Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad Part 4

THERE is a story about that old tree; a biography of that old gnarled trunk and those broad-spread branches.

Listen.

Many, very many years ago,--there were forests then where now are cities, and the Indian song was borne on that breeze which now bears the sound of the Sabbath bell, and where the fire of the work-shop sends up its dense, black smoke, the white cloud from the Indian's wigwam arose,--yes, 't was many years ago, when, by the door of a rough, rude, but serviceable dwelling, a little boy sat on an old man's knee. He was a bright youth, with soft blue eyes, from which his soul looked out and smiled, and hair so beautiful that it seemed to be a dancing sunbeam rather than what it really was.

The old man had been telling him of the past; had been telling him that when he was a child he loved the forest, and the rock, and the mountain stream.

Then he handed the lad a small, very small seed, and, leading him a short distance, bade him make a small hole in the ground and place the seed within it. He did so. And the old man bent over and kissed his fair brow as he smoothed the earth above the seed's resting-place, and told him that he must water it and watch it, and it would spring up and become a fair thing in his sight.

'Twas hard for the child to believe this; yet he did believe, for he knew that his friend was true.

Night came; and, as he lay on his little couch, the child dreamed of that seed, and he had a vision of the future which pa.s.sed with the shades of the night.

Morning dawned, and he hastened to water and to watch the spot where the seed was planted.

It had not come up; yet he believed the good old man, and knew that it would.

All day long he was bending over it, or talking with his aged companion about the buried seed.

A few days pa.s.sed, then a little sprout; burst from the ground; and the child clapped his hands, and shouted and danced.

Daily it grew fairer in the sight of the child, and rose higher and higher. And the old man led him once more to the spot, and told him that even so would the body of his little sister rise from the grave in which a short time before it hid been placed, and, rising higher and higher, it would never cease to ascend.

The old man wept; but the child, with his tiny white hand, brushed away his tears, and, with child-like simplicity, said that if his sister arose she would go to G.o.d, for G.o.d was above.

Then the mourner's heart was strengthened, and the lesson he would have taught the child came from the child to him, and made his soul glad.

A few weeks pa.s.sed, and the old man died.

The child wept; but, remembering the good friend's lesson, he wiped away his tears, and wept no more; for the seed had already become a beautiful plant, and every day it went upward, and he knew that, like that, his sister and his good friend would go higher and higher towards G.o.d.

Days, weeks, months, years pa.s.sed away. The plant had grown till it was taller than he who had planted it.

Years fled. The child was no more there, but a young man sat beneath the shade of a tree, and held a maiden's hand in his own. Her head reclined on his breast, and her eyes upturned met the glances of his towards her, and they blended in one.

"I remember," said he, "that when I was young a good old man who is now in heaven, led me to this spot, and bade me put a little seed in the earth. I did so. I watched the ground that held it, and soon it sprang up, touched by no hand, drawn forth, as it would seem, from its dark prison by the attractive power of the bright heaven that shone above it. See, now, what it has become! It shades and shelters us. G.o.d planted in my heart a little seed. None but he could plant it, for from him only emanates true love. It sprang up, drawn forth by the sunlight of thy soul, till now thou art shadowed and sheltered by it."

There was silence, save the rustle of the leaves as the branches bowed a.s.sent to the young man's words.

Time drove his chariot on; his sickle-wheels smote to earth many brave and strong, yet the tree stood. The winds blew fiercely among its branches; the lightning danced and quivered above and around it; the thunder muttered forth its threatenings; the torrent washed about its roots; yet it stood, grew strong and stately, and many a heart loved it for its beauty and its shade.

The roll of the drum sounded, and beneath a tree gathered crowds of stalwart men. There was the mechanic, with upturned sleeves and dusty ap.r.o.n; the farmer, fanning himself with a dingy straw hat; the professional man and trader, arguing the unrighteousness of "taxation without representation."

Another roll of the drum, and every head was uncovered as a young man ascended a platform erected beneath the tree. In a soft, low voice, he began. As he proceeded, his voice grew louder, and his eloquence entranced his auditors.

"Years ago," said he, "there were an old man and a young child. And the child loved the man, and the man loved the child, and taught him a lesson. He took him by the hand, and, leading him aside, gave him a seed and told him to plant it. He did so. It sprang up. It became mighty. Independent it stood, sheltering all who came unto it. That old man went home; but here stands the child, and here the tree, great and mighty now, but the child has not forgotten the day when it was small and weak. So shall the cause we have this day espoused go on; and though, to-day, we may be few and feeble, we shall increase and grow strong, till we become an independent nation, that shall shelter all who come unto it."

The speaker ceased, and immediately the air resounded with loud shouts and huzzas.

The struggle for independence came. Victory ensued. Peace rested once more upon all the land, But not as before. It rested upon a free people. Then, beneath that same tree, gathered a mighty host; and, as oft as came the second month of summer, in the early part of it the people there a.s.sembled, and thanked G.o.d for the lesson of the old tree.

An old man lay dying. Around his bedside were his children and his children's children.

"Remove the curtain," said he. "Open the window. Raise me, and let re see the sun once more."

They did so.

"See you yonder tree? Look upon it, and listen. I was a child once, and I knew and loved an old man; and he knew me and loved me, and he led me aside, placed in my hand a tiny seed, and bade me bury it in the earth, and I did so. Night came, with its shade and its dew; day, with its suns.h.i.+ne and its showers. And the seed sprang up,--but the old man died. Yet, ere he went, he had taught me the lesson of that seed, which was, that those who go down to the earth like that, will arise, like that, towards heaven. You are looking upon that tree which my friend planted. Learn from it the lesson it hath taught me."

The old man's task was performed, his life finished, and the morrow's light lit the pathway of many to his grave. They stood beneath the shadow of that tree; and deeply sank the truth in every heart as the village pastor began the burial service and read, "I am the resurrection and the life."

VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT-LAND.

IN the silence of the midnight, When the cares of day are o'er, In my soul I hear the voices Of the loved ones gone before; And they, words of comfort whispering, Say they'll watch on every hand, And my soul is cheered in hearing Voices from the spirit-land.

In my wanderings, oft there cometh Sudden stillness to my soul; When around, above, within it Rapturous joys unnumbered roll.

Though around me all is tumult, Noise and strife on every hand, Yet within my soul I list to Voices from the spirit-land.

Loved ones who have gone before me Whisper words of peace and joy; Those who long since have departed Tell me their divine employ Is to watch and guard my footsteps,-- O! it is an angel band!

And I love, I love to list to Voices from the spirit-land.

THE BEACON-LIGHT.

DIMLY burns the beacon-light On the mountain top to-night; Faint as whisper ever fell, Falls the watcher's cry,--"All's well;"

For the clouds have met on high, And the blast sweeps angry by; Not a star is seen this night,-- G.o.d, preserve the beacon-light!

Lo! a man whom age doth bow Wanders up the pathway now; Wistfully his eye he turns To the light that dimly burns; And, as it less glow doth shed, Quicker, quicker is his tread; And he prays that through the night G.o.d may keep the beacon-light.

Far below him, rocks and waves Mark the place of others' graves; Other travellers, who, like him, Saw the beacon-light burn dim.

But they trusted in their strength To attain the goal at length;-- This old traveller prays, to-night, "G.o.d, preserve the beacon-light!"

Fainter, fainter is its ray,-- Shall its last gleam pa.s.s away?

Shall it be extinguished quite?

Shall it burn, though not as bright?

Fervently goes up his prayer; Patiently he waiteth there, Trusting Him who doeth right To preserve the beacon-light.

Look you now! the light hath burst Brighter than it was at first; Now with ten-fold radiance glows, And the traveller homeward goes.