No More Learning

He knew not; but the
walls of ice shone like blue-green glass; innumerable clefts yawned
around him, and the water-drops tinkled like the chiming of church
bells, and shone clearly as pearls in the light of a pale-blue
flame. The Ice Maiden, for she it was, kissed him, and her kiss sent a
chill as of ice through his whole frame. A cry of agony escaped from
him; he struggled to get free, and tottered from her. For a moment all
was dark before his eyes, but when he opened them again it was
light, and the Alpine maiden had vanished. The powers of evil had
played their game; the sheltering hut was no more to be seen. The
water trickled down the naked sides of the rocks, and snow lay thickly
all around. Rudy shivered with cold; he was wet through to the skin;
and his ring was gone,--the betrothal ring that Babette had given him.
His gun lay near him in the snow; he took it up and tried to discharge
it, but it missed fire. Heavy clouds lay on the mountain clefts,
like firm masses of snow. Upon one of these Vertigo sat, lurking after
his powerless prey, and from beneath came a sound as if a piece of
rock had fallen from the cleft, and was crushing everything that stood
in its way or opposed its course.

But, at the miller's, Babette sat alone and wept. Rudy had not
been to see her for six days. He who was in the wrong, and who ought
to ask her forgiveness; for did she not love him with her whole heart?


XIII. AT THE MILL

"What strange creatures human beings are," said the parlor-cat
to the kitchen-cat; "Babette and Rudy have fallen out with each other.
She sits and cries, and he thinks no more about her. "

"That does not please me to hear," said the kitchen-cat.

"Nor me either," replied the parlor-cat; "but I do not take it
to heart. Babette may fall in love with the red whiskers, if she
likes, but he has not been here since he tried to get on the roof. "

The powers of evil carry on their game both around us and within
us. Rudy knew this, and thought a great deal about it. What was it
that had happened to him on the mountain? Was it really a ghostly
apparition, or a fever dream? Rudy knew nothing of fever, or any other
ailment. But, while he judged Babette, he began to examine his own
conduct. He had allowed wild thoughts to chase each other in his
heart, and a fierce tornado to break loose. Could he confess to
Babette, indeed, every thought which in the hour of temptation might
have led him to wrong doing? He had lost her ring, and that very
loss had won him back to her. Could she expect him to confess? He felt
as if his heart would break while he thought of it, and while so
many memories lingered on his mind. He saw her again, as she once
stood before him, a laughing, spirited child; many loving words, which
she had spoken to him out of the fulness of her love, came like a
ray of sunshine into his heart, and soon it was all sunshine as he
thought of Babette. But she must also confess she was wrong; that
she should do.

He went to the mill--he went to confession. It began with a
kiss, and ended with Rudy being considered the offender. It was such a
great fault to doubt Babette's truth--it was most abominable of him.
Such mistrust, such violence, would cause them both great unhappiness.
This certainly was very true, she knew that; and therefore Babette
preached him a little sermon, with which she was herself much
amused, and during the preaching of which she looked quite lovely. She
acknowledged, however, that on one point Rudy was right. Her
godmother's nephew was a fop: she intended to burn the book which he
had given her, so that not the slightest thing should remain to remind
her of him.

"Well, that quarrel is all over," said the kitchen-cat. "Rudy is
come back, and they are friends again, which they say is the
greatest of all pleasures. "

"I heard the rats say one night," said the kitchen-cat, "that
the greatest pleasure in the world was to eat tallow candles and to
feast on rancid bacon. Which are we to believe, the rats or the
lovers? "

"Neither of them," said the parlor-cat; "it is always the safest
plan to believe nothing you hear. "

The greatest happiness was coming for Rudy and Babette. The
happy day, as it is called, that is, their wedding-day, was near at
hand. They were not to be married at the church at Bex, nor at the
miller's house; Babette's godmother wished the nuptials to be
solemnized at Montreux, in the pretty little church in that town.
The miller was very anxious that this arrangement should be agreed to.
He alone knew what the newly-married couple would receive from
Babette's godmother, and he knew also that it was a wedding present
well worth a concession. The day was fixed, and they were to travel as
far as Villeneuve the evening before, to be in time for the steamer
which sailed in the morning for Montreux, and the godmother's
daughters were to dress and adorn the bride.

"Here in this house there ought to be a wedding-day kept," said
the parlor-cat, "or else I would not give a mew for the whole affair. "

"There is going to be great feasting," replied the kitchen-cat.
"Ducks and pigeons have been killed, and a whole roebuck hangs on
the wall. It makes me lick my lips when I think of it. "

"To-morrow morning they will begin the journey. "

Yes, to-morrow! And this evening, for the last time, Rudy and
Babette sat in the miller's house as an engaged couple. Outside, the
Alps glowed in the evening sunset, the evening bells chimed, and the
children of the sunbeam sang, "Whatever happens is best. "


XIV. NIGHT VISIONS

The sun had gone down, and the clouds lay low on the valley of the
Rhone. The wind blew from the south across the mountains; it was an
African wind, a wind which scattered the clouds for a moment, and then
suddenly fell. The broken clouds hung in fantastic forms upon the
wood-covered hills by the rapid Rhone. They assumed the shapes of
antediluvian animals, of eagles hovering in the air, of frogs
leaping over a marsh, and then sunk down upon the rushing stream and
appeared to sail upon it, although floating in the air. An uprooted
fir-tree was being carried away by the current, and marking out its
path by eddying circles on the water. Vertigo and his sisters were
dancing upon it, and raising these circles on the foaming river. The
moon lighted up the snow on the mountain-tops, shone on the dark
woods, and on the drifting clouds those fantastic forms which at night
might be taken for spirits of the powers of nature. The
mountain-dweller saw them through the panes of his little window. They
sailed in hosts before the Ice Maiden as she came out of her palace of
ice. Then she seated herself on the trunk of the fir-tree as on a
broken skiff, and the water from the glaciers carried her down the
river to the open lake.

"The wedding guests are coming," sounded from air and sea. These
were the sights and sounds without; within there were visions, for
Babette had a wonderful dream. She dreamt that she had been married to
Rudy for many years, and that, one day when he was out chamois
hunting, and she alone in their dwelling at home, the young Englishman
with the golden whiskers sat with her. His eyes were quite eloquent,
and his words possessed a magic power; he offered her his hand, and
she was obliged to follow him. They went out of the house and
stepped downwards, always downwards, and it seemed to Babette as if
she had a weight on her heart which continually grew heavier. She felt
she was committing a sin against Rudy, a sin against God. Suddenly she
found herself forsaken, her clothes torn by the thorns, and her hair
gray; she looked upwards in her agony, and there, on the edge of the
rock, she espied Rudy. She stretched out her arms to him, but she
did not venture to call him or to pray; and had she called him, it
would have been useless, for it was not Rudy, only his hunting coat
and hat hanging on an alpenstock, as the hunters sometimes arrange
them to deceive the chamois. "Oh! " she exclaimed in her agony; "oh,
that I had died on the happiest day of my life, my wedding-day. O my
God, it would have been a mercy and a blessing had Rudy travelled
far away from me, and I had never known him. None know what will
happen in the future. " And then, in ungodly despair, she cast
herself down into the deep rocky gulf. The spell was broken; a cry
of terror escaped her, and she awoke.

The dream was over; it had vanished. But she knew she had dreamt
something frightful about the young Englishman, yet months had
passed since she had seen him or even thought of him. Was he still
at Montreux, and should she meet him there on her wedding day? A
slight shadow passed over her pretty mouth as she thought of this, and
she knit her brows; but the smile soon returned to her lip, and joy
sparkled in her eyes, for this was the morning of the day on which she
and Rudy were to be married, and the sun was shining brightly. Rudy
was already in the parlor when she entered it, and they very soon
started for Villeneuve. Both of them were overflowing with
happiness, and the miller was in the best of tempers, laughing and
merry; he was a good, honest soul, and a kind father.

"Now we are masters of the house," said the parlor-cat.


XV. THE CONCLUSION

It was early in the afternoon, and just at dinner-time, when the
three joyous travellers reached Villeneuve. After dinner, the miller
placed himself in the arm-chair, smoked his pipe, and had a little
nap. The bridal pair went arm-in-arm out through the town and along
the high road, at the foot of the wood-covered rocks, and by the deep,
blue lake.

The gray walls, and the heavy clumsy-looking towers of the
gloomy castle of Chillon, were reflected in the clear flood. The
little island, on which grew the three acacias, lay at a short
distance, looking like a bouquet rising from the lake. "How delightful
it must be to live there," said Babette, who again felt the greatest
wish to visit the island; and an opportunity offered to gratify her
wish at once, for on the shore lay a boat, and the rope by which it
was moored could be very easily loosened. They saw no one near, so
they took possession of it without asking permission of any one, and
Rudy could row very well. The oars divided the pliant water like the
fins of a fish--that water which, with all its yielding softness, is
so strong to bear and to carry, so mild and smiling when at rest,
and yet so terrible in its destroying power. A white streak of foam
followed in the wake of the boat, which, in a few minutes, carried
them both to the little island, where they went on shore; but there
was only just room enough for two to dance. Rudy swung Babette round
two or three times; and then, hand-in-hand, they sat down on a
little bench under the drooping acacia-tree, and looked into each
other's eyes, while everything around them glowed in the rays of the
setting sun.

The fir-tree forests on the mountains were covered with a purple
hue like the heather bloom; and where the woods terminated, and the
rocks became prominent, they looked almost transparent in the rich
crimson glow of the evening sky. The surface of the lake was like a
bed of pink rose-leaves.

As the evening advanced, the shadows fell upon the snow-capped
mountains of Savoy painting them in colors of deep blue, while their
topmost peaks glowed like red lava; and for a moment this light was
reflected on the cultivated parts of the mountains, making them appear
as if newly risen from the lap of earth, and giving to the
snow-crested peak of the Dent du Midi the appearance of the full
moon as it rises above the horizon.

Rudy and Babette felt that they had never seen the Alpine glow
in such perfection before. "How very beautiful it is, and what
happiness to be here! " exclaimed Babette.

"Earth has nothing more to bestow upon me," said Rudy; "an evening
like this is worth a whole life. Often have I realized my good
fortune, but never more than in this moment. I feel that if my
existence were to end now, I should still have lived a happy life.
What a glorious world this is; one day ends, and another begins even
more beautiful than the last. How infinitely good God is, Babette! "

"I have such complete happiness in my heart," said she.

"Earth has no more to bestow," answered Rudy. And then came the
sound of the evening bells, borne upon the breeze over the mountains
of Switzerland and Savoy, while still, in the golden splendor of the
west, stood the dark blue mountains of Jura.

"God grant you all that is brightest and best! " exclaimed Babette.

"He will," said Rudy. "He will to-morrow. To-morrow you will be
wholly mine, my own sweet wife. "

"The boat! " cried Babette, suddenly. The boat in which they were
to return had broken loose, and was floating away from the island.

"I will fetch it back," said Rudy; throwing off his coat and
boots, he sprang into the lake, and swam with strong efforts towards
it.

The dark-blue water, from the glaciers of the mountains, was icy
cold and very deep. Rudy gave but one glance into the water beneath;
but in that one glance he saw a gold ring rolling, glittering, and
sparkling before him. His engaged ring came into his mind; but this
was larger, and spread into a glittering circle, in which appeared a
clear glacier. Deep chasms yawned around it, the water-drops glittered
as if lighted with blue flame, and tinkled like the chiming of
church bells. In one moment he saw what would require many words to
describe. Young hunters, and young maidens--men and women who had sunk
in the deep chasms of the glaciers--stood before him here in
lifelike forms, with eyes open and smiles on their lips; and far
beneath them could be heard the chiming of the church bells of
buried villages, where the villagers knelt beneath the vaulted
arches of churches in which ice-blocks formed the organ pipes, and the
mountain stream the music.

On the clear, transparent ground sat the Ice Maiden. She raised
herself towards Rudy, and kissed his feet; and instantly a cold,
deathly chill, like an electric shock, passed through his limbs. Ice
or fire! It was impossible to tell, the shock was so instantaneous.

"Mine! mine! " sounded around him, and within him; "I kissed thee
when thou wert a little child. I once kissed thee on the mouth, and
now I have kissed thee from heel to toe; thou art wholly mine. " And
then he disappeared in the clear, blue water.

All was still. The church bells were silent; the last tone floated
away with the last red glimmer on the evening clouds. "Thou art mine,"
sounded from the depths below: but from the heights above, from the
eternal world, also sounded the words, "Thou art mine! " Happy was he
thus to pass from life to life, from earth to heaven. A chord was
loosened, and tones of sorrow burst forth. The icy kiss of death had
overcome the perishable body; it was but the prelude before life's
real drama could begin, the discord which was quickly lost in harmony.
Do you think this a sad story? Poor Babette! for her it was
unspeakable anguish.

The boat drifted farther and farther away. No one on the
opposite shore knew that the betrothed pair had gone over to the
little island. The clouds sunk as the evening drew on, and it became
dark. Alone, in despair, she waited and trembled. The weather became
fearful; flash after flash lighted up the mountains of Jura, Savoy,
and Switzerland, while peals of thunder, that lasted for many minutes,
rolled over her head. The lightning was so vivid that every single
vine stem could be seen for a moment as distinctly as in the
sunlight at noon-day; and then all was veiled in darkness. It
flashed across the lake in winding, zigzag lines, lighting it up on
all sides; while the echoes of the thunder grew louder and stronger.
On land, the boats were all carefully drawn up on the beach, every
living thing sought shelter, and at length the rain poured down in
torrents.

"Where can Rudy and Babette be in this awful weather? " said the
miller.

Poor Babette sat with her hands clasped, and her head bowed
down, dumb with grief; she had ceased to weep and cry for help.

"In the deep water! " she said to herself; "far down he lies, as if
beneath a glacier. "

Deep in her heart rested the memory of what Rudy had told her of
the death of his mother, and of his own recovery, even after he had
been taken up as dead from the cleft in the glacier.

"Ah," she thought, "the Ice Maiden has him at last. "

Suddenly there came a flash of lightning, as dazzling as the
rays of the sun on the white snow. The lake rose for a moment like a
shining glacier; and before Babette stood the pallid, glittering,
majestic form of the Ice Maiden, and at her feet lay Rudy's corpse.

"Mine! " she cried, and again all was darkness around the heaving
water.

"How cruel," murmured Babette; "why should he die just as the
day of happiness drew near? Merciful God, enlighten my understanding,
shed light upon my heart; for I cannot comprehend the arrangements
of Thy providence, even while I bow to the decree of Thy almighty
wisdom and power. " And God did enlighten her heart.

A sudden flash of thought, like a ray of mercy, recalled her dream
of the preceding night; all was vividly represented before her. She
remembered the words and wishes she had then expressed, that what
was best for her and for Rudy she might piously submit to.

"Woe is me," she said; "was the germ of sin really in my heart?
was my dream a glimpse into the course of my future life, whose thread
must be violently broken to rescue me from sin? Oh, miserable creature
that I am! "

Thus she sat lamenting in the dark night, while through the deep
stillness the last words of Rudy seemed to ring in her ears. "This
earth has nothing more to bestow. " Words, uttered in the fulness of
joy, were again heard amid the depths of sorrow.

Years have passed since this sad event happened. The shores of the
peaceful lake still smile in beauty. The vines are full of luscious
grapes. Steamboats, with waving flags, pass swiftly by.
Pleasure-boats, with their swelling sails, skim lightly over the
watery mirror, like white butterflies. The railway is opened beyond
Chillon, and goes far into the deep valley of the Rhone. At every
station strangers alight with red-bound guide-books in their hands, in
which they read of every place worth seeing. They visit Chillon, and
observe on the lake the little island with the three acacias, and then
read in their guide-book the story of the bridal pair who, in the year
1856, rowed over to it. They read that the two were missing till the
next morning, when some people on the shore heard the despairing cries
of the bride, and went to her assistance, and by her were told of
the bridegroom's fate.

But the guide-book does not speak of Babette's quiet life
afterwards with her father, not at the mill--strangers dwell there
now--but in a pretty house in a row near the station. On many an
evening she sits at her window, and looks out over the chestnut-trees
to the snow-capped mountains on which Rudy once roamed. She looks at
the Alpine glow in the evening sky, which is caused by the children
of the sun retiring to rest on the mountain-tops; and again they
breathe their song of the traveller whom the whirlwind could deprive
of his cloak but not of his life. There is a rosy tint on the mountain
snow, and there are rosy gleams in each heart in which dwells the
thought, "God permits nothing to happen, which is not the best for
us. " But this is not often revealed to all, as it was revealed to
Babette in her wonderful dream.




THE JEWISH MAIDEN

In a charity school, among the children, sat a little Jewish girl.
She was a good, intelligent child, and very quick at her lessons;
but the Scripture-lesson class she was not allowed to join, for this
was a Christian school. During the hour of this lesson, the Jewish
girl was allowed to learn her geography, or to work her sum for the
next day; and when her geography lesson was perfect, the book remained
open before her, but she read not another word, for she sat silently
listening to the words of the Christian teacher. He soon became
aware that the little one was paying more attention to what he said
than most of the other children. "Read your book, Sarah," he said to
her gently.

But again and again he saw her dark, beaming eyes fixed upon
him; and once, when he asked her a question, she could answer him even
better than the other children. She had not only heard, but understood
his words, and pondered them in her heart. Her father, a poor but
honest man, had placed his daughter at the school on the conditions
that she should not be instructed in the Christian faith.
But it might
have caused confusion, or raised discontent in the minds of the
other children if she had been sent out of the room, so she
remained; and now it was evident this could not go on. The teacher
went to her father, and advised him to remove his daughter from the
school, or to allow her to become a Christian. "I cannot any longer be
an idle spectator of those beaming eyes, which express such a deep and
earnest longing for the words of the gospel," said he.

Then the father burst into tears. "I know very little of the law
of my fathers," said he; "but Sarah's mother was firm in her belief as
a daughter of Israel, and I vowed to her on her deathbed that our
child should never be baptized. I must keep my vow: it is to me even
as a covenant with God Himself. " And so the little Jewish girl left
the Christian school.

Years rolled by. In one of the smallest provincial towns, in a
humble household, lived a poor maiden of the Jewish faith, as a
servant. Her hair was black as ebony, her eye dark as night, yet
full of light and brilliancy so peculiar to the daughters of the east.
It was Sarah. The expression in the face of the grown-up maiden was
still the same as when, a child, she sat on the schoolroom form
listening with thoughtful eyes to the words of the Christian
teacher. Every Sunday there sounded forth from a church close by the
tones of an organ and the singing of the congregation. The Jewish girl
heard them in the house where, industrious and faithful in all things,
she performed her household duties. "Thou shalt keep the Sabbath
holy," said the voice of the law in her heart; but her Sabbath was a
working day among the Christians, which was a great trouble to her.
And then as the thought arose in her mind, "Does God reckon by days
and hours? " her conscience felt satisfied on this question, and she
found it a comfort to her, that on the Christian Sabbath she could
have an hour for her own prayers undisturbed. The music and singing of
the congregation sounded in her ears while at work in her kitchen,
till the place itself became sacred to her. Then she would read in the
Old Testament, that treasure and comfort to her people, and it was
indeed the only Scriptures she could read. Faithfully in her inmost
thoughts had she kept the words of her father to her teacher when
she left the school, and the vow he had made to her dying mother
that she should never receive Christian baptism. The New Testament
must remain to her a sealed book, and yet she knew a great deal of its
teaching, and the sound of the gospel truths still lingered among
the recollections of her childhood.

One evening she was sitting in a corner of the dining-room,
while her master read aloud. It was not the gospel he read, but an old
story-book; therefore she might stay and listen to him. The story
related that a Hungarian knight, who had been taken prisoner by a
Turkish pasha, was most cruelly treated by him. He caused him to be
yoked with his oxen to the plough, and driven with blows from the whip
till the blood flowed, and he almost sunk with exhaustion and pain.
The faithful wife of the knight at home gave up all her jewels,
mortgaged her castle and land, and his friends raised large sums to
make up the ransom demanded for his release, which was most enormously
high. It was collected at last, and the knight released from slavery
and misery. Sick and exhausted, he reached home.

Ere long came another summons to a struggle with the foes of
Christianity. The still living knight heard the sound; he could endure
no more, he had neither peace nor rest. He caused himself to be lifted
on his war-horse; the color came into his cheeks, and his strength
returned to him again as he went forth to battle and to victory. The
very same pasha who had yoked him to the plough, became his
prisoner, and was dragged to a dungeon in the castle. But an hour
had scarcely passed, when the knight stood before the captive pasha,
and inquired, "What do you suppose awaiteth thee? "

"I know," replied the pasha; "retribution. "

"Yes, the retribution of a Christian," replied the knight. "The
teaching of Christ, the Teacher, commands us to forgive our enemies,
to love our neighbors; for God is love. Depart in peace: return to thy
home. I give thee back to thy loved ones. But in future be mild and
humane to all who are in trouble. "

Then the prisoner burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Oh how could I
imagine such mercy and forgiveness! I expected pain and torment. It
seemed to me so sure that I took poison, which I secretly carried
about me; and in a few hours its effects will destroy me. I must
die! Nothing can save me! But before I die, explain to me the teaching
which is so full of love and mercy, so great and God-like. Oh, that
I may hear his teaching, and die a Christian! " And his prayer was
granted.

This was the legend which the master read out of the old
story-book. Every one in the house who was present listened, and
shared the pleasure; but Sarah, the Jewish girl, sitting so still in a
corner, felt her heart burn with excitement. Great tears came into her
shining dark eyes; and with the same gentle piety with which she had
once listened to the gospel while sitting on the form at school, she
felt its grandeur now, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then
the last words of her dying mother rose before her, "Let not my
child become a Christian;" and with them sounded in her heart the
words of the law, "Honor thy father and thy mother. "

"I am not admitted among the Christians," she said; "they mock
me as a Jewish girl; the neighbors' boys did so last Sunday when I
stood looking in through the open church door at the candles burning
on the altar, and listening to the singing. Ever since I sat on the
school-bench I have felt the power of Christianity; a power which,
like a sunbeam, streams into my heart, however closely I may close
my eyes against it. But I will not grieve thee, my mother, in thy
grave. I will not be unfaithful to my father's vow. I will not read
the Bible of the Christian. I have the God of my fathers, and in Him I
will trust. "

And again years passed by. Sarah's master died, and his widow
found herself in such reduced circumstances that she wished to dismiss
her servant maid; but Sarah refused to leave the house, and she became
a true support in time of trouble, and kept the household together
by working till late at night, with her busy hands, to earn their
daily bread. Not a relative came forward to assist them, and the widow
was confined to a sick bed for months and grew weaker from day to day.
Sarah worked hard, but contrived to spare time to amuse her and
watch by the sick bed. She was gentle and pious, an angel of
blessing in that house of poverty.

"My Bible lies on the table yonder," said the sick woman one day
to Sarah. "Read me something from it; the night appears so long, and
my spirit thirsts to hear the word of God. "

And Sarah bowed her head. She took the book, and folded her hand
over the Bible of the Christians, and at last opened it, and read to
the sick woman. Tears stood in her eyes as she read, and they shone
with brightness, for in her heart it was light.

"Mother," she murmured, "thy child may not receive Christian
baptism, nor be admitted into the congregation of Christian people.
Thou hast so willed it, and I will respect thy command. We are
therefore still united here on earth; but in the next world there will
be a higher union, even with God Himself, who leads and guides His
people till death. He came down from heaven to earth to suffer for us,
that we should bring forth the fruits of repentance. I understand it
now. I know not how I learnt this truth, unless it is through the name
of Christ. " Yet she trembled as she pronounced the holy name. She
struggled against these convictions of the truth of Christianity for
some days, till one evening while watching her mistress she was
suddenly taken very ill; her limbs tottered under her, and she sank
fainting by the bedside of the sick woman.

"Poor Sarah," said the neighbors; "she is overcome with hard
work and night watching. " And then they carried her to the hospital
for the sick poor. There she died; and they bore her to her
resting-place in the earth, but not to the churchyard of the
Christians. There was no place for the Jewish girl; but they dug a
grave for her outside the wall. And God's sun, which shines upon the
graves of the churchyard of the Christians, also throws its beams on
the grave of the Jewish maiden beyond the wall. And when the psalms of
the Christians sound across the churchyard, their echo reaches her
lonely resting-place; and she who sleeps there will be counted
worthy at the resurrection, through the name of Christ the Lord, who
said to His disciples, "John baptized you with water, but I will
baptize you with the Holy Ghost. "




THE JUMPER

The Flea, the Grasshopper, and the Skipjack once wanted to see
which of them could jump highest; and they invited the whole world,
and whoever else would come, to see the grand sight. And there the
three famous jumpers were met together in the room.

"Yes, I'll give my daughter to him who jumps highest," said the
King, "for it would be mean to let these people jump for nothing. "

The Flea stepped out first. He had very pretty manners, and
bowed in all directions, for he had young ladies' blood in his
veins, and was accustomed to consort only with human beings; and
that was of great consequence.

Then came the Grasshopper: he was certainly much heavier, but he
had a good figure, and wore the green uniform that was born with
him. This person, moreover, maintained that he belonged to a very
old family in the land of Egypt, and that he was highly esteemed
there. He had just come from the field, he said, and had been put into
a card house three stories high, and all made of picture cards with
the figures turned inwards. There were doors and windows in the house,
cut in the body of the Queen of Hearts.

"I sing so," he said, "that sixteen native crickets who have
chirped from their youth up, and have never yet had a card house of
their own, would become thinner than they are with envy if they were
to hear me. "

Both of them, the Flea and the Grasshopper, took care to
announce who they were, and that they considered themselves entitled
to marry a Princess.

The Skipjack said nothing, but it was said of him that he
thought all the more; and directly the Yard Dog had smelt at him he
was ready to assert that the Skipjack was of good family, and formed
from the breastbone of an undoubted goose. The old councillor, who had
received three medals for holding his tongue, declared that the
Skipjack possessed the gift of prophecy; one could tell by his bones
whether there would be a severe winter or a mild one; and that's
more than one can always tell from the breastbone of the man who
writes the almanac.

"I shall not say anything more," said the old King. "I only go
on quietly, and always think the best. "

Now they were to take their jump. The Flea sprang so high that
no one could see him; and then they asserted that he had not jumped at
all. That was very mean. The Grasshopper only sprang half as high, but
he sprang straight into the King's face, and the King declared that
was horribly rude. The Skipjack stood a long time considering; at last
people thought that he could not jump at all.

"I only hope he's not become unwell," said the Yard Dog, and
then he smelt at him again.

"Tap! " he sprang with a little crooked jump just into the lap of
the Princess, who sat on a low golden stool.

Then the King said, "The highest leap was taken by him who
jumped up to my daughter; for therein lies the point; but it
requires head to achieve that, and the Skipjack has shown that he
has a head. "

And so he had the Princess.

"I jumped highest, after all," said the Flea. "But it's all the
same. Let her have the goose-bone with its lump of wax and bit of
stick. I jumped to the highest; but in this world a body is required
if one wishes to be seen. "

And the Flea went into foreign military service, where it is
said he was killed.

The Grasshopper seated himself out in the ditch, and thought and
considered how things happened in the world. And he too said, "Body is
required! body is required! " And then he sang his own melancholy song,
and from that we have gathered this story, which they say is not true,
though it's in print.




THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK

In the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the
open seacoast, stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred
and sixty-five years old, but that long time was to the tree as the
same number of days might be to us; we wake by day and sleep by night,
and then we have our dreams. It is different with the tree; it is
obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year, and does
not get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest;
its night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many
a warm summer, the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day,
had fluttered about the old oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if,
for a moment, one of the tiny creatures rested on one of his large
fresh leaves, the tree would always say, "Poor little creature! your
whole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must be
quite melancholy. "

"Melancholy! what do you mean? " the little creature would always
reply. "Everything around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and
beautiful, that it makes me joyous. "

"But only for one day, and then it is all over. "

"Over! " repeated the fly; "what is the meaning of all over? Are
you all over too? "

"No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my
day is whole seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never
reckon it out. "

"No? then I don't understand you. You may have thousands of my
days, but I have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and
happy. Does all the beauty of the world cease when you die? "

"No," replied the tree; "it will certainly last much longer,--infinitely
longer than I can even think of. "

"Well, then," said the little fly, "we have the same time to live;
only we reckon differently. " And the little creature danced and floated
in the air, rejoicing in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet,
rejoicing in the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of
clover-fields and wild roses, elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the
garden hedges, wild thyme, primroses, and mint, and the scent of all
these was so strong that the perfume almost intoxicated the little fly.
The long and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet delights,
that when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and
enjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly
it glided down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded its little
head as well as it could nod, and slept peacefully and sweetly. The
fly was dead.

"Poor little Ephemera! " said the oak; "what a terribly short
life! " And so, on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same
questions asked, and the same answers given. The same thing was
continued through many generations of Ephemera; all of them felt
equally merry and equally happy.

The oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon
of summer, and the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night drew
nigh--winter was coming. Already the storms were singing, "Good-night,
good-night. " Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf. "We will rock you
and lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep. We will sing you to sleep, and
shake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs good; they will even
crackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it is your
three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth night. Correctly speaking, you are but a
youngster in the world. Sleep sweetly, the clouds will drop snow
upon you, which will be quite a cover-lid, warm and sheltering to your
feet. Sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams. " And there stood the
oak, stripped of all its leaves, left to rest during the whole of a
long winter, and to dream many dreams of events that had happened in
its life, as in the dreams of men. The great tree had once been small;
indeed, in its cradle it had been an acorn. According to human
computation, it was now in the fourth century of its existence. It was
the largest and best tree in the forest. Its summit towered above
all the other trees, and could be seen far out at sea, so that it
served as a landmark to the sailors. It had no idea how many eyes
looked eagerly for it. In its topmost branches the wood-pigeon built
her nest, and the cuckoo carried out his usual vocal performances, and
his well-known notes echoed amid the boughs; and in autumn, when the
leaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage would
come and rest upon the branches before taking their flight across
the sea. But now it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that every
one could see how crooked and bent were the branches that sprang forth
from the trunk. Crows and rooks came by turns and sat on them, and
talked of the hard times which were beginning, and how difficult it
was in winter to obtain food.

It was just about holy Christmas time that the tree dreamed a
dream. The tree had, doubtless, a kind of feeling that the festive
time had arrived, and in his dream fancied he heard the bells
ringing from all the churches round, and yet it seemed to him to be
a beautiful summer's day, mild and warm. His mighty summits was
crowned with spreading fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played
among the leaves and branches, and the air was full of fragrance
from herb and blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the
summer flies danced around him, as if the world had been created
merely for them to dance and be merry in. All that had happened to the
tree during every year of his life seemed to pass before him, as in
a festive procession. He saw the knights of olden times and noble
ladies ride by through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes
waving in their hats, and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn
sounded, and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors, in colored
dresses and glittering armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their
tents, and anon striking them. The watchfires again blazed, and men
sang and slept under the hospitable shelter of the tree. He saw lovers
meet in quiet happiness near him in the moonshine, and carve the
initials of their names in the grayish-green bark on his trunk.
Once, but long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian
harps had been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed
to hang there again, and he could hear their marvellous tones. The
wood-pigeons cooed as if to explain the feelings of the tree, and
the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to
live. Then it seemed as if new life was thrilling through every
fibre of root and stem and leaf, rising even to the highest
branches. The tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while
through the root beneath the earth ran the warm vigor of life. As he
grew higher and still higher, with increased strength, his topmost
boughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion to his growth,
so was his self-satisfaction increased, and with it arose a joyous
longing to grow higher and higher, to reach even to the warm, bright
sun itself. Already had his topmost branches pierced the clouds, which
floated beneath them like troops of birds of passage, or large white
swans; every leaf seemed gifted with sight, as if it possessed eyes to
see. The stars became visible in broad daylight, large and
sparkling, like clear and gentle eyes. They recalled to the memory the
well-known look in the eyes of a child, or in the eyes of lovers who
had once met beneath the branches of the old oak. These were wonderful
and happy moments for the old tree, full of peace and joy; and yet,
amidst all this happiness, the tree felt a yearning, longing desire
that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers beneath him,
might be able also to rise higher, as he had done, and to see all this
splendor, and experience the same happiness. The grand, majestic oak
could not be quite happy in the midst of his enjoyment, while all
the rest, both great and small, were not with him. And this feeling of
yearning trembled through every branch, through every leaf, as
warmly and fervently as if they had been the fibres of a human
heart. The summit of the tree waved to and fro, and bent downwards
as if in his silent longing he sought for something. Then there came
to him the fragrance of thyme, followed by the more powerful scent
of honeysuckle and violets; and he fancied he heard the note of the
cuckoo. At length his longing was satisfied. Up through the clouds
came the green summits of the forest trees, and beneath him, the oak
saw them rising, and growing higher and higher. Bush and herb shot
upward, and some even tore themselves up by the roots to rise more
quickly. The birch-tree was the quickest of all. Like a lightning
flash the slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag line, the branches
spreading around it like green gauze and banners. Every native of
the wood, even to the brown and feathery rushes, grew with the rest,
while the birds ascended with the melody of song. On a blade of grass,
that fluttered in the air like a long, green ribbon, sat a
grasshopper, cleaning his wings with his legs. May beetles hummed, the
bees murmured, the birds sang, each in his own way; the air was filled
with the sounds of song and gladness.

"But where is the little blue flower that grows by the water? "
asked the oak, "and the purple bell-flower, and the daisy? " You see
the oak wanted to have them all with him.

"Here we are, we are here," sounded in voice and song.

"But the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that? and the
lilies-of-the-valley, which last year covered the earth with their
bloom?