which was opened by a bright and rather stylish-looking\ngirl, who gazed wonderingly on the group.\n\n\"Can you give us shelter for a night, and a little food?\" asked the\neldest.\n\n\"Not we, indeed: we have just spent all our money for a merry-making\nfor our brother Jack, who has just come home from sea. Not we:\nwe have not one bit of room to spare; for all our friends are here.\"\n\n\"But we are weary, and ask rest and food,\" pleaded one of the three;\nand her eyes wandered to the well-filled tables.\n\n\"Yes: but what we have is for our company and ourselves--not for\nbeggars,\" said the girl, and she closed the door upon them.\n\n\"Shall we try again, father?\" they said to their parent.\n\n\"Just this one, which is the last,\" he answered, leading them to the\ndoor of a cot where dwelt a poor and lonely widow.\n\nThey paused at the threshold, for a voice was heard within, low and\nsweet; yet they heard the words of the kneeling form, in deep petition,\nsaying, \"Give me, O Father, my daily bread; forgive me my trespasses,\nand lead me not into temptation. For thine is the kingdom, and the\npower, and the glory, forever and forever. Amen.\"\n\nShe arose at that instant. A gentle knock was heard. Without delay\nshe opened it, and smiled upon the strangers, who asked for more than\nshe could give.\n\n\"I have shelter, but no food; yet enter and be welcome,\" she said, and\nopened wide the door.\n\nThey passed in, and left their parent, whom they knew would soon follow,\noutside.\n\n\"I grieve that I have no food to offer thee,\" said the woman, \"but come\nto my fireside; for the evening air is chilly, and you must need rest.\"\n\nShe placed for them her only chairs beside the fire, saying, \"I am glad\nyou come to-night; for this is my last fuel, and to-morrow eve it will be\nall dark and chill within my dwelling.\"\n\nThe eldest bowed to the woman gracefully, and threw aside her cloak;\nand at once the others followed her example.\n\nGreat was the surprise of the widow. She thought her senses had\ndeparted, and, for an instant, had no voice, no words, naught but wonder\nbeaming from her eyes, so sudden and great was the surprise. Another\ngentle rap at that instant seemed to help her to find herself, and she\nwas hastening to open it, when the eldest one said, \"It is our father,\ncome to thank you for admitting angels in disguise; for, though not\nangels in form, we hope to prove such by our administration to your\nneeds.\" And they laid upon her only table the purses of gold.\n\n\"He will ever give daily bread to those who forget not to entertain\nstrangers,\" said their father to the widow, as they took their leave of\none who had not refused to receive strangers.\n\nThe next morning there was great commotion in the neighborhood;\nfor the widow had been seen to exchange gold for bread at one of the\nshops; but greater still was their surprise when she told them, as they\nflocked around her dwelling, that it was given by three strangers who\nhad asked for bread and shelter the night before.\n\n\"Three strangers!\" exclaimed they all. \"They must be the same that called\nat our dwellings. What fools we were that we did not let them in!\"\n\n\"Nay: it but shows how dead you were in sympathy for human need,\"\nspoke a voice among them, which, as they turned, they found to be that\nof the owner of the mansion.\n\nShame and confusion came over their faces; for he had long been their\nbenefactor, both in words of counsel and deeds of kindness. Their eyes\nfell to the ground, as he in gentle tones chided them for their lack of\nkindness and want of faith in the Father's love. \"He who giveth not in\nanother's need shall receive none in his own,\" he continued; \"and let\nthe lesson taught you by the experience you have just had, and the\nexample of the poor widow, last you through all the years of your life;\nfor she refused not the strangers whom you turned from your doors the\nshelter which they apparently needed.\"\n\n\"But they were not cold and hungry,\" said one of the group.\n\n\"The demand upon your sympathies was just the same; for you knew not to\nthe contrary,\" he answered, and they could not but feel the truth of his\nwords.\n\nThe lesson was not lost; for in after years they grew less mercenary,\nmore kindly of heart, and never again closed their doors to strangers\nasking aid.","title":"Allegories of Life","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":26235}