Daisy: or, The Fairy Spectacles
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But we are apt to dread a great deal worse things than ever happen to us; and though Daisy did find some fallen nests and dead birds scattered on the ground, she could see that the storm had done more good than harm.
For every bird there were hundreds of insects lying dead – not bees and butterflies, but worms and bugs, that bite the flowers, and make them shrivel up and fade, and that gnaw the leaves off the trees and all the tender buds, and sting and waste the fruit.
The toads were having a feast over the bodies of these little mischief makers; and the birds were swinging on the tips of the leafy boughs, and singing enough to do your heart good; bees came buzzing about as busily as though they meant to make up for all the time they had lost; and a beautiful butterfly, floating through the sunshine, settled upon a flower at Daisy's feet, and waved his large wings, that looked soft and dry as if there had never been a drop of rain.
Then the trees were so bright and clean, with the dust all washed away, and fresh as if they had just been made; they waved together with a pleasant sound, that Daisy thought was like a song of joy and praise; and every little leaf joined in the chorus, far and wide, stirring, and skimming, and breathing that low hymn of happiness.
The wood was fragrant, too; and in all its hollows stood bright little pools, that reflected the sky, and sparkled back to the sun; the grass and flowers had grown whole inches since Daisy saw them last, and the mosses were green as emerald.
Quite near the cabin, though hidden from it by the trees, was a wide river, that had swollen with the rain, and was rushing on with a sound so loud that it shook the leaves, and seemed like a mighty voice calling to Daisy from a great way off.
So she found her way to its shore, and saw that the bridge across it had been swept away; and as it went foaming and tearing along, whole trees, and boats, and rafts were whirling in the tide that was rushing on, on, on, she wondered where.
Then the little girl remembered how long she had been away from home, and hurried back to tell her mother about the bridge, stopping now and then to snatch a flower as she passed. Her hands were full when she bounded into the cabin; and she looked as bright, and fresh, and full of joy as any thing out doors.
But her mother sat in a corner, feeling very sad, and hardly looked at Daisy's flowers, and said it was nothing to her how bright the sun shone so long as it never could rest again on Peter's face.
"Why," said Daisy, "I thought father was happy in heaven, and where he did not have to work so hard, and there were never any storms, and the flowers were prettier than these."
"That is true enough," Susan answered; "but it will not keep us from being lonely, and cold, and hungry, too, sometimes."
"But we are not hungry now, and perhaps the queer old dame may bring us some more of her bread, or else I'm pretty sure the fairy will take care of us. Who feeds the flowers, mother?"
"God."
"What, ours – up in heaven?"
"There is only one God, Daisy; he gives us meat and milk, and gives the flowers dew and air."
"Then I suppose they were thinking about him this morning."
"Why?"
"Because, when I first went out, they seemed as if they were dreaming – just as I felt when I dreamed; so that I wondered if they hadn't seen the fairy pass, or if their eyes were sharper than ours, and they could see faces floating in the air when there were none for us. It was damp, at first, and there were great shadows; but presently the sunshine poured in every where, and still they kept looking straight up into the sky – a whole field of them, down by the river bank; and, do see! even these I've brought you are looking up now at our wall as if they could see through it. If God can see through walls, can't we, when we are looking after him?"
"I don't know but we might, Daisy. You ask strange questions."
"Just answer one more, mother. If the flowers have the same God with us, why do they always look so happy, and beautiful, and young? Does he think more of them than he does of us?"
"No, child – not half so much. We suffer because God made us wiser than the flowers."
"Why, they get trampled on, and beaten in the wind, and have their stems broken, and have to stay out doors in the cold all night, (Daisy was thinking of her midnight walk,) and sometimes they don't have any sunshine for a week: we should call that trouble, and I know what I think about it."
"Tell me."
"Why, you see, the flowers are always looking at the sky, and don't mind what is happening around them, nor wait to think who may step on their pretty faces. Suppose we are wiser; why can't we live as they do, mother, and think about God and heaven, instead of always ourselves?"
"I know a little girl who lives very much like them now," said Daisy's mother, kissing her. "But, my dear child, how strangely you have looked ever since you put on those old spectacles!"
"Why, am I not the same Daisy? Am I changing to a fairy, like the dame?"
"I fear not; they leave a sort of shadow on your face, and make you homely. It seems to me, Daisy, I'd throw the old things away."
"O, don't say that – not if they make me like the old woman herself. I guess it doesn't matter much how we look down here."
"Down where?"
"Why, on the earth; for you know father was not handsome; and when I saw him in heaven, in my dream, O, he had such a beautiful face!"
So Daisy went on prattling about her father until Susan dried her tears; for when she thought of Peter now, it was not the poor crushed body in the wood, which she had wept about, but the beautiful, smiling angel in paradise.
And when cares gathered thicker about her, and want seemed so near that Susan grew discouraged, Daisy would bring her flowers; and the mother would remember then how they were always looking up to the kind God, and so look up herself, and thinking about him, forget her sorrows and her cares.
CHAPTER XIII.
MAUD
The little Maud grew more beautiful every day; she was fair as a lily, except that you might think rose leaves had been crushed to color her cheeks. Her bright eyes were shaded by long, silky lashes; and her pretty mouth, when it was shut, concealed two rows of delicate, pearly teeth. Her hair hung in a cloud of dark-brown curls, touched on the edges with a golden tinge.
The old dame took care that her dress should be always fine; and while she gave Daisy the coarsest woollen gowns, brought delicate muslins for Maud.
But Daisy did not mind this; she was glad to see her beautiful sister dressed handsomely; and, besides, how could she crowd through the bushes by the river bank, or sit on the ground looking at grass and flowers through her spectacles, if her own dresses were so frail?
It was not, after all, so very amusing as Daisy had hoped, to take care of Miss Maud, when she began to run about and play. She did not dare to go in the wood, for fear of bugs and snakes; she did not like to sail chips in the river, and make believe they were boats; she tossed away Daisy's wooden doll, and called it a homely thing; she pulled up her sister's flowers, and always wanted to go in a different place and do a different thing from her.
The little girl found it hard to give up so many pleasures; but she kept thinking that Maud would be older soon, and would know better than to be so troublesome.
And Maud was no sooner large enough to run about than Daisy wished her young again; for she took pains to tread on the prettiest flowers, and call them old weeds, and would chase every butterfly that came in sight, and tear his wings off, and then laugh because he could not fly; she pinched the rabbits' ears until they grew so wild they were almost afraid of Daisy, and seemed to have no pleasure except in making those about her very uncomfortable.
Yes, Maud had one other pleasure – she loved to sit beside the still pools in the wood, that were like mirrors, and watch the reflection of her handsome face.
But after this, she was sure to go home peevish and discontented, telling her mother and Daisy what a shame it was to live in such a lonely place, and have no one admire her beauty; and to be so poor, and depend on the charity of "that hag," as she called the dame.
Then she loved to tell Daisy what a common-looking little thing she was, and how the mark of those ugly spectacles was always on her face, and every day it grew more homely and serious, and as if she were a daughter of the dame. "As for myself," Maud would end, "I am the child, I know, of some great man; the dame has stolen me away from him, I feel sure, and then thinks I ought to be grateful because she brings me these clothes."
At this, Daisy would look up through her spectacles, and say, meekly, "It doesn't matter much who is our father here; for God, up in heaven, is the Father of us all, and gives great people their fine houses, just as he gives these flowers to you and me; for mother told me so."
Then Maud would toss her head, and ask, "What is mother but an old woodcutter's wife, that has worked, perhaps, in my father's kitchen?"
"God doesn't care where we have worked, but how well our work is done," said Daisy.
"O, nonsense! Who ever saw God? I want a father that can build me a fine house, all carpeted, and lighted with chandeliers, and full of servants, like the houses mother tells us about sometimes."
"Why, Maud, what is this world but a great house that God has built for us? All creatures are our servants; the sun and stars are its chandeliers; the clouds are its beautiful window frames; and this soft moss is the carpet. Look, what dear little flowers grow among it, and gaze up as if they were saying, 'Yes – God made us all.'"
"Who wants a house that every one else can enjoy as much as we, and a father that is not ashamed to call every dirty beggar his child?"
Daisy thought her home all the pleasanter for this, and loved her heavenly Father more, because he had room in his heart for even the meanest creature; but she could not make her sister feel as she did, nor try, as Daisy tried, to be patient, and gentle, and happy.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SPECTACLES
Ashamed as Maud was of her mother, she found new cause for unhappiness, when, one day, Susan died.
"Who is there, now," asked the beauty, "to make my fine dresses, and keep them clean, and to pet me, and praise my beauty, and carry me to the fair sometimes, so that every one may look at my face, and wish hers were half so handsome?"
"Poor, dear mother, your hard work is done," said Daisy, in her gentle way, bending over the dead form that Susan had left. "You will never see the old dame's face again, nor hear the wolves growl in the wood, nor tire yourself with taking care of us."
The corpse's hands were hard and rough, but they had grown so with working for her children; and Daisy kissed them tenderly, and filled them with fresh flowers, and bore her mother's body far into the still wood, and buried it under the same great tree that lay still, like a tombstone, across Peter's grave.
Though Daisy was no longer a child, she could not have done this without fairy help. All the way, she felt as if other arms than hers were bearing her mother's form, and as if new strength were in her own when they handled the heavy spade.
As Daisy worked there alone in the wood, – for she could not see the fairy, who was helping her, – the little birds sang sweet and tender songs, as if they would comfort their friend.
For Daisy had loved her mother dearly, and remembered her loving, parental care, and could not but be sorrowful at losing her, even for a little while.
Yet she tried to calm her aching heart, because Maud, she knew, would need all her care now, and must be served, and entertained, and comforted more carefully than ever, so that she might not constantly miss her mother, and spend her days in weeping over what could not be helped.
The young girl did not think how much more toil, and care, and unhappiness was coming to herself; for it was always Daisy's way to ask what she could do for others, and not what others might do for her.
And, children, if you want your friends, and God himself, to love you, depend upon it there is no way so sure as this – to forget yourselves, and think only whom you can serve. It is hard, at first, but becomes a pleasure soon, and as easy and natural as, perhaps, it is now for you to be selfish.
You must not be discouraged at failing a few times; for it takes a great deal of patience to make us saints.
But every step we move in the right way, you know, is one step nearer to our home in heaven – the grand and peaceful home that Christ has promised us.
We left Daisy in the wood, with the birds singing above her, as she finished her pious work; perhaps, with finer ears, we might have heard angels singing songs of joy above the holy, patient heart that would not even grieve, because another needed all its strength.
But the birds' songs ceased; they fluttered with frightened cries, instead; the wind rose, and the boughs began to dash about, and the night came on earlier than usual. Daisy saw there was to be another fearful storm; and her first thought was of Maud, alone in the lonely wood.
How she wished for wings, like the birds, that she might fly home to her nest! But, instead, she must plod her way among the underbrush, which grew so thick in places, and the wind so tangled together across the path, that she went on slowly, hardly knowing whether she were going nearer home or deeper into the wood.
"Silly girl, where are your spectacles?" said a voice by Daisy's side; and the old woman seized her arm, and dragged her over the rough path, as she had done once before.
"There is no need of them, now I have your lamp," said Daisy in a sad voice; for she was thinking of dear faces that her eyes would never rest upon again.
"That's as much as you know. But you cannot cheat me, Daisy. Have my glasses been of so little use that you put them in your pocket, and choose rather to look through tears?"
"I did not mean to cry; but how can any one help it when – "
"I know – I know; you needn't tell me of your sorrows, but take out the spectacles."
So Daisy did as she was told, and never had the glasses seemed so wonderful; for, besides that now the old dame's lamp gave a clearer light, something made Daisy lift her eyes, and, instead of two poor bodies lying asleep in the storm, she saw a splendid city far, far up upon the tops of the tallest trees, and Peter and Susan walking there, hand in hand, and smiling upon her as Peter had smiled in her dream.
"Well," said the shrill voice of the dame, "will you give me back my glasses now, and keep your tears?"
"O, no!" and Daisy seized the old woman's withered hand, and turned to thank her; but she was not there: one moment Daisy felt the pressure of a gentle hand in hers, and then the beautiful fairy floated from before her sight, far up above the trees, and stood, at last, with her father and mother. All three were smiling upon her now, and pointing upwards to the trees, whose leaves were broader and more beautiful than any in the wood.
But the young girl stumbled, and fell among the thorns, and seemed all at once to awake from a dream; for, the dame's lamp gone, her path had grown narrow and dark again; and she found it would not do to look any more at the city of gold, until she should find her own poor cabin in the wood.
CHAPTER XV.
THE FATHER'S HOUSE
At length Daisy knew that her home was near; for, above all the howling of the storm, she heard her sister's sobs and frightened cries.
Very tired she was, and cold, and drenched with rain, and sad, besides, for she could not enter the door without thinking of the burden she had borne away from it last.
But, instead of rest and comforting words, Maud ran to meet her with whining and bitter reproaches, and called her cruel to stay so long, and foolish to have gone at all, hard-hearted to neglect her mother's child, and would not listen to reason nor excuse, but poured forth the wickedness of her heart in harsh and untrue words, or else indulged her selfish grief in passionate tears and cries.
Alas! the wolves and snakes that Susan kept away from the cabin had entered it now, and our poor Daisy too often felt their fangs at her sad heart.
She gave her sister no answering reproaches back, and did not, as she well might, say that it was Maud's own fault she had been left alone; for she had refused, when Daisy asked her help in making their mother's grave.
When we see people foolish and unreasonable, like Maud, we must consider that it is a kind of insanity; they don't know what they are saying. Now, when crazy people have their wild freaks, the only way to quiet them is by gentleness; and we must treat angry people just the same, until their freaks pass.
You would not tease a poor crazy man, I hope; and why, then, tease your brother or sister when their senses leave them for a little while?
As soon as Maud would listen, Daisy began to tell about the beautiful city she saw through her spectacles, and how the dreadful old dame had changed to a graceful fairy, and floated up above the trees.
But her sister interrupted her, to ask why she had never told before of the wonderful gift in her spectacles, and called her mean for keeping them all to herself.
She knew very well that the reason was, Daisy had never found any one to believe in what she saw, and that even her mother laughed at her for wearing such old things.
Maud snatched them eagerly now from Daisy's hand, but said, at first, she could only see the lightning and the rain, and then suddenly dashed them on the ground, with a frightened cry.
For she had seemed, all at once, to stand out in a lonely wood, by night, and to look through the ground, at her feet, and see as plainly as by daylight the dead form of her mother, with the rain drops, that pelted every where, dripping upon the flowers which Daisy had put in her folded hands.
Maud would not tell this to her sister, but said peevishly, "Your old glasses are good for nothing, as I always thought; and you only want me to wear them so as to spoil my beauty, and make me as homely as you. Tell me again about the place you saw our mother in, though I don't believe a word of what you say."
Daisy knew better, and answered, "It was a more beautiful city than any we ever thought about in the world. This earth seemed like its cellar, it was so dull and cold here after I had seen that glorious light; the trees looked in it as if they were made of gold."
"O, you are always talking about light and trees; tell me about the people and the houses."
"The houses were so bright, I cannot tell you exactly how they looked; the foundations of them were clear, dazzling stones, of every color; even the streets were paved with glass; and the walls were gold, and the gates great solid pearls!"
"What nonsense, Daisy! Didn't the shop-keeper tell us, at the fair, that one little speck of a pearl cost more than my new gown? Now, what of the people?"
"You didn't look at the houses, after once seeing them; they had such lovely faces, and such a kind, gentle look, I could cry at only thinking of them now."
"Don't cry till you've finished your story. Were any of them handsomer than the rest? And what kind of dresses did they wear?"
"Their clothes were made of light, I should think; for they were softer than spider webs, and kept changing their shape and color as the people moved about."
"How could they?"
"Why, all the light poured from one place, that I could not look into; and even the heavenly people, when they turned towards it, folded their wings before their faces."
"That is where I should build my house."
"O, no, my sister; that is where our heavenly Father has built his throne; and it is the light from him that makes the whole city splendid, without any sun or moon. You cannot tell what a little, dark speck I felt before God: I trembled, and did not know where to turn, when one of the people came and took my hand."
"How frightened I should have been! Did he have wings?"
"I can't remember; but he moved – all in the heavenly city move – more quickly and more easily than birds. They want to be in a place, and are there like a flash of light; and they can see and hear so far, that the beautiful man who spoke to me said he saw me kiss our mother's hands, and put flowers in them, and carry her into the wood."
"Did he say any thing about me?"
"Yes – that some time you would love him better than any one else. And he told me why the people's clothes kept changing: when they went nearer our Father, their faces, and every thing they wore, became more splendid and lovely, but as they moved away from him, grew darker and coarser; and yet, Maud, the commonest of all the people there is beautiful as our fairy, and wears as splendid clothes."
"What was the man's name? I hope he was not common, if I must love him."
"No, he was the greatest in heaven; all the men and angels bowed to him, and they called him Christ."
"O, I would give every thing to see him; you never shall go through the wood alone, Daisy, for fear he will come again when I'm away."
"He could come to our house as well as to the grave. And I'll tell you another strange thing about the city, Maud: some of the roads, you know, are glass, and some are gold; and there is a beautiful river, like crystal, shaded with palm trees, and sweeping on till it is lost in the great light."
"I don't see any thing wonderful in that, if the rest of your story be true."
"I have not finished: these broad roads ended in narrow paths; and from the river trickled tiny streams, that somehow came down over the golden walls of the city, and over the clouds, and the tops of trees, into this very earth we are standing on."
"O Daisy! are you sure? Could I find one of the paths, and so climb up to heaven, and find the beautiful Christ I am to love?"
"Yes, he told me so himself, and pointed to all the people on earth that were in those paths; and I saw a brightness about them, and a calm look in their faces, such as God's angels have. And then Christ told how all who tasted of the streams grew strong; beautiful, and glad; sick people, that stepped into them, were healed; and those who washed in the water were never unclean again."
And Daisy did not tell, because she feared it might make her sister envious and sad, that the Beautiful One had kissed her forehead, and said, "Daisy, you have picked many a flower beside these streams, and they have soothed your father's weariness, and healed your mother's aching heart; and when you come to live with me, and I place them all on your head in a wreath that shall never fade, no angel in heaven will wear a more beautiful crown."
Daisy looked up at him then, and asked, "But will you take them away from my mother? And shall not Maud have some? Only let me live near you, and give her the crown."
Christ smiled, and then looked sad, and said, "It will be long before your sister is willing to walk in such straight, narrow paths, and dwell beside such still waters, as she must in order to find these flowers; but you will always be pointing them out to her; and, in the end, she will love me better than she loves any one else. I would gladly help her, Daisy, for your sake; but only they who love can dwell with me."
CHAPTER XVI.
THE WATCHMAN
So tired was Daisy, after all the labor and excitement of the day, that as soon as she had finished her story she fell asleep. Maud tried until she was tired to arouse her sister, and make her talk some more; but Daisy, except for her quiet breathing, was like one dead.
Maud could not sleep; she listened to the howling of the storm, and then remembered the grave she had seen through Daisy's spectacles, out there in the night; and then her sister's vision of the beautiful, shining city, whose people were clothed in light, and thought of the highest among them all, the King, who waited for her love.
"He will not care for Daisy, with her wise little face, when once he has seen mine," thought Maud. "I shall wear my finest garments, and put on my most stately and haughtiest look, to show him I am not like common people. I hope he does not know that every thing I have comes from that wretched old dame."