No More Learning

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? and the wild apple-tree with its lovely blossoms, and all the
glory of the wood, which has flourished year after year? even what may
have but now sprouted forth could be with us here. "

"We are here, we are here," sounded voices higher in the air, as
if they had flown there beforehand.

"Why this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed," said the
oak in a joyful tone. "I have them all here, both great and small; not
one has been forgotten. Can such happiness be imagined? " It seemed
almost impossible.

"In heaven with the Eternal God, it can be imagined, and it is
possible," sounded the reply through the air.

And the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt
that his roots were loosening themselves from the earth.

"It is right so, it is best," said the tree, "no fetters hold me
now. I can fly up to the very highest point in light and glory. And
all I love are with me, both small and great. All--all are here. "

Such was the dream of the old oak: and while he dreamed, a
mighty storm came rushing over land and sea, at the holy Christmas
time. The sea rolled in great billows towards the shore. There was a
cracking and crushing heard in the tree. The root was torn from the
ground just at the moment when in his dream he fancied it was being
loosened from the earth. He fell--his three hundred and sixty-five
years were passed as the single day of the Ephemera. On the morning of
Christmas-day, when the sun rose, the storm had ceased. From all the
churches sounded the festive bells, and from every hearth, even of the
smallest hut, rose the smoke into the blue sky, like the smoke from
the festive thank-offerings on the Druids' altars. The sea gradually
became calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood the
tempest during the night, all the flags were displayed, as a token
of joy and festivity. "The tree is down! The old oak,--our landmark on
the coast! " exclaimed the sailors. "It must have fallen in the storm
of last night. Who can replace it? Alas! no one. " This was a funeral
oration over the old tree; short, but well-meant. There it lay
stretched on the snow-covered shore, and over it sounded the notes
of a song from the ship--a song of Christmas joy, and of the
redemption of the soul of man, and of eternal life through Christ's
atoning blood.

"Sing aloud on the happy morn,
All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;
With songs of joy let us loudly sing,
'Hallelujahs to Christ our King. '"

Thus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the
ship felt his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer, even
as the old tree had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful dream on
that Christmas morn.




THE LAST PEARL

We are in a rich, happy house, where the master, the servants, the
friends of the family are full of joy and felicity. For on this day
a son and heir has been born, and mother and child are doing well. The
lamp in the bed-chamber had been partly shaded, and the windows were
covered with heavy curtains of some costly silken material. The carpet
was thick and soft, like a covering of moss. Everything invited to
slumber, everything had a charming look of repose; and so the nurse
had discovered, for she slept; and well she might sleep, while
everything around her told of happiness and blessing. The guardian
angel of the house leaned against the head of the bed; while over
the child was spread, as it were, a net of shining stars, and each
star was a pearl of happiness. All the good stars of life had
brought their gifts to the newly born; here sparkled health, wealth,
fortune, and love; in short, there seemed to be everything for which
man could wish on earth.

"Everything has been bestowed here," said the guardian angel.

"No, not everything," said a voice near him--the voice of the good
angel of the child; "one fairy has not yet brought her gift, but she
will, even if years should elapse, she will bring her gift; it is
the last pearl that is wanting. "

"Wanting! " cried the guardian angel; "nothing must be wanting
here; and if it is so, let us fetch it; let us seek the powerful
fairy; let us go to her. "

"She will come, she will come some day unsought! "

"Her pearl must not be missing; it must be there, that the
crown, when worn, may be complete. Where is she to be found? Where
does she dwell? " said the guardian angel. "Tell me, and I will procure
the pearl. "

"Will you do that? " replied the good angel of the child. "Then I
will lead you to her directly, wherever she may be. She has no abiding
place; she rules in the palace of the emperor, sometimes she enters
the peasant's humble cot; she passes no one without leaving a trace of
her presence. She brings her gift with her, whether it is a world or a
bauble. To this child she must come. You think that to wait for this
time would be long and useless. Well, then, let us go for this
pearl--the only one lacking amidst all this wealth. "

Then hand-in-hand they floated away to the spot where the fairy
was now lingering. It was in a large house with dark windows and empty
rooms, in which a peculiar stillness reigned. A whole row of windows
stood open, so that the rude wind could enter at its pleasure, and the
long white curtains waved to and fro in the current of air. In the
centre of one of the rooms stood an open coffin, in which lay the body
of a woman, still in the bloom of youth and very beautiful. Fresh
roses were scattered over her. The delicate folded hands and the noble
face glorified in death by the solemn, earnest look, which spoke of an
entrance into a better world, were alone visible. Around the coffin
stood the husband and children, a whole troop, the youngest in the
father's arms. They were come to take a last farewell look of their
mother. The husband kissed her hand, which now lay like a withered
leaf, but which a short time before had been diligently employed in
deeds of love for them all. Tears of sorrow rolled down their
cheeks, and fell in heavy drops on the floor, but not a word was
spoken. The silence which reigned here expressed a world of grief.
With silent steps, still sobbing, they left the room. A burning
light remained in the room, and a long, red wick rose far above the
flame, which fluttered in the draught of air. Strange men came in
and placed the lid of the coffin over the dead, and drove the nails
firmly in; while the blows of the hammer resounded through the
house, and echoed in the hearts that were bleeding.

"Whither art thou leading me? " asked the guardian angel. "Here
dwells no fairy whose pearl could be counted amongst the best gifts of
life. "

"Yes, she is here; here in this sacred hour," replied the angel,
pointing to a corner of the room; and there,--where in her
life-time, the mother had taken her seat amidst flowers and
pictures: in that spot, where she, like the blessed fairy of the
house, had welcomed husband, children, and friends, and, like a
sunbeam, had spread joy and cheerfulness around her, the centre and
heart of them all,--there, in that very spot, sat a strange woman,
clothed in long, flowing garments, and occupying the place of the dead
wife and mother. It was the fairy, and her name was "Sorrow. " A hot
tear rolled into her lap, and formed itself into a pearl, glowing with
all the colors of the rainbow. The angel seized it: the pearl
glittered like a star with seven-fold radiance. The pearl of Sorrow,
the last, which must not be wanting, increases the lustre, and
explains the meaning of all the other pearls.

"Do you see the shimmer of the rainbow, which unites earth to
heaven? " So has there been a bridge built between this world and the
next. Through the night of the grave we gaze upwards beyond the
stars to the end of all things. Then we glance at the pearl of Sorrow,
in which are concealed the wings which shall carry us away to
eternal happiness.




LITTLE CLAUS AND BIG CLAUS

In a village there once lived two men who had the same name.
They were both called Claus. One of them had four horses, but the
other had only one; so to distinguish them, people called the owner of
the four horses, "Great Claus," and he who had only one, "Little
Claus. " Now we shall hear what happened to them, for this is a true
story.

Through the whole week, Little Claus was obliged to plough for
Great Claus, and lend him his one horse; and once a week, on a Sunday,
Great Claus lent him all his four horses. Then how Little Claus
would smack his whip over all five horses, they were as good as his
own on that one day. The sun shone brightly, and the church bells were
ringing merrily as the people passed by, dressed in their best
clothes, with their prayer-books under their arms. They were going
to hear the clergyman preach. They looked at Little Claus ploughing
with his five horses, and he was so proud that he smacked his whip,
and said, "Gee-up, my five horses. "

"You must not say that," said Big Claus; "for only one of them
belongs to you. " But Little Claus soon forgot what he ought to say,
and when any one passed he would call out, "Gee-up, my five horses! "

"Now I must beg you not to say that again," said Big Claus; "for
if you do, I shall hit your horse on the head, so that he will drop
dead on the spot, and there will be an end of him. "

"I promise you I will not say it any more," said the other; but as
soon as people came by, nodding to him, and wishing him "Good day," he
became so pleased, and thought how grand it looked to have five horses
ploughing in his field, that he cried out again, "Gee-up, all my
horses! "

"I'll gee-up your horses for you," said Big Claus; and seizing a
hammer, he struck the one horse of Little Claus on the head, and he
fell dead instantly.

"Oh, now I have no horse at all," said Little Claus, weeping. But
after a while he took off the dead horse's skin, and hung the hide
to dry in the wind. Then he put the dry skin into a bag, and,
placing it over his shoulder, went out into the next town to sell
the horse's skin. He had a very long way to go, and had to pass
through a dark, gloomy forest. Presently a storm arose, and he lost
his way, and before he discovered the right path, evening came on, and
it was still a long way to the town, and too far to return home before
night. Near the road stood a large farmhouse. The shutters outside the
windows were closed, but lights shone through the crevices at the top.
"I might get permission to stay here for the night," thought Little
Claus; so he went up to the door and knocked. The farmer's wife opened
the door; but when she heard what he wanted, she told him to go
away, as her husband would not allow her to admit strangers. "Then I
shall be obliged to lie out here," said Little Claus to himself, as
the farmer's wife shut the door in his face. Near to the farmhouse
stood a large haystack, and between it and the house was a small shed,
with a thatched roof. "I can lie up there," said Little Claus, as he
saw the roof; "it will make a famous bed, but I hope the stork will
not fly down and bite my legs;" for on it stood a living stork,
whose nest was in the roof. So Little Claus climbed to the roof of the
shed, and while he turned himself to get comfortable, he discovered
that the wooden shutters, which were closed, did not reach to the tops
of the windows of the farmhouse, so that he could see into a room,
in which a large table was laid out with wine, roast meat, and a
splendid fish. The farmer's wife and the sexton were sitting at the
table together; and she filled his glass, and helped him plenteously
to fish, which appeared to be his favorite dish. "If I could only
get some, too," thought Little Claus; and then, as he stretched his
neck towards the window he spied a large, beautiful pie,--indeed
they had a glorious feast before them.

At this moment he heard some one riding down the road, towards the
farmhouse. It was the farmer returning home. He was a good man, but
still he had a very strange prejudice,--he could not bear the sight of
a sexton. If one appeared before him, he would put himself in a
terrible rage. In consequence of this dislike, the sexton had gone
to visit the farmer's wife during her husband's absence from home, and
the good woman had placed before him the best she had in the house
to eat. When she heard the farmer coming she was frightened, and
begged the sexton to hide himself in a large empty chest that stood in
the room. He did so, for he knew her husband could not endure the
sight of a sexton. The woman then quickly put away the wine, and hid
all the rest of the nice things in the oven; for if her husband had
seen them he would have asked what they were brought out for.

"Oh, dear," sighed Little Claus from the top of the shed, as he
saw all the good things disappear.

"Is any one up there? " asked the farmer, looking up and
discovering Little Claus. "Why are you lying up there? Come down,
and come into the house with me. " So Little Claus came down and told
the farmer how he had lost his way and begged for a night's lodging.

"All right," said the farmer; "but we must have something to eat
first. "

The woman received them both very kindly, laid the cloth on a
large table, and placed before them a dish of porridge. The farmer was
very hungry, and ate his porridge with a good appetite, but Little
Claus could not help thinking of the nice roast meat, fish and pies,
which he knew were in the oven. Under the table, at his feet, lay
the sack containing the horse's skin, which he intended to sell at the
next town. Now Little Claus did not relish the porridge at all, so
he trod with his foot on the sack under the table, and the dry skin
squeaked quite loud. "Hush! " said Little Claus to his sack, at the
same time treading upon it again, till it squeaked louder than before.

"Hallo! what have you got in your sack! " asked the farmer.

"Oh, it is a conjuror," said Little Claus; "and he says we need
not eat porridge, for he has conjured the oven full of roast meat,
fish, and pie. "

"Wonderful! " cried the farmer, starting up and opening the oven
door; and there lay all the nice things hidden by the farmer's wife,
but which he supposed had been conjured there by the wizard under
the table. The woman dared not say anything; so she placed the
things before them, and they both ate of the fish, the meat, and the
pastry.

Then Little Claus trod again upon his sack, and it squeaked as
before. "What does he say now? " asked the farmer.

"He says," replied Little Claus, "that there are three bottles
of wine for us, standing in the corner, by the oven. "

So the woman was obliged to bring out the wine also, which she had
hidden, and the farmer drank it till he became quite merry. He would
have liked such a conjuror as Little Claus carried in his sack. "Could
he conjure up the evil one? " asked the farmer. "I should like to see
him now, while I am so merry. "

"Oh, yes! " replied Little Claus, "my conjuror can do anything I
ask him,--can you not? " he asked, treading at the same time on the
sack till it squeaked. "Do you hear? he answers 'Yes,' but he fears
that we shall not like to look at him. "

"Oh, I am not afraid. What will he be like? "

"Well, he is very much like a sexton. "

"Ha! " said the farmer, "then he must be ugly. Do you know I cannot
endure the sight of a sexton. However, that doesn't matter, I shall
know who it is; so I shall not mind. Now then, I have got up my
courage, but don't let him come too near me. "

"Stop, I must ask the conjuror," said Little Claus; so he trod
on the bag, and stooped his ear down to listen.

"What does he say? "

"He says that you must go and open that large chest which stands
in the corner, and you will see the evil one crouching down inside;
but you must hold the lid firmly, that he may not slip out. "

"Will you come and help me hold it? " said the farmer, going
towards the chest in which his wife had hidden the sexton, who now lay
inside, very much frightened. The farmer opened the lid a very
little way, and peeped in.