{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_19809/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_19809","id":"gutenberg_19809","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19809","summary":null,"tags":["Allegories","Birds -- Juvenile fiction","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels"],"text":"The Story of\nA DEWDROP.\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nTHE\nSTORY\nOF A\nDEWDROP\n\nJ. R. MACDUFF D D\n\nWITH\nFOUR COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\nLONDON MARCUS WARD & CO BELFAST\n\n1881\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORDS.\n\n    To Charlie.\n\n\n    A Dewdrop is a small affair; and the world would not be the least\n    interested, nor a bit the wiser, by knowing how I come\n    affectionately to dedicate the story I have written about it to\n    _you_. I may tell you it was one line of eleven words, read one\n    night from a musty old volume of last century, which suggested it.\n\n    Everybody must have their play-hours and moments of recreation. I\n    think I have gone back to other and more serious work all the better\n    after writing a page or two of what follows. I am happy thus to have\n    had my little holiday along with you in this ideal region of quaint\n    conceits.\n\n    Shall we hope that others may share our pleasure?\n\n    Let us try.\n\n\n\n\n_List of_\nILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n\n_The Procession of the Queen of the Morning_ (p. 41), _Frontispiece._\n\n_The Bird-talk and its surroundings,_                         14\n\n_The Nightingale and the Dewdrop,_                            19\n\n_The Ascent of the Million Army,_                             53\n\n\n\n\n_The Story of_\nA DEWDROP.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THE FIRST.\n\n\nThree birds of very favourable\nrepute in these regions\nmet together one evening--a\nThrush, a Lark, and a Nightingale.\nAnd all for what purpose, think you?\nIt was a queer one--to hold a solemn\nconference about a DEWDROP!\n\nYes, it must be allowed it was an\noriginal thought which brought these\nthree feathered friends thus into council;\nand a pretty talk to be sure they had\nabout it.\n\nThey selected, as an appropriate time\nfor preliminaries, the close of a bright\nday in early summer; just when things\nin outer nature were looking their best.\nThe snowdrop and crocus had long ago\nhid their faces to make way for more\nambitious rivals. That always pleasant\nseason was a great way past, when you\nsee the drowsy plants (after being\ntucked up--it may have been for weeks--in\na white snowy coverlet), first\nroused from their sound winter sleep,\nyawning and stretching themselves, and\nrubbing their little eyes, and looking;\nwonderingly about them, saying--\"What!\nis it now time to wake up\nand dress?\" The tree foliage was\napproaching, if it had not already\nreached, perfection; all the mosses,\ntoo, looked so green and fresh; and\nhow prettily the various ferns were\nuncoiling themselves among the rocks\nand shady nooks by the stream;\nwhile on this particular occasion\nthe very Sun seemed to have coaxed\nhis setting beams into the production\nof most gorgeous colouring. Belts of\ngolden cloud were streaking the western\nsky; such long trails of them, that it\nwas impossible to say whether the great\nball of fire, which gave them their\nglory, had actually gone down behind\nthe horizon, or was just about to do so.\nAt all events, it was unmistakably\n_sundown_: though the scene was far\nremoved from northern latitudes, it\nmight be designated by the familiar\nScotch \"gloamin'.\" The groves, and\ndells, and hedgerows, which had kept\nup a goodly concert the livelong day,\nwere now silent. Their winged tenants\nhad, one after another, slunk to their\nnests, with very tired throats. They\nhad left, apparently, all, or nearly all\nthe music to the aforesaid brook in the\ndell. A stone's-throw higher up the\nvalley, this latter, fed by recent rains,\nrattled in gleeful style over a bed of\nwhite and grey pebbles--the tiny\nlimpid waves chasing one another as\nif they were playing at hide-and-seek\namid the sedges, king-cups, and rushes.\nBut it had now reached a quieter spot\nwhere, however, it still kept up a gentle,\nsoothing evensong, a lullaby peculiar\nto itself, as if it wanted to hush the\nlittle birds asleep in their varied leafy\ncradles. The very cattle, that had\nbeen seen lying lazily out of the heat\nunder the beech-trees, had ceased their\nlowings. In fact, Nature had rung\nher curfew bell, and the sentry stars\nwere coming out, one by one, to keep\ntheir night-watch.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLet me first, however, say a word\nabout this Dewdrop, which had awakened\nso much curiosity as to gather\nthree representative members of the\nbird-world together.\n\nIt was a great puzzle, this Dewdrop\nwas. It was a puzzle where it came\nfrom; what it had come about; and a\nstill greater puzzle, what it was made\nof. It was evidently a visitor from\nsome unknown land. Very quietly,\ntoo, it had travelled to its adopted\ncountry. These birds, in succession\n(with the curiosity birds generally have),\nhad endeavoured by stealth to track its\ndainty fairy footsteps, and learn its\npast history. But it was to no\npurpose. However, there it was; not\nperhaps making its appearance every\nnight, but almost every night. And,\nthen, it invariably managed to perch\nitself so daintily on the tip of a rose-leaf.\nAll three birds agreed that it had\nsubstantiated its claim in this, to be\ndecidedly a lover of the beautiful.\nThe leaf, moreover, which it made its\nresting-place, was not only pretty in\nitself, of a subdued delicate green, but\nit hung right over a full-blown rose,\nwith a mass of pink leaves. The\nDewdrop quite seemed as if it had said\nto its own little personality regarding\nthis round coral ball (or cup, if you\nprefer to call it so)--\"Well, I shall\nhave a good look at you at all events,\nfrom my cozy couch, the last thing\nat night, and the first thing in the\nmorning.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\nI somehow really believe the rose\nmust have heard this complimentary\nspeech, or at all events, by some\ninstinctive way, have correctly surmised\nwhat the Dewdrop was thinking about;\nfor, in the last fading, glimmering\nlight, it covered up its face so coyly\nwith both hands, and blushed a deeper\nand deeper crimson.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut to return to the birds. It was\njust outside a copsy retreat that these\nthree winged acquaintances met. The\nThrush, with his brown plumage and\nyellow spotted neck, being the biggest,\nand, if anything, the more talkative of\nthe three, began the conversation.\n\nThe consultation was a long and\nanimated one, too long indeed to\nreport in full, besides there being a\nconsiderable amount of superfluous talk,\nwhat in bird-language is called chattering;\nbut I can give the close of it.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Thrush, summing\nup the discussion, \"I must now be off\nto bed--at all events after providing\nsomething suitable in the way of\nsupper for my wife and family, and\nseeing them made tolerably comfortable\nfor the night. And so too must you,\"\nhe added, with a quizzical look to the\nLark, whose left eye was beginning to\ndroop, as he stood, with one leg up, in\nthe significant fashion our woodland\nfriends indulge in when they indicate\nthat they are tired. \"We shall leave\nto you, Bird of the night\"--were his last\nwords, as he addressed the Nightingale--\"we\nshall leave to you the first\ninterview with this little sparkling\nthing from fairyland, or whatever other\nland it has quitted. We shall defer\n_our_ visit till to-morrow.\"\n\nSo away the two brown-winged companions\nsped, I know not exactly where.\nBut, though both in a great hurry to get\nhome, they judiciously deemed, as I\nhave just observed, that they might\ndo a trifle of purveying business on\nthe way, by picking up a few seeds; or\nif a manageable slug or grub presented\nitself, so much the better. I had not\nthe curiosity to follow them; but I\nbelieve they each contrived to carry\nhome a dainty supper; the one to the\nhole of a big ash-tree, the other to its\nnest in the furrow beside some tufts of\ngolden gorse. It may be interesting,\nhowever, to know, by way of completing\ntheir domestic history, that both had\npromising young households--the one\nof three, and the other of four--to\nsupport; and the wee downy children\nhad arrived too at a very ravenous age,\nwith any capacity for food, which\nindeed amounted, at times, on the part\nalike of father and mother, to a trial of\ntemper.\n\nThe Nightingale, now left all alone\nfor the discharge of a somewhat novel\nduty, seemed at first to feel his\nresponsibility: perhaps a feeling allied\nto nervousness in the human being.\nBut he was a knowing little fellow too;\nand resolved to proceed in the most\nalluring as well as discreet way to his\ntask. Being fully acquainted with the\nposition of the rose-leaf, he took wing,\nand settled himself on the branch of a\nbirch close by. Without any possible\nwarning, he forthwith began (it was the\nbest way of getting over these nervous\nsensations) to pipe one of his very best\nand most enchanting songs. He had\nsomewhat unwarrantably indulged the\nexpectation that he would get an\nimmediate response from the Dewdrop.\nHe had however, in this, to exercise\nthe virtue of patience.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Answer me, pretty Dewdrop,\" he\nsaid in his most bewitching trill.\n\nBut the Dewdrop was silent. It\nappeared to pay not the slightest\nattention.\n\nAnother chirrup and mellifluous\nnote, and then, coming to a lower and\nstill nearer spray of the birch-tree,\nquite within whispering distance:\n\n\"Pretty little noiseless thing,\" continued\nthe Nightingale, \"what are\nyou? Where were you born? Have\nyou any father or mother? or are you\nan orphan? My two brother birds\nspoke of your brightness and lustre.\nMy eyes are tolerably good; but I\nconfess I can see none of these things\nabout you; you seem rather somehow\nto appear sad, though I trust I am\nwrong.\"\n\n\"I have reason to be sad,\" at last\nreplied the Dewdrop, in the quietest,\nmildest, silveriest voice imaginable,\nand trembling with an emotion real or\npretended. \"You call me a Dewdrop,\nbut in truth I am not, I am a teardrop;\na teardrop which fell from the sky.\"\n\n\"A teardrop from the sky!\" said\nthe Nightingale, in undisguised astonishment.\n\"I cannot comprehend you.\nPray tell me what you mean?\"\n\n\"It is true, despite of your surprise,\"\nsaid the other. \"The Sky always\nweeps at the loss of the Sun; and no\nwonder. I tell you again, believe it\nor not as you please, I am one of the\ntears it shed to-night. You need not,\nhowever, grieve for me. I shall be all\nright\" (the tiny voice rising to a\nfalsetto) \"when the Sun appears again.\nIndeed, I venture to say, you will\nhardly know me then. _That_ I am\nsure of.\"\n\n\"Ay!\" said the Nightingale, with\na sceptical, incredulous chirp.\n\n\"Yes! I always get bright, that I\ndo, when the Sun shows himself. Look\nup to those stars, glittering in the sky.\nDo you know how they twinkle so?\nI am myself neither scholar nor\nphilosopher, and have no pretensions\neither way. But a confidential friend\nonce told me, and I quite believe him,\nthat it is because they are either suns\nthemselves, or else get light from that\nbeautiful Sun you saw some time ago\ntingeing the sky with red and gold.\n_My Sun_,\" continued the dwarf thing of\nmystery, raising its tones, with a sort\nof conscious pride. (If it had been\naught else but a beaded drop, I would\nhave described it standing on tip-toe\nas it said this.) It had, however, fairly\nexhausted itself with a very unwonted\neffort in the shape of a speech, and,\nwithout saying another word, turned\non its side on the leafy bed, shut\nboth eyes, and went to sleep. The\nNightingale was of course too polite,\ncivil, and considerate to prolong. So\nhe simply said, \"Good night to you,\nlittle Teardrop, or Dewdrop, whatever\nyou prefer calling yourself. It is time,\nand more than time, for me to be on\nthe wing. I have one or two domestic\nanxieties which, in the first place, I\nmust see to; and, after that, I have an\nengagement among these old hawthorns\nto serenade till morning.\"\n\n\"Good night, kind bird,\" replied the\nDewdrop, turning in politeness half\nround on its pillow; \"thank you for\nthinking of me in my loneliness.\"\nAnd away the songster flew, first to his\nhome, and then, after some outstanding\nduties and civilities, over to his thicket\namong the May blossoms. The extreme\nbeauty of the night seemed to\ndispel all care, and to have a decidedly\ninspiring effect on his nerves. I cannot\ntell whether he had really any such\nambitious thought, but it almost\nseemed, from the gush of song, an\nattempt was made that every star in\nthe heavens might at all events hear, if\nthey could not appreciate his melodies.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THE SECOND.\n\n\nIt was now morning. The\nmist still slept drowsily in the\nvalley; in some places so\ndense, that the smoke of the early fires\nin the hamlet could scarcely pierce it.\nAlready our friend the Thrush had completed\nboth toilet and breakfast, and had\nissued forth on his round of daily work\nand pleasure; as active and busy as\nthe thrush family always are. When\nhe first rose from bed, he was not\nexactly in the very best of humours;\nfor he had, what was always a cross to\nhim when it occurred (though that was\nrarely), a disturbed night. Shall I tell\nyou how his rest came thus to be\ninvaded? Why, the Nightingale, on\nhis way from the rose-leaf, had, perhaps\nsomewhat inconsiderately, tapped at\nhis door, to inform him that all he\ncould get out of the Dewdrop was\n(a very incomprehensible sentiment to\na sleepy bird), that he was a tear wept\nby the Sky when it lost the Sun; and\nhe was bound in all sincerity to add,\nthat it seemed rather a dull and uninteresting\ntear to boot.\n\n\"I know better,\" growled the Thrush.\n(I have used the word \"growl,\" because\nI can find no better to describe the\nreality.) Growling, I am well aware, is a\nvery uncommon demonstration of feeling\nin the case of a warbler. At all\nevents, if it was not a growl, it was the\nnearest approach his beak could make\nto one, as he turned on the pillow\nwhich had been thus rudely disturbed.\nAfter, however, dozing for a few more\nhours, breakfast over, and his family\nseen to, off he sped with all his former\ncheerfulness and activity, till he found\nhimself perched on a branch of the\nvery tallest elm-tree he could pick out,\nand one, too, right above where the\nrose and the dewdrop were. Dear\nme! how he piped, and chirruped, and\nthrostled! I thought the Nightingale\nhad done wonders in that way; but it\nwas nothing to the Thrush. He doubtless\nwas under the impression that the\nDewdrop was sound asleep, and needed\nno ordinary efforts in the way of\nrousing. I am sure if one could have\ndived under the yellow feathers, the\nlittle throat must have been purple.\n\nAfter these musical preliminaries,\nour new friend (Songster No. 2) ventured\nby-and-by to come nearer. But,\nin doing so, he could hardly believe\nhis eyes, specially after what the\nNightingale had told him.\n\n\"A teardrop\" indeed! There was\nnot a bit of the tear about it. Where\nhad been the Nightingale's eyes? It\nwas something at all events very\nlike a bright, unmistakable, beautiful\ndiamond on which the Thrush looked.\nHow it glistened and sparkled; and\nthat too with all the prismatic colours!\nThe spectator could only (what was an\neffort to any member of the Thrush\nfamily) gaze in mute wonder.\n\n\"What in all the world can you be,\nyou lovely, silent sleeper on the rose-leaf,\nwith your round crystal cheeks?\nDewdrop we thought you were; teardrop\nyou say you are: I cannot think\nyou are either. If you are not a\ndiamond set in rubies--stolen, for\nanything I know, from yesterday's\nrainbow--you look the thing uncommonly\nwell.\"\n\n\"I am indeed a diamond,\" answered\nthe Dewdrop. \"Look at me,\" said the\nlittle gleaming dot, with the air of an\naristocrat; \"do you not say I am fit for\na monarch's crown? And it _is_ a\nmonarch's crown I am presently to be\nset in. Every day I meet the Queen\nof the Morning.--Stay,\" it suddenly exclaimed,\n\"I see her even now advancing\nwith her rosy feet, 'sowing the earth\nwith pearls.' See, for yourself, how the\nfew stars which still linger in the sky,\nand which with their glittering torches\nlighted her out of the Eastern Gate,\nare paling every minute behind her!\nShe says, of all the jewels in her tiara\nthere is not one she is fonder of, or\nprouder of, than me. Away, away,\nlittle bird,\" stammered out the Dewdrop,\nwith some nervous twitchings\npresently to be accounted for; \"I must\nprepare to meet this Queen Aurora.\nBut,\" it added in a kind of afterthought,\n\"the procession will soon be\nover; come back shortly and see me, if\nyou please.\" The keen diamond eye\ntwinkled with a humorous, comical\nexpression when these last words were\nuttered; as much as to say, \"I shall\nmanage to cheat you, old fellow,\nwont I?\"\n\nThe Thrush had some small quantum\nof poetry in his nature; but he had a\ngreat deal of shrewd common sense\ntoo, and an immense idea of propriety.\nAccordingly, he at once took the hint\nas to departure; but with guileless\nsimplicity cherished the resolution of\nrenewing the intercourse, in an hour or\ntwo at latest, after the royal cavalcade\nhad swept by.\n\nThis interlude was no peculiar hardship\nto our erratic friend, who knew he\ncould spend the time merrily and\nprofitably among his numerous kinsfolk\nin the groves. To tell the truth, he was\nnot sorry to get away from the court\npageantry, as all such ceremonial and\npomp of circumstance was an abomination\nto him, and had always been\nso. It was, therefore, with pleasant\nanticipations of an early return that,\nby a few fleet bounces, he was lost\nfrom sight in the nearest thicket.\n\nBarely, however, had the specified\nperiod elapsed, when he was back again\nupon his twig on the tall elm. He\nhad certainly not exhausted his strength\nor conversational music-powers in that\nround of morning visits, for he renewed,\nthen and there, his merriest\nnotes, quite in the old style; and after\nthis prelude, by way of making sure\nthat the course was clear, he flew with\nmore than wonted alacrity in the\ndirection of the rose-leaf.\n\nBut, can you imagine? To his\nwonder, sorrow, and chagrin, lo! when\nhe looked for it, the leaf was empty!\nIts small householder was gone! Not\na trace of either Dewdrop or Diamond\nleft! There was no need of asking\nany questions; he comprehended in a\nmoment what the roguish twinkle of the\neye meant an hour before. He had,\nin a word, been \"sold.\" It was more\nthan a mere innocent trick played on\nhim. His feelings and bird-dignity\nhad, he felt, been a little compromised\nby what, had it occurred at night, would\nhave been called \"a moonlight flitting.\"\nIt was more like what the big\ncreatures in the world around him\nwere in the habit of describing as an\nApril errand. It was only too evident\nthat the Queen of the Morning, in\npassing by, had picked up the dew\ndiamond, and had inserted it in her\ncrown; and that the little thing had\nmade no demur to the appropriation.\n\nWell, it must be owned that, anyhow\nfor once, the Thrush was crestfallen.\nHe almost never knew any ditties but\njoyous ones; but on the present occasion,\nwith no attempt at concealment, he\nwent away wailing to the thicket, and\noutpoured his wounded vanity in something\nvery like a dirge. He then\nburied his beak in rather sulky fashion\nunder his wing, and went to sleep.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THE THIRD.\n\n\nBut what is this? It is a\nchange of scene. Away up in\nthe morning sky, oh, how blue\nit is! and the light fleecy clouds, how they\nfloat in folds of white ether! The Sun\nhas climbed higher. It is now above\nthe tallest of the poplars; and the long\nshadows cast by trunks and stems and\nbranches are visibly shortened. And\nsee! the cattle are again lowing in the\nfat meadows, and by degrees beating\na safe retreat from the coming heat\nunder the forest trees.\n\nHigh in that bright dome of azure,\nthere is a delightful frolicsome twitter\nheard. It is not the Nightingale; no,\nnot so clear and mellow as that. Not\nthe Thrush; no, not so loud or gushing\nas that. It is our little friend the\nLark. Oh! how merry he is! more so\nthan either of the other two. And\nwhat is he about? He seems to be\nfloating and soaring, sauntering and\ncurtseying, skimming and dipping, rollicking\nand frolicking--now up, now\ndown--now describing gyrations, now\nimitating a pendulum--now trying to be\nso steady with his fluttering wings, that\nhe looks like a star twinkling in the day-time--in\nshort, playing all sorts of droll\nantics, indulging in every imaginable\npirouette and somersault, in all the\nworld (in his case _above_ the world) like a\nschool-boy beginning his holidays; certainly\nappearing to put himself to a great\ndeal of unnecessary trouble and exertion.\nBut he is unmistakably, with his\nwinning ways, about _something_, and\nsomething to the purpose. But what\nthat is, no mortal could guess. As the\nthing however must be guessed, or\notherwise found out, Gentle Reader,\nI shall take you into confidence, and\nunriddle the secret.\n\nThe Queen of the Morning, as you\nalready know, or at all events know\nnow, had come with all her court, and\ntroupe of gay courtiers. The Young\nHours had unbarred for her the Gates\nof Day, and she at once sallied forth.\nBeautiful little pages in the shape of\npink clouds, quite like tiny angels\nwith wings, were holding up her train.\nSome of those fairy cherubs seemed, too,\nto have censers in their hands, at least\nif one could judge from the delicate\nwreaths of mist which rose like incense\nfrom them. Others appeared to be\ndischarging tiny golden arrows from\nsilver bows; others to paint, with\ninvisible pencils, in delicate and varying\nhues of amber and purple, the fringes\nof clouds; while the Queen herself at\ntimes laid her own finger upon the\nlarger of these, and braided them with\nsnow and crimson. And then, how\nloyal everything seemed to be on the\nearth beneath! How each flower that\nhad been asleep all night instantly\nrose on awaking, and, in the most\nduteous manner uncovering its head,\nprepared to take its place in the royal\nprocession. The more gorgeous ones\nof the garden led the way, with their\nvelvet tassels, and silken brocades, and\npendants of opal and turquoise; some\napparently carrying chalices filled with\nnectar. Then the fields and hedgerows,\nin their rough, rustic, plebeian fashion,\nwith their fustian jackets and smock-frocks,\nsaid--\"We shall not be behind\nour betters;\" so their buttercups and\nwood-anemones, speedwell and scarlet\npimpernel, the meadow violet with its\nmodest blue, the cowslip with its burnished\ncells, the daisy with its \"golden\neye and white silver eyelashes,\" all did\nfealty to their adored Queen. Some\nwent down on their knees; others doffed\ntheir caps; others smiled bewitchingly;\nothers could do nothing but waft sweet\nperfumes. There were even bands of\nvery varied music and musicians, all\nassisting with their efforts in swelling\nthe Queen's Anthem. The brook,\nthough it had sung all night, and had\nneed of a little respite, seemed to say--\"No,\nI shall go warbling on; she shall\nhave my very best treble of a ripple.\"\nAnd then there were minor performers\nin this nature-choir. The Blackbird\nand Redbreast, Goldfinch and Linnet,\nand Chaffinch, each took part with\nstriking effect. Even the Swallow\nin his own quiet way twittered, and the\nTomtit chattered, and the Beetle\ndroned, and the Bee hummed, and the\nbig Dragon-fly, in armour of brightest\ncobalt, whirred; and the Grasshopper,\npoor fellow! did his very uttermost,--he\nchirruped, he could do no more.\nThe Butterfly, who could not raise\na single note, came out in his best\nplush court-dress of gold, vermilion,\nand blue, dainty little silent outrider\nthat he is, waking up any exceptional\nsleepers. He carried, truth to\nsay, his zeal sometimes too far; as\nwhen I saw him unjustly reproaching\nthe Foxglove for having bells and not\nringing them, a thing they were never\nmeant to do. Even the Spider hung\nhis silver-tissued web from spray to\nspray; as if he had weaved a gossamer\nmantle, in case his Queen might like to\nuse it in the chill of early dawn. (_See\nFrontispiece_.)\n\nWell, the latter--I mean the Queen--at\nlast came to a pause, and, with most\nradiant grace in her countenance, she\nput her hand up to her crown, and took\nout the diamond. There was a little\npet of a crimson cloud that happened\nto be floating past at the moment.\nShe laid the lustrous gem on this\nroseate pillow; and then, slowly and\ngradually, she and all her retainers,\nin ghostly shape, vanished clean from\nsight.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut what, you will say, has all this\nto do with our friend the Lark? His\nquick little eye had discerned what your\ndull sight and mine could not. He had\nwatched everything I have now described.\nHow indeed could he miss\nseeing that flashing speck of light lying\nso daintily on its cushion of state? No\nwonder he circles and zigzags, and does\nbird-homage to the brightest gem of\nthe Regalia. Up, down--hither, thither--just\nas I have already told, doing\nobeisance in every possible and conceivable\nway; till at last, poising\nhimself immediately above, fluttering\nwith all his might, and settling himself\nin the fixed attitude in which the lark\nfamily are such adepts, he mustered up\ncourage and said--\n\n\"Pretty sparkling thing! I know what\nyou are. You are a rare diamond just\ntaken from the crown of the Queen of\nthe Morning. But, I confess, you look,\ntoo, very like the Dewdrop I spied at a\ndistance, a few hours ago, on the tip of\na rose-leaf.\"\n\n\"What a capital guesser you are,\ntiny minstrel,\" was the reply; \"but you\nhad better leave me with my diamond\nname, at all events for the present. I\nshall not say whether some scientific\nbird-winged philosophers are right or\nwrong when they aver that, though the\nQueen of the Morning borrowed me, I\nam really and truly a jewel from the\ncrown of the Sun; that when he took\noff his royal robes last evening, to lay\nhis head on his nightly pillow, I\ndropped out of his crown, and tumbled\ndown to the earth. I may tell you, however,\nconfidentially (just in a whisper,\nyou know),\" added the brilliant speaker,\n\"that though they call me Diamond, I\nlike quite as well the name with which\nGod's beautiful mist baptized me, that\nof _Dewdrop_. But I have brief time\n(indeed no time) to converse further\nwith you now. You have seen, a\nshort while ago, how the Queen of\nthe Morning vanished. Will you be\nastonished when I tell you that I am\nabout to do the very same myself? I\nam going,\" it continued, \"to my Palace\nyonder\" (an extra gleam, in the absence\nof a finger, was its own special way of\npointing upwards). \"I have said my\n_Palace_--I should rather perhaps say,\nmy _Home_. We may meet,\" it added,\n\"pretty soaring warbler, on the way to\nit. But please leave me now.\"\n\nWhat I have said of the Thrush was\ntrue also of the Lark. He was a\npeculiarly biddable and discreet bird,\nand when he got a hint he always took\nit. Moreover, the Dewdrop had spoken\nso courteously (he thought condescendingly)\nto him, he would not for the\nworld intrude his company longer than\ndesired. The other evidently wished\nto be all alone, to pack up and prepare\nfor this great and distant journey.\n\nSo the Lark plunged down to the\nstream among the alders to bathe his\nwings and refresh himself. After the\nlustrations were duly completed, up\nagain he rose like an arrow into the\nbright, blue sky. Says he to himself,\n\"I shall certainly be on the sharp out-look\nfor that ascent of the Dewdrop.\nI can at all events be a silent spectator,\nif my services cannot otherwise be of\nuse.\" And, to be sure, he did not\nrequire to watch long; for, with that\nkeenness of perception that belonged\nto all his ancestors, he found that he\nhad soared right into the very midst of\na golden mist. Some people say and\nbelieve (though I am not wise enough\nin bird-lore to know the truth of it),\nthat the lark family have eyes almost\nlike a microscope; things invisible to\nus are said to be quite visible, and\nindeed conspicuous, to them. At all\nevents, this was true in the case of the\npresent representative of that discriminating\nrace. So that what, if we had\nbeen there, would only have seemed an\naggregation of glistening atoms, were\nto him nothing less than a vast army in\nvisible shape--chariots and charioteers,\nknights mounted on steeds with white\ntrappings and gold and silver bridles;\nother horsemen carrying glittering\nspears, polished shields, and flashing\nswords; others bearing standards of\ncloth of gold. I am only telling you\nwhat the Lark saw, or thought he saw;\nand a most wonderful army on march\nyou can very well believe it was.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOh, just see how he twitters and\ncarols, as I have more than once\npictured, and cannot do so too often--shaking\nfirst his little wings, and then\nhis little throat; the old zigzagging\nto and fro--here, there, everywhere--whisking\nin this direction, and bouncing\nin that direction, restless gymnastic\nthat he is, in a very whirl and vortex\nof excitement!\n\n\"You told me, a little while ago,\"\nsaid he, mustering up courage, with an\neffort, to speak to this wondrous mass\nof knight-errantry; \"at all events the\nDiamond-drop, of which I know you are\nthe fragments, told me you were going\nto some Palace in the sky. Where is\nthat?\"\n\n\"It is our _Home_, soaring warbler,\"\nsaid the million million little voices,\ntheir spears and helmets flashing brightly\nin the radiance, their horses prancing\nand pawing the path of light--\"It\nis Home, Home, Home!\" said the\nmyriads, the very air tremulous with\nthe shout.\n\n\"Yes, but where is that?\" repeated\nthe Lark, determined to come to the\npoint, and not to be numerically extinguished,\nas he darted like lightning\nround and round the brilliant host.\n\n\"The Sun! the Sun!\" one after\nanother made answer. The Dewdrop\nwas a tear that fell from the sky because\nthe Sun was gone. But, as you\nhave just told us, we are all parts of it--everyone\nof us are; and we are on our\nway again to the golden entrance to his\nPalace.\n\nThe army of misty globules rose\nand rose, higher and yet higher. They\nseemed, too, to get brighter and brighter\nin the ascent, the Lark rising with them,\nindeed till his little wings were tired.\nThen when he felt that he could act as\nconvoy no farther, down he came at\none long unpausing dart to the furrow\nadjoining the wooded dell below, which\nwas now all streaked with fleckered\nlight. He thought (and we shall not\nquarrel with the fancy) that these\npatches of light were nothing else than\nthe golden arrows he had seen shot from\nthe bow of the Cherubs--the little\nAngels of the Dawn--and that they\nwere now lying thick in the green\narcade. He just took breath, after the\nexhaustion and excitement, alike of\nboth body and mind, which his aerial\nadventure had entailed; and then\nhastened straight to the home of the\nNightingale and Thrush, to tell of the\nglorious ascent (what the old and learned\ncreatures of the earth would have called\nthe apotheosis) of the Dewdrop on\nthe rose-leaf; its severance into a\nmillion fragments; and how these,\nin the shape of a great army, had\nmarched right within\n\nTHE SUN'S GOLDEN GATES!\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n_AFTERWORDS._\n\n_An Angel's Whisper._\n\n\nThe Soul--the Spirit of Man--apart\nfrom the Great Sun,\nbecomes a teardrop. All is\ndark to it, when that All-glorious Source\nof Light and Love is away. Earth's\nsweetest songs cannot cheer it. But\nwhen the morning comes, and the\nSun returns, the teardrop becomes a\nDewdrop--gleaming like a diamond in\nthat peerless radiance. And at death,\nwhen it _seems_ to be dissolved, and\nhas apparently vanished from sight,\nit is exhaled--not annihilated. It\npasses upward to the Golden Gates,\nto be lost in the splendour of THE\nEVERLASTING LIGHT!\n\n[Illustration]","title":"The Story of a Dewdrop","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":5487}