Parables from Flowers Part 11

interrupted the Bramble sharply. 'But courage, child; take fast hold of me. I am rough but trusty; so take my hand.'

'I fear to climb!' cried the other timidly.

'Nonsense, child! nothing is done without an effort. Only, when once you have secured a chance, hold it fast,' was the caution given.

So she ventured to put forth a tender green tendril and clasp her kind friend's helping hand, which, if rough and th.o.r.n.y, was certainly honest and true.

It is very seldom in this world that the humble and shrinking find friends ready and willing to raise them from the ground; for there is such a rush and scramble to reach the temples of 'Fame' and of 'Mammon,'

that each one elbows the other in the crowd. Some of the weaker ones get sadly pushed to the wall, others are trampled under foot, and it is only the very boldest and most daring of the throng who ever reach the desired goal.

But amongst the flowers it is not so; for how many of the weak ones cling for support to others, and, through their tender care, gain strength and beauty. And this was the case with the Honeysuckle; she felt so secure resting on that strong, protecting arm, that by degrees she began to gain courage, and to feel her own power. The Bramble, too, perceiving she was something more than a mere 'little green sprig of something,' kindly encouraged her to persevere in her upward course. So she clambered up higher and higher; the delicate green tendrils became firmer and stronger, and at length, after much painful toiling and many a disappointment, she reached the highest summit of her hopes--the top of a quickset hedge!

'Oh, how can I thank you all!' she joyfully cried, when from her lofty position she gazed around on beautiful scenes undreamt of ere this, and then looked back upon the toilsome path she had travelled, and beheld the many kind friends who had helped her on her way, each one of whom was now rejoicing in her success; 'and you, dear Bramble, my first generous guide'--

'We are all very pleased to see that at last you have succeeded in your efforts, my dear,' interrupted that st.u.r.dy friend; 'and, what is more, we do not fear you will prove ungrateful, you are sure to remember us.'

'Indeed, indeed I ever shall!' cried the happy little flower. 'Can I ever forget those who loved me when I was poor and lowly? that would be cruel and unkind.'

And so it proved; for, as the summer grew warmer, and her lovely blossoms opened to the bright suns.h.i.+ne, she in her grat.i.tude showered them over those dear ones who had helped her in the days of her poverty; and the fragrant blossoms thus spread over the hedge and the bramble enhanced their beauty, and rendered them still more lovely in the eyes of the pa.s.sers-by.

'Dear me!' exclaimed the b.u.t.terfly, as one very hot day he alighted to rest upon one of the Honeysuckle's leaves. 'Dear me!' he repeated, surveying her critically; 'why, really I did not know you again. How did you contrive to get so high up in the world?'

'Kind hearts, loving hands, helped me,' was the simple answer given.

'Oh, indeed!' he curtly said. 'Well, I owe grat.i.tude to no one. I suppose you will not get any higher?' he questioned, after a pause.

'No,' she replied, with her usual humility; 'and even if I could, I would not wish it; for, living as I do amongst all who are dear to me, I have no higher ambition.'

'You were always a faint-hearted thing,' exclaimed the insect, quite forgetting even to be commonly polite, so elated was he with pride.

'Just compare the difference in our lives! I fly here, I fly there, now on this flower, now on that. Ah, mine is a glorious life! nothing but pleasure and excitement all the livelong day. Confess, now, would you not like to be me?'

'No,' she answered, with the utmost sincerity; 'I am so happy here, I would not change my lot even for a career so brilliant as yours.'

'What a taste!' he exclaimed, with scornful pity; 'no wonder you remain a hedge-flower! Why, poets write about us, and there is actually a song called "I'd be a b.u.t.terfly." Only think of that!' he exultantly cried.

'What! and have a pin stuck through one's head, and to be suffocated with camphor, merely for the sake of being placed in a gla.s.s-case for people to stare at!' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Spleenwort, with a dash of malice in his tone.

'Don't talk of such things, you common flower!' the insect angrily exclaimed. 'I'll not stay here any longer to listen to such vulgarity. I prefer more refined society!'

And away he flew, evidently very much disturbed in his mind by what Spleenwort had remarked as occurring to b.u.t.terflies in general, although he would not acknowledge that it was so, even to himself, but tried to banish the thought by indulging more freely in what he considered pleasure. You see--poor, giddy flutterer--he did not like to hear the plain truth spoken; flattery would have pleased him better, yet truth, though sometimes bitter, is a wholesome tonic when taken properly.

The summer days sped fast, for Father Time's scythe is never idle, and he was gradually, though slowly, mowing down the flowers which had garlanded the sunny hours. The leaves once so green were changing now, a.s.suming their glowing autumn tints, whilst some would fall fluttering to the ground with a gentle sigh of weariness, as the cold winds were rustling by. Then the stern northern gale came sweeping along, proclaiming to the forest trees that winter was on her way; and a shudder would pa.s.s through their st.u.r.dy branches when they heard the tidings, for they feared her chill, icy breath.

The bees took refuge in their well-stored hives, the ants had barred their outer doors, and retired to their most secluded apartments; even the garden spider was sheltered in his home--only the once gay b.u.t.terfly was homeless and friendless.

'Shelter me, shelter me, dear Honeysuckle,' moaned the s.h.i.+vering insect, coming back to the old home in the day of his sorrow. 'I am so cold, so weary!'

'Poor thing!' the tender flower exclaimed, with the utmost pity, forgetting now all former slights. 'Creep under my leaves, perhaps they may s.h.i.+eld you. But your beautiful wings, how came they so torn and colourless?'

'The pitiless storm last night fell upon me and crushed me to the earth in its fury,' he answered, with difficulty, for he was so feeble. ''Tis true the gleams of suns.h.i.+ne to-day have revived me a little; but alas! I am dying! my brief day is over, and there is no one to give me a refuge save you!'

'Where are your gay friends?' she asked,'those with whom you sported throughout the livelong summer hours?'

'Gone far from me,' he answered bitterly; 'they were but friends of the fleeting suns.h.i.+ne, and I in the day of my power thought but of myself, and now--I am left alone to die!'

The Honeysuckle was deeply moved; she remembered no more his haughty pride, she only saw that _now_ he was ill and in sorrow; so she placed her clinging tendrils gently around him, trying thus to keep the poor b.u.t.terfly under the shelter of her protecting leaves.

Night came stealing on, folding her sable curtains over the earth; and it was a wild night, for not a star shone in the skies, all was dark and dreary, for the Storm King was abroad in all his mighty strength. The fierce gales came with terrific power, tossing the lordly s.h.i.+ps as they n.o.bly braved its fury, but causing, oh, so many loving hearts to fervently pray 'for those at sea.' No wonder, then, that when the cold grey dawn awoke the early flowers, they saw the poor crushed b.u.t.terfly lying dead! close beside the little Honeysuckle, whose trustful, meek heart he had once so cruelly derided.