Allegories Of Life Part 2

She kissed his hand, and departed.

The morning came, and she returned not. The end of the second day drew nigh, and yet she came not back.

"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed one of a group of wood-cutters near by the cottage. "Such a fool-hardy errand will only be met by death. The old man ought to be content to die without sight of his flower when it costs so much labor to get it."

"So think me," said his comrade, between the puffs of his pipe; "so think me. Our flowers are pretty, and good 'nough, too. Sure, he orter be content with what grows 'round him, and not be sending folk a-climbing." This said, he resumed his smoking vigorously, and looked very wise.

The aged man of the mountain was pa.s.sing rapidly away. The kind neighbors laid him for the last time on his cot, and sat tearfully around the room. Some stood in groups outside, looking wistfully towards the mountain; for their kind hearts could not bear to see him depart without the flower to gladden his eyes.

"The girl's gone a long time," remarked one of the women.

"The longer she's gone, the surer the sign she's reached the mountain top. It's a long way up there, and a weary journey back. My feet have trod it often, and I know all the sharp rocks and the tangled branches in the way. But she will come yet. I hear footsteps not far away."

"But too late, we fear, for your eyes to behold the blossom, should she bring it."

"Then put it on my grave--but hark! she comes--some one approaches!"

Through the crowd, holding high the spotless flower, came the fair girl, with torn sandals and weary feet, but with beaming eyes. The old man raised himself in bed, while she knelt to receive his blessing.

"Fair girl,"--he spoke in those clear tones which the dying ever use,--"the whiteness of this blossom is only rivaled by the angels'

garments. Its spotless purity enters ever into the soul of him who plucks it, making it white as their robes. To all who persevere to the mountain top and pluck this flower, into all does its purity, its essence, enter and remain forever. For is it not the reward of the toiler, who pauses not till the summit is gained?"

"Oh! good man, the mountain view was so grand, I fain would have lingered to gaze; but, longing to lay the blossom in thy hand, I hastened back."

"Thou shalt behold all the grandeur thy toil has earned thee. Unto those who climb to the mountain summit, who mind not the sharp rocks and loose, rough gra.s.s beneath their tread,--unto such shall all the views be given; for they shall some day be lifted in vision, without aid of feet, to grander heights than their weary limbs have reached."

The old man lay back and died.

They buried him, with the flower on his breast, one day just as the sun was setting. Ere the winter snows fell, many of the laborers, both men and women, went up the mountain to its very top, and brought back the white blossoms to deck his grave.

The summit only has the view, and the white flower of purity grows upon it. Shall we ascend and gather it? or, like the youth, climb but half the distance, and cheat our eyes and souls of the view from the height?

III.

THE PILGRIM.

One sultry summer day a youthful pilgrim sat by the roadside, weary and dispirited, saying, "I cannot see why I was ordered to tarry beside this hard, unsightly rock, after journeying as many days as I have. Something better should have been given me to rest upon after walking so far. If it were only beside some shady tree, I could wait the appearance of the guide. My lot is hard indeed. I do not see any pilgrim here. Others are probably resting beneath green trees and by running brooks. I will look at my directions once more;" and she drew the paper from her girdle and read slowly these words: "Tarry at the rock, and do not go on till the guide appears to conduct you to your journey's end." She folded and replaced the paper with a sigh, while the murmur still went on: "It's very hard, when beyond I see beautiful green trees, whose long branches would shelter me from the burning sun. How thirsty I am, too! My bread is no longer sweet, for want of water. Oh, that I could search for a spring!

I am sure I could find one if permitted to go on my journey. If the rock was not so hard I could pillow my head upon it. Ah me! I have been so often told that the guide had great wisdom, and knew what was good and best for us pilgrims; but this surely looks very dark."

Here weariness overcame the pilgrim, and involuntarily she laid her head upon the rock; when, lo! a sudden spring was touched, and the waters leaped, pure and sparkling, from the hard, unsightly spot. This was the guide's provision for his pilgrim. It was no longer mystical why he had ordered her to tarry there.

When she had drank, and the parched throat was cool and the whole being refreshed, the guide appeared rounding a gentle curve of the road, and bade her follow him through a dense forest which lay between the rock and the journey's end. The steps of the pilgrim now were more firm, for trust was begotten within her, and the light of hope gleamed on her brow--as it will at last upon us all, when the waters have gushed from the bare rocks which lie in the pathways of our lives.

At last we shall learn that our Father, the great Guide, leads us where flow living waters, and that he never forsakes us in time of need.

IV.

FAITH.

"Children," said a faithful father, one day, to his sons and daughters, "I have a journey to take which will keep me many days, perhaps weeks, from you; and as we have no power over conditions,--such as storms, sickness, or any of the so-called accidents of life,--I may be detained long beyond my appointed time of absence. I trust, however, that you will each have confidence in me; and, should illness to myself or others detain me, that you will all trust and wait."

"We will, father!" shouted a chorus of voices, which was music to his ears.

With a fond embrace to each, he left them. Slowly he walked down the winding path which led from his home. He heard the voices of his children on the air long after he entered the highway--voices which he might not hear, perchance, for many months. Sweeter than music to his soul were those sounds floating on the summer air. Over the hill and dale he rode till night came on, and then, before reposing, he lifted his soul to heaven for blessings on his household.

With the sun he arose and pursued his journey. The summer days went down into autumn; the emerald leaves changed their hues for gold and scarlet; ripe fruits hung in ruby and yellow cl.u.s.ters from their strong boughs; while over the rocks, crimson vines were trailing. Slowly the tints of autumn faded. Soon the white frosts lay on the meadows like snow-sheets; the days were shorter and the air more crisp and chill.

Around the evening fire the household of the absent parent began to gather. While summer's beauties abounded they had not missed him so much, but now they talked each to the other, and grew strangely restless at his long delay.

"Did he not tell us," said the eldest, "that sickness or accident might delay him?"

"But he sends us no word, no sign, to make us at rest."

"The roads may not be pa.s.sable," replied the brother, whose faith as yet was not dimmed. "Already the snow has blocked them for miles around us, and we know not what greater obstacles lie beyond. No, let us trust our father," he added, with a depth of feeling which touched them all; and for a few days they rested in the faith that he would come and be again in their midst. But, alas! how short-lived is the trust of the human heart! how limited its vision! It cannot pierce the pa.s.sing clouds, nor stretch forth its hand in darkness.

Together they sat one evening, in outer and inner darkness,--again in the shadows of distrust.

"He will never return," said one of the group, in sad and sorrowing tones.

"My father will come," lisped the youngest of them all,--the one on whom the others looked as but a babe in thought and feeling.

"I am weary with watching," said another, as she went from the window where she had been looking, for so many days, for the loved form. "Our father has forgotten us all," she moaned, and bowed her head and wept.

There was no one to comfort; for all were sad, knowing that naught but a few crusts remained for their morrow's food--and who would provide for the coming days? Lights and fuel too were wanting, and winter but half gone. Even the faith of the eldest had long since departed, and he too had yielded to distrust.

"My father will come," still whispered the little one, strong in her child-trust, while the others doubted.

"It's because she's so young, and cannot reason like us," they said among themselves.

"Perhaps G.o.d can speak to her because she is so simple," said one of the household with whom words were few.

They looked at each other as though a ray of sunlight had flashed through their dwelling. Something akin to hope began to spring in their hearts, but died away as the chilling blasts came moaning around them.

Three days pa.s.sed, while the storm raged and threatened to bury their home beneath the heavy snows. There was no food now to share between them. The last crumb had been given the child to soften her cries of hunger.

"I can stand this no longer," said the eldest, wrapping his garments around him, and preparing to go forth to find labor and bread for his brothers and sisters. "Ah, that I should ever have lived to see this day!"--he murmured--"the day in which we are deserted and forgotten by our father."

The sound of murmuring within now mingled with the sighing of the winds without. He stepped to the door; but for an instant the fierce blasts drove him back--yet but for an instant. "I will not add cowardice to sorrow," he said to them, in reply to their entreaties not to go in the storm. With one strong effort he faced the chilling sleet, which so blinded him that he could not find the path which led to the highway; yet he went bravely on, till hunger and chill overcame him, and he could no longer see or even feel. He grew strangely dizzy, and would have fallen to the ground, but for a pair of strong arms which at that instant held him fast. He was too much overcome to know who it was that thus enfolded him; but soon a well-known voice rose above the wind and the storm,--he knew that his father's arms were about him, and he feared no more. In the hour of greatest need the father had come. There, in that hour of brave effort, he was spared a long exposure to the wintry blast. A carriage laden with food, fuel, and timely gifts, for each, was already on the road, and would soon deposit its bounties at the door of those whose faith had deserted them.