If a day in a country farm-house is joyous to town-people, not less exhilarating to country friends is a day in a town-mansion. Alice, in her silent and gentle way, seemed to absorb happiness from the very air. That sensitive timidity, which was like an outer-garment to her really courageous and resolute nature, suffered no embarrassment in Dr. Wentworth’s family. Agate Bissel’s plain speech and direct manner never left an unfavorable impression. There was a flow of honesty and undisguised kindness which children instinctively recognized. Her whole conduct was indulgent, though her language seemed monitorial and even magisterial.
Mrs. Wentworth was one whose soul shone through her face, and gave it an almost transparent look. She lived under the influence of her best faculties,—therefore her manner and influence seemed to excite the best faculties of those who met her. Very clear-headed was she, very cheerful, and very kind. Your first glance upon her face would lead you to say, Penetration is her ruling trait. Your second glance would convince you that Sympathy was more strongly indicated. If she spoke, you would conclude that no one feeling ruled, but many,—and all of them good. At first, you would think—this woman sees through all films, and cannot be deceived; next, you would feel—there is no need of hiding any thing from her—she is to be trusted.
As for Dr. Wentworth—nobody saw through him, and every body trusted him. There was no dormant faculty in him—he was alive all around his soul. There were no Arctic and Antarctic zones. The whole globe of his nature was tropical, and yet temperate.
His moods ran through the whole scale of faculties. He was various as the separate days. He carried the germs of every thing which bore fruit in other men’s characters, and so could put himself into sympathy with every kind of man. A great talker at times, yet even when most frank, he was more silent than talkative, and left the impression of one who had only blown the foam off from unfathomable thoughts.
What a place was his house for children! An old mansion, quaint and voluminous, stored full of curious knick-knacks, more curious books, and most curious engravings; yet the interior of the house was even less attractive to children than the grounds about it. Such dainty nooks there were, such pet mazes among the evergreens, such sweeps of flowers and tangles of blossoming vines, such rows of fruit-laden trees, such discoveries to be made, here and there, of new garden plats, of before unseen beds of flowers, such wilderness of morning-glories, and tangles of honeysuckles running over rocks, or matted in the grass, that once out, the children never wanted to go in, and once in, they could hardly persuade themselves to go out.
When the afternoon was turning in the West, and the sunlight began to shoot golden beams under the branches of the trees, and the shadows stretched themselves every moment larger and larger along the ground, as if the time were near for them to fall asleep, Dr. Wentworth came in from his patients and joined the children. Then there was racing and frolicking! Then you might have seen three children indeed!
But, after a time, Rose began to persuade her father to tell some stories. Story-hunger in children is even more urgent than bread-hunger. And so, at length, he suffered himself to be led captive to his favorite tree, where scores of times he had been wont to weave fables and parables for Rose;—fictions that under every form whatsoever, still tended, in his child’s imagination, to bring Nature home to her as God’s wonderful revelation, vital with sentiment and divine truth. Sitting upon the ground, with one child on either side leaning upon his knees and looking up into his face, he began:
THE ANXIOUS LEAF.
“Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves often do when a gentle wind is about. And the twig said, ‘What is the matter, little leaf?’ And the leaf said, ‘the wind just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me down to die on the ground!’ The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the leaf, ‘Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want to.’ And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling and singing. Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off. And so it grew all summer long till October. And when the bright days of autumn came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped with both colors. then it asked the tree what it meant? And the tree said, ‘All these leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these beautiful colors, because of joy.’ Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful in thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color, it saw that the branches of the tree had no color in them, and so the leaf said, ‘Oh, branches! why are you lead color and we golden?’ ‘We must keep on our work clothes, for our life is not done; but your clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over.’ Just then, a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without of it, and the wind took it up, and turned it over and over, and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air and then it fell gently down under the edge of the fence among hundreds of leaves, and fell into a dream and never waked up to tell what it dreamed about!”
How charming it is to narrate fables to children! How daintily do they carry on the conscious dramatic deception! They know that if the question were once got in upon them, “Are these things true? ” the bubble would burst, and all its fine colors would disappear. Children are unconscious philosophers. They refuse to pull to pieces their enjoyments to see what they are made of! Rose knew as well as her father that leaves never talked. Yet, Rose never saw a leaf without feeling that there was life and meaning in it. Flowers had stories in them. The natural world stole in upon her with mute messages, and the feelings which woke in her bosom she attributed to nature, and the thoughts which started she deemed a revelation and an interpretation of truths that lay hidden in creation waiting for her!
What is one story? A mere provocation of another.
“Do tell us another, father. That was so short.”
“Yes, Doctor—do tell us some more,” said Alice, and then, coloring a little, she said —“Rose can have them every day, but I cannot,—only once in a great while.”
“Alice, you must make your father tell you stories.”
“He does, sometimes, but they are always out of books, and almost always Bible stories, and I know them by heart already.”
After Dr. Wentworth had regaled himself enough with the children’s charming arts of coaxing, he began another story:
THE FAIRY FLOWER.
“Once there was a little girl whose name was Clara. She had a very kind heart, but she was an only child and had been petted so much that she was like to become very selfish. Too late her mother lamented that she had indulged her so much, and strove to repair the mischief, and to make Clara think of other people’s happiness, and not solely of her own. On some days nothing could be more charming than Clara’s ways. She was gentle and obliging, and sang all day long, and made every one who came near her happy by her agreeable manners. Then every body admired her and her mother and aunt were sure that she was cured of her pettish dispositions. But, the very next day, all her charming ways were exchanged. She carried a moody face. She was no longer courteous, and every one who came near her felt the chill of her manner, as if an east wind were blowing with her breath. One summer night, after such a miserable day, Clara went to her room. The moon was at its full, and poured through the window in such floods that she needed no other light. Clara sat down by the window very unhappy. She thought over the day, and wondered at herself, and tried to imagine why it was that on some days she was so happy and on others so wretched. As she mused she laid her head back on the easy chair. No sooner had she shut her eyes, than a strange thing happened. An old man, very feeble, came in, and in his basket, which he seemed hardly able to bear, was a handful of flowers and two great stones. He came to Clara and said, ‘My daughter, will you help me, for I am too old to carry this load; please make it lighter?’ Then Clara looked at him with pouting, and said, ‘Go away!’ Then he said, ‘I am poor and suffering. Will you not lighten my load?’ Then Clara condescended to take the flowers out of his basket. They were very beautiful, and she laid them in her lap.
“The old man said:
“ ‘My daughter, you have not lightened my basket—you have only taken, the pleasant things out of it, and left the heavy, heavy stones. Oh, please lift one of them out of the basket!’
“Then Clara was angry, and said:
“ ‘No, get you gone—I will not touch those dirty stones.’
“No sooner had she said this, than the old man began to change before her, and became so bright and white, that he looked like a column of crystal. Then he took one of the stones and cast it out of the window and it flew and flew and flew, and fell down on the eastern side of a grove, where the sun shone first every morning—and close by it ran a brook that laughed and loitered and sported all day and all night, and played with every thing that would come to it.
“And then the crystal old man took the flowers out of her lap, and they were wet with moisture, and he shook them over her head, and said:
“ ‘Change to a flower! Go and stand by the stone, till your shadow shall be marked upon the rock.’
“In a second, Clara was growing by the side of a wide flat stone, and the moon cast the shadow of a beautiful flower, with long and slender stem, upon the rock. She was very wretched, and the dew came and comforted her, and in the morning she could not help looking at herself in the brook, that came close up to the stone, and she saw how beautiful she was. All day her shadow fell on the rock, and when the sun went away the shadow went away too. All night she threw a pale shadow on the rock, and in the morning, when the moon went away, the shadow went away too. And the rock lay still, all day and all night, and did not care for the flower, nor feel its shadow. And she longed, and longed, and longed; but what could a tender flower do with a hard rock? And the flower asked the brook, ‘Can you help me?’ And the brook laughed out louder than it was laughing before, and said, ‘Ask the birds.’ And so she asked a bobolink, and he came frisking to her, with a wonderful speech, in Latin, Greek and Syriac, with some words from the great language that was before all other languages. And he alit upon the flower, and teetered up and down, till she thought her back would break; but nothing could she learn how to make her shadow stay upon the rock.
“Then she asked a spider; and he spun a web from her bright blossoms, and fastened it to the rock, and bent her over, and tied her up, till she feared she should never get loose. But all his nice films did her no good, and her shadow would not stay upon the rock.
“Then she asked the wind to help her, and the wind blew away the spider’s web, and blew so hard that the flower lay its whole length upon the rock, but when the wind left her and she rose up, there was no shadow there!
“And she said—‘What is beauty worth, if it grows by the side of a stone that does not feel it, nor care for it?’
“Then she asked the dew to help her. And the dew said, ‘How can I help you? I live contentedly in darkness. I put on my beauty only to please other things. I let the sun come through my drops, though I know it will consume me.’
“The flower said, ‘I wish I were dew. I would do some good. Now my beauty does me no good, and I am wasting it every day upon a rock.’ When the flower breathed this benevolent wish, there were flutters and whispers all around, but the flower thought it was only the brook.
“The next day came that way a beautiful girl. She was gathering ferns, and mosses, and flowers. Whenever she saw a tuft of moss she said, ‘Please, dear moss, may I take you?’ And when she saw a beautiful branch with scarlet leaves, she said, ‘Dear bush, may I take these leaves?’ And then she saw a beautiful Columbine growing by the edge of a rock, and she said, ‘Oh, sweet Columbine, may I pluck you?’ And the flower said, ‘Please, I must not go till my shadow is fastened on the rock.’ Then the young lady took from her case a pencil and in a moment traced the shadow of the Columbine upon the rock, and when she had done she reached her hand and took the stem low down and broke it off. Then Clara sprang up from her chair by the window, and there stood her mother, saying:
“ ‘My dear daughter, you should not fall asleep by an open window, not even in summer, my child. How damp you are! Come, hasten to bed.’
“It was many days before Clara could persuade herself that she had only dreamed. It was many months before she told the dream to her mother. And when she did, her mother said:
“ ‘Ah, Clara, would that all girls might dream, if only it made them as good as your dream has made you.’ ”
The doctor seemed quite interested in his own story, and sat silent for a moment, that the good impression might settle in the girls’ minds. He was awakened to attention by some little flutter, and saw Rose nodding in a gravely humorous way to Alice, as if she meant to say:
“I hope, Alice, that you will take this lesson to heart, and never be naughty again!”
“Ah, rogue Rose!” said the doctor. “is that the way you pay me for my trouble? You shall—”
Rose, without waiting for the whole sentence, darted off, and for an instant the doctor was in full chase, while Alice, hesitant, followed in the distance, half laughing, and quite uneasy lest some harm should come to Rose. Harm did come. She was, after nimble turns and skilful evasions, so amused at her father’s mishap in rushing upon a sweet-brier, when he thought to have seized her, that her strength dissolved in laughter. She was caught, and her hands tied with honeysuckle vines, and her neck was bound with flowers, and so she was carried away captive, smothered with sweets, to be punished under the great trees. there her father pronounced the sentence, that for irreverence and rebellion, she should be doomed to hear another story, which he called
COMING AND GOING.
“Once came to our fields a pair of birds that had never built a nest nor seen a winter. Oh, how beautiful was every thing! The fields were full of flowers, and the grass was growing tall, and the bees were humming every where. Then one of the birds fell to singing, and the other bird said: ‘Who told you to sing?’ and he answered: ‘the flowers told me, and the bees told me, and the winds and leaves told me, and the blue sky told me, and you told me to sing.’ Then his mate answered: ‘When did I tell you to sing?’ And he said: ‘Every time you brought in tender grass for the nest, and every time your soft wings fluttered off again for hair and feathers to line the nest.’ Then his mate said: ‘What are you singing about?’ And he answered: ‘I am singing about every thing and nothing. It is because I am so happy that I sing.’
“By-and-by five little speckled eggs were in the nest, and his mate said: “Is there any thing in all the world as pretty as my eggs?” Then they both looked down on some people that were passing by, and pitied them because they were not birds, and had no nests with eggs in them! Then the father-bird sung a melancholy song because he pitied folks that had no nests, but had to live in houses.
“In a week or two, one day, when the father-bird came home, the mother-bird said: ‘Oh, what do you think has happened?’ ‘What?’ ‘one of my eggs has been peeping and moving!’ Pretty soon another egg moved under her feathers, and then another, and another, till five little birds were born!
“Now the father-bird sung longer and louder than ever. The mother-bird, too, wanted to sing, but she had no time, and so she turned her song into work. So hungry were these little birds, that it kept both parents busy feeding them. Away each one flew. The moment the little birds heard their wings fluttering again among the leaves, five yellow mouths flew open so wide, that nothing could be seen but five yellow mouths!
“ ‘Can any body be happier?’ said the father-bird to the mother-bird. ‘We will live in this tree always, for there is no sorrow here. It is a tree that always bears joy.’
“The very next day one of the birds dropped out of the nest, and a cat ate it up in a minute, and only four remained; and the parent-birds were very sad, and there was no song all that day nor the next. Soon the little birds were big enough to fly, and great was their parents’ joy to see them leave the nest and sit crumpled up upon the branches. There was then a great time! One would have thought the two old birds were two French dancing-masters,—talking and chattering, and scolding the little birds, to make them go alone. The first bird that tried flew from one branch to another, and the parents praised him, and the other little birds wondered how he did it! And he was so vain of it that he tried again, and flew and flew, and couldn’t stop flying, till he fell plump down by the house-door; and then a little boy caught him and carried him into the house,—and only three birds were left. Then the old birds thought that the sun was not as bright as it used to be, and they did not sing as often.
“In a little time the other birds had learned to use their wings, and they flew away and away, and found their own food and made their own beds, and their parents never saw them any more!
“Then the old birds sat silent, and looked at each other a long while.
“At last, the wife-bird said:
“ ‘Why don’t you sing?’
“And he answered:
“ ‘I can’t sing—I can only think and think!’
“ ‘What are you thinking of?’
“ ‘I am thinking how every thing changes,—the leaves are falling down from off this tree, and soon there will be no roof over our heads; the flowers are all gone, or going; last night there was a frost; almost all the birds are flown away, and I am very uneasy. Something calls me, and I feel restless as if I would fly far away.[’]
“ ‘Let us fly away together!’
“Then they rose silently, and, lifting themselves far up in the air, they looked to the north,—far away they saw the snow coming. They looked to the south,—there they saw green leaves! All day they flew, and all night they flew and flew, till they found a land where there was no winter—where there was summer all the time; where flowers always blossom, and birds always sing.
“But the birds that stayed behind found the days shorter, the nights longer, and the weather colder. Many of them died of cold; others crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid. Then it was plain that it was better to go than to stay!”
——
Rose was going on seven years old. Never did girl give less cause of anxiety. Never did girl excite more anxiety in a mother’s heart than did Rose in Agate Bissell’s. Why should it be? Was not Rose healthy? Was she not of fine disposition? Of good parentage, with careful training, with every advantage that wealth could procure, what possible reason had Agate for her seriousness and anxieties?
There are many people who seem to regard anxiety as a religious duty. They seem to think that no state of mind is substantial which is not ballasted with cares.
If Agate Bissell expected to pass her life in Dr. Wentworth’s family, to be Mrs. Wentworth’s confidential companion, and to divide with her the care of the household, and to bestow every faculty of mind, soul and body on the children,—for Rose was not a solitary flower, but only the first bud that blossomed,—why should she not be anxious, and inflict upon herself all that unnecessary pain that is usually deemed proper by painstaking people? Why should she not imagine evils that never will happen, and reflect with self-reproach upon things done that might have been better done? Why not be discouraged, and imagine that the doctor would certainly spoil the children? or that some nameless and unknown evil would yet spring up and devour them? What do angels do with unnecessary anxieties? What clouds of needless prayers are daily floated upward which never distil in rain!
But it is not just to imagine that Agate had no other reason for seriousness of mind than this vague anxiety. She was a Christian not only in disposition, but she firmly believed the Christian teachings of Dr. Buell. Until Rose was converted there were no right affections in her. She had been taught that natural excellences, amiable dispositions, in unregenerate people, have no moral excellence, and do not diminish that perpetual danger which overhangs every child of Adam until he becomes a Christian. Many hold these views, but few believe them. Agate was among the few that believed. What to her was the body, its health and happiness, compared with the soul? What was it to her that Rose was lovely, docile, and obedient, if in her heart, concealed yet, but sure to be disclosed, there was that fatal taint, left on all the first parents’ posterity?—that latent enmity which one day would flame out against her Maker?
This it was that made Rose a perpetual burden to Agate Bissell, and that had often wet her pillow with tears and drawn out prayers without number.
“Rose, my dear child, what good can it do you to love all the world that God has made, its clouds and seasons, its forests and fields, if you do not love God who made them all?”
Rose looked Agate full in the face, but sat silently.
“You know, my child,” said Agate, “that to make much of the world, and nothing of God who made it, is idolatry. Your soul cannot be saved, Rose, by the clouds, or by the mountains. If you could find your Saviour in nature—”
Agate paused, for Rose walked to her side, and placing her arms around her neck, said:
“Agate, I do love the Saviour. I think of him every day, and ask him to love me. Father says that there is nothing made that Jesus did not make.”
A new anxiety now took possession of Agate. Might it not be true that this child had been blessed? If so, then she was guilty of that offending one of those little ones, against which such solemn words were pronounced. On the other hand, might not this young creature, so beautiful, so engaging, be snared and deceived? Was she not, by her father’s influence, liable to substitute a diluted sentimentalism for the sober realities of a true religious experience?
Agate had often talked with Mrs. Wentworth on this subject; but she was so much in sympathy with her husband’s opinions, that Agate doubted whether her judgment was clear and unbiased.
It is not strange, then, that Agate in a manner sounded Mrs. Polly Marble on this general subject.
“Mrs. Marble, do you think that people can be converted without knowing the time?”
“Well, Agate, when the Lord delivered my soul it was just as if I had been sittin’ in a dark room and somebody had opened the door right against the sun. Not know the time? I shall never forgit it, I guess! I know there’s some folks think different. Them Episcopal folks say that children git good gradually. But I say that if a man don’t know the times and seasons of his own heart, he likely hasn’t had much religion anyhow.”
“But do you suppose a work of grace can exist in the soul, and the person not know that it is grace?”
“I tell you what, Agate, it’s the Lord that converts men, I guess they’ll know it, and other folks will be apt to know it too! Men are naturally like bags full of weed-seeds. The Lord first shakes ’em empty, and then fills ’em up with precious wheat. Now it stands to reason that if the Lord is shakin’ a man inside out he’ll know it.”
“But, Mrs. Marble, may not the Lord in his Sovereignty deal gently with young people? Is not that the meaning of the Scripture, ‘He shall carry the young in His arms?’ ”
“Agate, I always say that it’s best to be on the sure side. It never does harm to find fault with your evidences, ’cause if they are real you won’t hurt ’em, and if they are deceivin’ you, you will be apt to find it out. People now-a-days git religion too easy. I was under conviction nigh about two months. I was awfully striven with afore I give up. Young people now seem to git along too easy, I say. They don’t bear any yoke, nor carry much of a cross. I have seen folks have measles light, and scarlet-fever so easy they didn’t hardly know it. But I shall never be made to believe that any body took religion so easy that they didn’t know they had it.”
“Don’t you sometimes doubt the promises,” said Agate, “when you see how children turn out that’s well brought up? Some folks neglect their children, let them do pretty much as they please, and yet they grow straight up, are converted, come into the church, and do well all their lives; then again, others are taught and governed, and restrained, and watched in every particular, and yet the moment they get free they go out into the world and grow as wicked as if nothing had been done for them. I don’t know—it’s a mystery to me!”
“A mystery!” said Aunt Polly Marble, pushing her spectacles a little closer to her eyes, and looking through them with a doubly earnest look, “there is no mystery about it. It’s all election. That does it!”
Agate seemed troubled in countenance, and said:
“I wish I knew more about that doctrine. If one only knew who was elected, we could feel easy. And if a man was not elected, there would be no need of spending much time on him. Working for men that are not among the elect is like sewing without any thread in your needle; a good deal of work, and nothing to show for it.”
“It’s a precious doctrine though, even if you don’t understand it. You may not know, but the Lord does, and it doesn’t become us to be too pryin’.”
“Yet, I think a mother might be excused for being anxious about her own children. If any body ever did offer a child up to God, I have that child! If she was my own flesh and blood, I could not do more for Rose!”
Don’t you think her father might do a little more to help out? He may be pious—I wouldn’t judge. But he seems to me to walk in a pretty broad path, and to find a good many notions not likely to grow in the narrow way.”
“He has his own views, and thinks he’s right. He reads the Bible a good deal, and wants Rose to. But he’s got so many things in his head that you can’t find in the Bible, that I don’t know what’ll become of Rose. I’m afraid her soul will be snared with worldly knowledge.”
“Why don’t you talk with Dr. Buell? He is safe and a sound man, and likely he could tell you something about bringing up children.”
“Dr. Buell is better at sermons than children,” said Agate, with some decision. “That boy of his is a perfect limb. I don’t know why it is, but some good folks are unlucky with their children. They take a deal of pains with them, and learn them every thing that’s good, and the minute the children get a chance, they learn themselves every thing that’s bad!”
This conversation did not bring to faithful Agate’s heart much comfort.
Meanwhile, Rose, the subject of so much anxiety, lived in unbroken joyfulness. Hers was one of those fortunate natures that receive benefit from all, and injury from none. She lived loving and happy amdong the various persons who surrounded her. She loved the exact and faithful Agate; she loved the mild and gentle Mother Taft; she loved the boisterous ways of shrewd Tommy Taft; she loved and somewhat feared the simple but stately manners of Dr. Buell; she loved her mother dearly, but her father above all. Yet this seemed to her scarcely like loving another. So perfectly were father and daughter in sympathy, that it hardly needed words to interpret between them. They seemed like one soul in two bodies.
