Daisy: or, The Fairy Spectacles

CHAPTER XVII.

THE FAIRY'S CAVE

The old dame had built a fire in the corner of her cave, and sat, alone, watching the embers.

Presently she heard a sound unlike the storm – a parting of the bushes outside, a crackling of dry sticks upon the ground; and, all at once, Daisy's bright face appeared, seeming to bring a sunshine into the gloomy den.

Daisy was dripping with rain, and felt a little afraid that the dame would scold her because her feet made wet tracks on the floor.

But the fairy seemed in a merry mood to-night – perhaps she was glad of some one to keep her company. She laughed till the old cave rang again, when her visitor told that she had been frightened by the storm; for she said it was music in her ears, and ought to be in the ears of every one.

So she drew a stool before the fire for Daisy, and, while wringing the dampness from her dress, asked what had become of the spectacles.

"O, they are safe enough," answered Daisy. "I know now how much they are worth, and what a splendid present you gave me, though it seemed so poor. You are very good to us, dame."

"Better than I seem – always better than I seem," she muttered, looking into the fire still. "Now, if you think so much of your glasses, put them on."

Daisy wiped the water from them on a corner of the fairy's dress, for her own was too wet, and did as she was told.

And, down, down miles beneath the cave, she saw fires burning, blazing, flashing, flaming about, and filling the whole centre of the earth; beside them the lightning was dull, and the old dame's fire seemed hardly a spark.

She saw whole acres of granite – the hard stone that lay in pieces about the wood, half covered with moss and violets; acres of this were rolling and foaming like the river in a storm, melted and boiling in the fiery flames.

"Why, in a few minutes, the cave itself, and all the earth, will melt, and we shall be burned up," said Daisy, alarmed.

"O, no," laughed the fairy. "The fire was kindled thousands of years before you were born; and the granite your violets grow upon has boiled like this in its day; but we are not burned yet, and shall not be. There's a bridge over the fire."

And, surely enough, when Daisy looked again, she saw great cold ribs of rock rising above the flames and above the sea of boiling stone, up and out, like arches on every side. Upon this rock the earth was heaped, layer above layer, until on its outside countries, and cities, and great forests were planted, and fastened together, it seemed, by rivers and seas.

In the beds of rivers, in crevices of rock, in depths of the earth, were hidden precious stones and metals; and where the rocks rose highest, they formed what we call mountains, that buried their soaring heads in the sky, and stretched along the earth for many hundred miles.

"What can this rock be made of?" asked Daisy. "Look!" and, to her wonder, she saw that it was all little cells, crowded with insects of different kinds. She asked the dame how many there were in one piece of stone which she picked up, and which was about an inch square.

"About forty-one thousand millions of one kind, and many more of another," she answered carelessly.

"You could not make Maud believe that," thought Daisy; and the dame, as if seeing into her mind, continued, —

"But it is only the one little world we live in which you have seen thus far: look above."

The roof of the cave seemed gone; and Daisy beheld the stars, not far off and still, as they had always seemed, but close about her, whirling, waltzing, chasing each other in circles, with such tremendous speed that it made one dizzy to watch.

And they were no longer little points of light, but worlds like ours – many of them larger than our earth, which was whirling too, and seemed so small that Daisy hardly noticed it amidst the beaming suns.

There were no handles, no fastenings, no beams, or ropes, or anchors to those flying worlds, that dashed along at such mad speed; she wondered they did not strike against each other, and shatter, and fall.

"O, no," said the dame; "the Hand which made these worlds can keep them in their places. But how many stars do you suppose there are?"

"O, I could not count them in a week."

"No, nor in a lifetime. It takes more than that to count one million; and there are more than twenty million worlds."

"There will be no use in telling that to Maud," thought Daisy; "she'll never believe me."

And again the fairy saw into her heart, and answered, "Only the pure in heart can see God, and believe in him. Maud thinks there is no truth, because her weak mind cannot grasp it.

"Now, Daisy, think that all these worlds are God's – made, and watched, and loved by him. You see in many of them mountains such as the piece of stone you looked into; you see rivers, earth, and sky; and I tell you the truth when I say, that all of these are crowded, fuller than you can dream, with creatures He has made. And cannot He who made the lightning govern it? So, do not fear the howling of the storm again; it is your Father's voice."

"How great he is! I am afraid of him!" said Daisy.

"You may well be afraid to offend him, but only that; for God is a gentle, loving Father. He feels when the tiniest insect in this stone is hurt; and the same mighty Hand that guides the stars, and roofs over the fires that might burn up our earth, – the same Hand led you through the storm to-night, or, Daisy, you would not have found my cave."

The dame's last words reminded Daisy that she had left her sister alone; and though Maud had surprised her by saying that she need not hurry back, Maud might have changed her mind, and complain of the very thing she asked an hour before.

She flew home, therefore – falling many a time, and wounding her hands with the sharp sticks in her path. Great trees were torn up by the roots, and came crashing down, in the dark, scattering earth and pebbles far and wide; but Daisy walked among them all unharmed, and was not even frightened; for she knew some kind hand must be guiding her, and thought of the Watchman who never sleeps.

Reaching the cabin, she found Maud in a quiet slumber; and, lying down beside her, Daisy was soon dreaming over again all she had seen through the spectacles.

CHAPTER XVIII.

DAISY ALONE

The sisters lived together comfortably enough in the wood, for the old dame still supplied their wants; and Daisy grew so accustomed to Maud's complaints and reproaches, that she did not mind them so much as at first.

Then it was such a joy when, sometimes, Maud would be pleased and satisfied, and speak a kind word or two, that her sister forgot all the rest.

The fairy had been in the habit, after Susan's death, of taking Maud to the fair sometimes, where she could see the people, and choose handsome gowns for herself, and hear what was going on in the world.

Meantime Daisy would remain at home, cleaning the house and washing Maud's dresses, and baking some nice thing for her to eat when she should come home tired from the fair.

You may think this hard for Daisy; but you are mistaken, this time, for she was never so merry as when working thus alone. There was no one to meddle and complain when she was trying to do her best. Let Maud depart, and all was peace in Daisy's home.

Maud seemed to think that Daisy was made for her servant; and when she wished to enjoy herself alone, or to do some kind deed, – for other people lived, now, in the neighborhood of the cabin, – her sister would always interfere, and complain and whine so grievously that Daisy yielded to her.

But Maud away, and her work all finished in the house, Daisy would clap on her spectacles, and then such a wonderful world as stretched around her! Nothing was common, or mean, or dead; all things were full of beauty and surprise, when she looked into them.

The insects that stung Maud, and made her so impatient, would settle quietly on Daisy's hand, and let her find out how their gauzy, glittering wings were made, and see all the strange machinery by which they could rise and fly, and the little beating hearts and busy heads they had.

Then they would go slowly circling to their homes; and Daisy would softly follow, and find how they lived, and what they ate, and what became of them in winter time, and all about their young.

The birds, meantime, would come and sing to her about their joy, their young, their fairy nests, their homes among the shady summer leaves; the poorest worm, the ugliest spider, had something in him curious and beautiful.

Then she would study the plants and trees, see the sap rising out of the ground, and slowly creeping into every branch and leaf, and the little buds come forth, and swell, and burst, at length, into lovely flowers.

She would sit upon the mossy rocks, and think how far down under the earth they had been, and how full they might be of living creatures now; and then bending over the violets that had grown in their crevices, would count their tiny veins, and find how air and sunshine had mixed with the sap to color and perfume them.

All these works of his hands made Daisy feel how near the great God was to her, and that she could never go where he had not been before, and where his eye would not follow her.

And then, amidst her troubles and toils, she had but to think of the beautiful city above, where Peter and Susan were waiting for her, where the spirits clothed in light would be her teachers and friends, and she would see as far, perhaps, as they, and learn more a thousand times than even her wonderful spectacles could teach her now.

But, one day, the dame took a fancy in her head that she was too old to go to the fair again, and, in future, Daisy must go instead, and take care of Maud.

This pleased neither of the sisters; for Daisy now must lose her only hours of quiet; and Maud, instead of the old crone who had passed for her servant, must appear with the shabby little Daisy, of whose meek, serious face, and country manners, she was very much ashamed.

Then there was the mark of the spectacles to attract attention, and make every one ask who it could be that had such a wise look on a face so young.

But the two sisters started, one morning, for the fair, on the selfsame road on which Peter had met his wife, and along which he had led her home, to make his cabin such a happy place.

It was not so bad for Maud to have Daisy with her as she had feared; for the good natured sister carried all her parcels, found out cool springs where they could drink, and pleasant spots where they could sit in the cool grass and rest sometimes, instead of hurrying on through the dust, as the dame had always done.

Then Daisy had a cheerful heart, and was pleased with every thing she met, and so full of her stories and cheerful songs, that the way seemed not half so long to Maud as when she went with the dame.

Ah, but Maud didn't think how much shorter and brighter her sister's path through life would have been had she, instead of her selfish temper, a good and gentle heart like that which was cheering her now.

Daisy took her spectacles along, you may be sure; and besides that she saw through them many a flower, and bird, and stone, and countless other things to which her sister was as good as blind, Maud found them very useful at the fair.

For the glasses showed things now exactly as they were – in the rich silk, rough places or cotton threads; calicoes, gay enough to the naked eye, through these looked faded and shabby. Was any thing shopworn, moth eaten, or out of fashion, the spectacles told it as plainly as if they had spoken aloud.

And just so, seen through these magical glasses, the people changed. A man with a smiling face and pleasant words would appear dishonest and cunning, when Daisy put on her spectacles. A maiden with a proud and beautiful face looked humbled, all at once, and sad, and dying of a broken heart. People that walked about in splendid clothes, and looked down on the others, seemed suddenly poor beggars, hiding beneath their garments as if they were a mask.

The dame would never carry bundles for Maud, nor allow herself to be hurried or contradicted in any way; but Daisy bore all the burdens of her own accord, and yielded to Maud's caprices, however foolish they might be, if they troubled no one except herself.

But on their way home, something occurred in which Daisy resolved to have her own way; and Maud was so angry that she would not walk with her sister, and hurrying on, left her far behind.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE QUARREL

It was the old dame that caused the sisters' quarrel. A few miles from the cabin she appeared, creeping through the dusty road, with a bundle of sticks three times as big as herself on her head.

"Pretty well!" exclaimed Maud. "The old creature could not find strength enough to walk a little way with me; but she can pick up sticks all day for herself, and carry home more than I could even lift."

The dame made no reply; perhaps she did not hear the beauty's words; but Maud was so vexed that she brushed roughly past, and upset all her sticks, and the poor old dame in the midst of them.

The fairy lifted her wrinkled arm, which was covered with bleeding scratches, and shook her finger angrily at Maud, who only laughed, and said, "It is good enough for you; take care, next time, how you stand in my way. I am the one to be angry, after you've scattered your sharp old sticks all over the road to fray my new silk stockings. Come, Daisy, make a path for me through them."

Daisy helped the dame to her feet again, and wiped away the dust and blood, and bound the arm up with her own handkerchief, and then began patiently to pick up all the sticks, and fasten them in a bundle.

She did this while Maud and the fairy were quarrelling and reproaching each other. We could often make up for a fault or accident in the time which we spend mourning over it and deciding whose was the fault.

Maud, in her heart, was not sorry for what her sister had now done, because she feared the fairy, and knew, if she went too far in offending her, that she might never appear again; and then Miss Maud would eat coarse food, and wear shabby clothes, like her sister Daisy.

Still she pretended to be angry, and scolded Daisy well for undoing what she had done, and comforting the old woman when she chose to punish her.

Yet more vexed was she when Daisy took the sticks on her own head; for the dame seemed tired and faint, and trembled like a leaf from the fright and pain of her fall.

Maud drew herself up haughtily, and asked if she was expected to walk in a public road in company with a lame old hag and a fagot girl. Her eyes flashed, and the color glowed in her delicate cheeks, as she spoke; Daisy thought she had never seen her sister look so beautiful, and even took out the glasses that she might look more closely at the handsome face.

Alas, what a change! Serpents seemed coiling and hissing about Maud's breast; her eyes were like the eyes of a wolf; the color on her cheeks made Daisy think of the fires she had seen burning so far down in the centre of the earth; and the ivory whiteness of her forehead was the dead white of a corpse.

It was not strange that, Maud's beauty gone, her sister grew less submissive; for Daisy, even with her spectacles, had found nothing except beauty to love in her sister. She thought a lovely heart must be hidden somewhere underneath the lovely face.

But now she had looked past the outside, and all was deformed and dreadful.

"I should like to know if you mean to answer," said Maud pettishly; "I told you either to throw down the sticks, or else I would walk home alone."

"I must help the poor dame; and as for our walk, we both know the way," was Daisy's quiet answer.

So they parted; and Daisy began to cheer the dame, who groaned dreadfully, by telling of all the fine things at the fair, and the use she had made of her spectacles, and how grateful she must always be for such a wondrous gift.

It pleased the dame to have her glasses praised; and so she forgot to limp and grumble about her wounds, and walked on gayly enough by Daisy's side, telling sometimes the wisest, and sometimes the drollest, stories she had ever heard.

But their mirth was interrupted by the sound of sobs; and Daisy's quick eyes discovered, sitting among the bushes by the way, a little girl, all rags and dust, crying as if her heart would break.

"Never mind her; she will get over it soon enough," said the dame.

"I wonder how you would have liked it, had I said that about you, an hour ago," thought Daisy, but made no reply, except to turn and ask the child what she could do for her.

"O, give me food, for I am starved, and clothes, for I am cold, and take me with you, for I am so lonely," sobbed the child.

"Then don't cry any more, but take my hand; and here are some wild grapes I picked just now – taste how fresh and sweet they are."

The little girl laughed for joy, with the tears still glistening on her face, and soon leaving Daisy's hand, skipped about her, flying hither and thither like a butterfly, filling her hands with flowers, and then coming back, to look up curiously in the strange old face of the dame.

"You are a good soul, after all," said the fairy, when Daisy returned to her side. "See how happy you have made that little wretch!"

"Yes, and how easily, too! O, why do not all people find out what a cheap comfort it is to help each other? I think, if they only knew this, that every one would grow kind and full of charity."

Daisy did not dream that the child listened, or would understand what she was saying; but the little girl, tears springing into her eyes again, answered softly, "O, no, not all."

"Why, have you found so many wicked people, my poor child?"

"Perhaps they are not wicked; but they are not kind;" and the girl's voice grew sadder. "Some time before you came, a beautiful lady passed; she was not dressed like you, but a hundred times handsomer; and I thought she would have ever so much to give away; so I asked her for a penny to buy bread."

"And did she give you one?" asked Daisy, who saw that the lady must have been her sister Maud.

"Not she; she called me names, and pushed me away so roughly that I fell into a bunch of nettles; and they stung till it seemed as if bees were eating me up. Look there!"

So she held up her poor little arms, that were pinched with poverty, as the dame's with age; they were mottled, white and red or purple, with the nettle stings; and only looking at them made her cry again.

But Daisy comforted her. "There, I wouldn't mind; she did not mean to hurt you. And, besides, you must blame me; for I offended her, and made her cross. She is my sister."

"O, dear, then I don't want to go home and live with you; let me go back and die, if I must. That lady would beat me, and pull my hair, I know. When you met me, I was not crying for hunger, though I was so hungry, nor for cold, though my clothes were all worn out, but because she was so unkind. Don't make me live with her."

Here the fairy drew the little girl towards her, and whispered, "Daisy has to live with her, and be fretted at and worked hard all the time; if you go, Maud will have another to torment, and will leave her sister in peace sometimes."