Child Stories from the Masters Part 4

Sometimes when the sweet song pealed out, the old shoemaker would forget and leave his thread half drawn, and while he listened a wonderful smiling light shone in his face. But whenever the little grandson asked him what the bell said to him, the old man only shook his head and pulled the st.i.tch through and sewed on and on, until there was not any more light; and for this reason the little boy began to think that the bell was singing something about work. He thought of it very often when he sat on his grandfather's step listening to the song and watching the people. Sometimes those who had read the learned book spoke together and laughed quite loudly, to show that they were not paying any attention to the bell; and there were others who seemed not to hear it at all. But there were some who listened just as the old grandfather had listened, and many who stopped and bowed their heads and stood quite still for a long, long while. But the strangest was, that no one ever could tell the other what the bell had sung to him. It was really a very deep mystery.

Now there was a painter who had such loving eyes that even when he looked on homely, lowly things, he saw wonder that no one else could see. He loved all the sweet mysteries that are in the world, and he loved the bell's song; he wondered about it just as the little boy had done.

One evening, I think, he went alone beyond the village and through the wide brown fields; he saw the light in the sky, and the birds going home, and the steeple far off. It was all very still and wonderful, and as he looked away on every side, thinking many holy thoughts, he saw a man and a woman working together in the dim light. They were digging potatoes; there was a wheelbarrow beside them, and a basket. Sometimes they moved about slowly, or stooped with their hands in the brown earth.

And while they worked, the sound of the evening bell came faintly to them. When they heard it they rose up. The mother folded her hands on her breast and said the words of a prayer, and thought of her little ones. The father just held his hat in his hand and looked down at their work. And the painter forgot all the wonder of the sky and the wide field as he looked at them, for there was a deeper mystery. And it was plain to him.

But the man and the woman stood there listening; they did not know that the bell was singing to them of their very own work, of every loving service and lowly task of the day.

The bell sang on and on, and the peace of the song seemed to fill the whole day.

Come, let us with the children live.

--_Friedrich Froebel_

FRIEDRICH AND HIS CHILD-GARDEN.

Friedrich Froebel--"Little Friedrich," they called him long ago. Is it not strange to think that the great men who bring the beautiful deeds to the world were once little children? Do you know how these children grow so great and strong that they can do a loving deed for the whole world at last? They do little loving deeds every day.

This gentle Friedrich loved more and more things every day that he lived. But when he was a little boy he was very lonely sometimes, because he had no playmates except the flowers in the old garden. It seemed to him these flowers were always playing plays together. The little pink and white ones on the border of the beds seemed always circling round the sweet tall rose, and laughing and swaying in the wind. It was so gay sometimes that he laughed aloud to see them all nodding and bowing, and the rose bowing too.

Friedrich was so gentle that his doves would flutter around his head and settle on his outstretched arms, and even the little mother bird, with her nest in the hedge, would let him stand near when she told little stories to her babies. Friedrich had no dear mother, but he had a tall, strong brother who would sometimes take him to the sweet wide meadows and tell him beautiful stories about the strange little bugs and busy bees, and stones and flowers.

But after awhile Friedrich's father thought he was growing too old to play all day long. So he said to him one day, "Friedrich, you must begin to learn." When Friedrich heard this he was glad, because he wanted to know about all the wonderful things in the world. But when he had to sit still for long hours and learn out of large books that hadn't a single picture, it was very hard. "But there is no other way, little Friedrich," his teachers told him.

As the time went on he grew as tall and strong as his brother. And then what do you think happened? Just the same thing that happened to our America when George Was.h.i.+ngton led out all the brave men. Friedrich's dear Germany was in great trouble, and she called to all her brave men to come and save her. And Friedrich marched away with all the others--marching, marching, with the drums beating and the flags flying.

Then after a long while, when peace had come back and all was quiet and joyful again, there came to Friedrich a sweet thought that grew and grew. Can you think what it was? It was half about his old garden and the playing flowers, and half about little children. Whenever he saw a child tear a flower or stone a bird he felt sad, and this thought would grow stronger in his heart.

Sometimes he would gather up all the children and take them to the meadow, and teach them about the leaves and stones, the flowers and birds and ants, as his brother used to teach him, and then they would play the very plays the wind and flowers and birds had played. So he called it his kindergarten,--his child-garden,--and he began to show to the whole world that little children must learn and grow in the same sweet way that flowers do.

And he worked years and years, teaching and working out this wonderful message that had come to him. He loved G.o.d and children and this s.h.i.+ning thought better than himself, and he wore poor clothes and gave up things, that the beautiful deed might live in the world.

The true light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.

--_St. John._

[Ill.u.s.tration: _By Antonio Allegri da Correggio_

THE HOLY NIGHT]

THE HOLY NIGHT.

In the far-off places of the world where men do not pa.s.s often, it is nothing to be poor. Little Hansei and his mother were poor, but that was nothing to him. They lived on the side of a great hill, where, save their small black hut with its little gauzy curl of smoke, there was no sign of life as far as eye could reach. And it seemed to Hansei that the whole world was theirs, and they were the whole world. Yet on fair days, far below, the misty towers and steeples of a city showed. But this was as unreal and unreachable as dreams and clouds to Hansei; the only difference was, a yellow road wound down to it, and if one went far enough he might some day reach that strange, misty place. But dreams--they always went at morning; and clouds--if he climbed to the highest point of the hill he could never reach them!

Sometimes people had pa.s.sed that way. Once a man had gone bearing a burden. Another time, as Hansei and his mother gathered up their f.a.gots at evening, a man and woman pa.s.sed together; the sunset light was on the woman, and she sang as she went. Again, men in dark robes and hoods pa.s.sed by; some had ridden on mules, some were grave and walked, reading from small books, others laughed. And these were all (except a peddler who had lost his way) that Hansei had ever seen go by.

People seldom went that way; the road was steep, and there was an easier way down at the other side, his mother said.

Once Hansei asked her if those who had pa.s.sed were all the people there were besides themselves. His mother said, "There are others off there,"

pointing to the city.

Every morning before it was light Hansei's mother went away to the other side of the hills somewhere.

The first time he awoke and found the black loaf and water waiting and his mother gone, he had cried and searched and called her over and over.

"Mother! Mother!" he had cried as loud as he could call down the yellow road.

"Mother! Mother!" had come a strange voice from beyond the hills; and Hansei's heart had leaped with a new joy. He cried back wildly, "Where are you?"

"Where are you?" cried the voice again.

"I am here!"

"I am here!"

"Come to me!"

"Come to me!"

All day Hansei and the strange voice from beyond the hills called and cried to each other. Hansei thought: "It is true there are others off there, and some one is calling to me."

At night the mother came back. Hansei asked: "Where have you been?" and put up his arms. His mother said: "At the other side of the hill," and touched his head gently.

"What did you do so long?"

"I made lace."

"What is lace?"

"It is like that a little," and she pointed to a cobweb stretching from a dead twig to a weed. Hansei looked and slowly put his foot through it.

"Must you go tomorrow and next day?" he asked.

"Next day and always," said the mother, looking off down the yellow road.

Hansei cried: "Let me go too; let me go!"

"Hush, no; it is dark where I go."

"Is there no sun at the other side of the hill?"