The Angel Children Part 5

In Maggie's mind, the chimney and open doorway belonged especially to the winds. She always thought of them in connection, and, when they began their frolicking, she would seat herself in one corner, and listen. Sometimes it seemed as though the winds rushed at one another,--one coming down the chimney, and the other in at the door; then, when they met, there was a kind of explosion, a thick, quick quarrel, and then they would draw off in merry laughter; then would Maggie clap her hands with glee, thinking it fine sport; but when a whole blast burst at once upon the house, and seemed desperately to struggle through every crevice, she would crouch with fear, and upbraid the winds with their sudden freaks.

There was one mystery which Maggie found herself unable to unravel; it was this: She felt perfectly certain the chimney was made for the winds to come down through, and still she knew it was intended for her to make a smoky kind of fire once in a while on its hearth, with which the winds quarrelled, and destroyed it. Here were two things irreconcilable. Often would she stand on the hearth, and look up the black throat of the chimney, wondering how this inconsistency happened, wis.h.i.+ng again and again that the winds would like the fire, and let it burn well; but she never thought of asking them to desist. She looked upon their freaks as privileged.

To the dear Dove did Maggie always turn for comfort and relief. Its love was a guarantee of her mother's, and, as often as she looked upon and held it to her heart, so often did she feel sure that one day she would feel the pressure of her mother's hand upon her head.

Once, when Maggie was talking to the Dove, and thinking of her mother, it came into her head to begin that journey to the Great King's palace.

"Why not?" said she; "why do I live here? The cold winter is coming, and my door is gone, and the sun already gives me warning that he shall not look in at the door as usual; the neighbors will be colder than ever, and some of them will quite freeze. I've a mind to go away. What do you think, Dovey?"

The Dove nestled close to her heart, and cooed joyfully.

"Would you like it? Well, I don't know but I had better start. But I should have to leave the house,--and that would be rather bad,--and the chimney where the winds play. I think it would seem lonesome for them, and I don't know as they would like it, for there would be no one to listen to them; still I do want to go, and I think I'd better."

"I'm sure," said Maggie, after some pause, during which she lovingly caressed the Dove's head, "I'm sure I don't see why I didn't go before.

I don't know why I should have lived here so long alone. I can take some of the best china, and leave all the rest. Perhaps some little child may like to live here after I am gone, and watch the winds as I have done; but I do hope they won't frighten her at first, or she will want to go away."

Maggie was an expeditious child, and when she had decided to do something, she went at once about accomplis.h.i.+ng it. So she left the door-step on which she had been sitting, and went in the house, to see what she wanted to take; and, as she had so few things, the preparations were not long, but she soon found herself with her blanket pinned over her head, ready to start.

'Tis true a few tears came into her eyes as she bid farewell to the bed which had been her shelter against every unpleasant sight and sound; but when she turned to the chimney, and some perplexing thought of the quarrels of the wind and the fire came over her, she rather rejoiced she would soon be away from it, where this one mystery of their disagreement should never again trouble her.

Laying the white Dove in her bosom, she turned from the house, and so beheld herself fairly launched on her journey.

A little while she found it pleasant; the road was straight, and lined with flowers; the Dove raised his head, and looked in Maggie's eyes with delight.

But soon she came to a place where two roads met, forming the one she had been travelling. Here was a perplexity: which should she take--which would lead her where she wanted to go?

There was a house close by; so she stepped up to the door of it, and knocked. A lady, who was very pretty to look at, and who wore a very rich dress, opened the door; but just at the moment when Maggie asked, "Will you tell me which road leads to the palace of the Great King?"

that same terrible cold wind came round and blew directly into the lady's mouth, so that she replied, "I know nothing about it, and very much doubt if there be any Great King at all;" and then she shut the door in great haste, leaving poor Maggie in much distress and doubt.

She was astonished at the woman's words, and wondered why she shut the door so soon; for, if she had not, she would have told her about the King; how she was sure he was alive, and had a great palace. And, too, she could have told her, his servant had come once and taken her mother with him, and she could never forget him; he had been dressed in black, but on his head he wore a crown of the most glorious stars, and their brightness had filled the little house with holy light, so that, even after he had departed, it still lingered around.

She thought some of knocking again and telling the poor lady, for she thought it was sad enough not to know about the Great King; but, though she knocked a long time, no one came to the door, and, finally, she was obliged to leave the steps of the house and gather some directions else-where.

One of the roads seemed cold, and looked narrow, and Maggie, who had suffered so much from the cold, turned from it with a shudder towards the other, which looked much gayer, and many more people walked in it; but the Dove looked anxiously towards the narrow one, which grieved Maggie, and made her cry out, "O, Dovey, Dovey! how can you love the cold so well, or ask me to go where it is? Let us rather walk this way a little, and do you not see there are plenty of cross-roads?--so, if we wish, we can go on to that narrow road at any time."

So, notwithstanding the Dove's remonstrances, Maggie entered this road, and found the air so pleasant and warm, that she liked nothing better than to walk in it.

She saw a great many people here; but they took no notice of the little girl, who walked along so quietly, with her Dove in her bosom, and the bits of china in her pocket. But, if they did not notice her, she noticed them well, and thought them strange enough.

To her surprise she found the air, which had at first seemed so warm, began to grow cold, and more like the air about the old house; and, s.h.i.+vering with cold, and seeing the people about her wearing large cloaks, it was quite natural she should ask them to let her in beneath the warm folds of them. To her civil request some of them paid no attention; others looked at her in wonder, and some were so rude as to speak cruel words to her, and bid her not dare speak to them again.

So Maggie saw them walk on, wrapped in their warm cloaks, and complained not. Indeed, she had lived too long in the little house without a door, not to be able to bear the cold bravely--only she could not help wis.h.i.+ng sometimes that she had the bed with her, that she might jump in between its clothes and warm herself a while; but she was patient, remembering that she was journeying towards the Great King's palace, where her mother lived. Suddenly it occurred to her that the road to the Great King's palace lay through a remarkably cold country, and that the people who were travelling thither seemed in no haste, for they often sat down by the road-side and played; and some even went back, instead of forward, while all those little side-roads, which she thought she had seen before, had vanished. So, one day, she said to one of the people who sat down:

"Why do you not hasten that you may see the Great King?"

"The Great King, indeed!" he said whom she had addressed. "I am in no hurry to see him."

And others intimated as much as the lady long ago had said, that they themselves doubted very much if there were any Great King at all.

"What shall I do?" cried Maggie. "I cannot be in the right way. O, how shall I get to the Great King's palace!" And, upon this, the Dove rose up from Maggie's bosom, and turned backwards whither they had come.

Though long and dreary seemed the cold road she must retrace, yet, such was her confidence in the Dove, she turned very gladly; and though not one of those people had cared for Maggie before, now they cl.u.s.tered around her, begging her not to leave them, and seeking to draw her away from her purpose. And when she saw how they seemed to love her, and feel sorrow at her going, she said to them:

"I am grieved to leave you, since you have just begun to love me; but I promised my mother I would go to the Great King's palace, and I must go where Dovey leads me."

"How silly to mind a bird!" cried one; and, picking up a stone, he hurled it at the Dove, who was hovering in the air, and broke its wing, so it could not fly.

Then, indeed, it seemed as though her grief was very great, and she could not help wis.h.i.+ng she were already in the Great King's palace, or that he would send his servant for her, who was dressed in the black robe, and wore the crown of stars. She often saw this servant now; he came to bear many away; but the crown of stars was not on his brow, and his face shed no light around, only gloom.

Well, Maggie was obliged to stop and bind up the Dove's wing, and tend it a little before she could proceed on her journey. All delay was unwelcome to her; for, as the journeying thus far had been in pain, the true journey was still to begin. She was so hungry and thirsty, too! So it seemed impossible she could proceed when once she had started forward. There was no one to give her a crust of bread, or offer her a cup of cold water; nevertheless, she wouldn't tell the poor Dove, who was moaning with pain, for she thought, and well enough, that he had as much of his own trouble as he could well endure.

She had another trouble, too; there were some people whom she could not think desired to go away from the King's palace, and so she would tell them how they were going altogether in the wrong path; but they would either laugh or stare at her in wonder. Then she would almost have stood weeping in the road at their strange conduct, but the Dove would incessantly warn her to go on. At last, between grief and hunger, she fell sick, and thought she should die there, without ever seeing her mother or the Great King. But, lo! a gentle being, clothed in a white, spotless garment, came and put to her lips a cup of medicine, which she told Maggie, if she would but drink, would make her quite well again, and protect her against hunger and thirst for the rest of the journey.

Upon this, Maggie drank it all but the dregs, and she found it so bitter that she thought it far worse than any cold she had ever endured. But, when the bright being saw she left the dregs in her cup, she was not satisfied, and bade her drink those, even with tears in her eyes. Maggie drank them as she bade her, and then the bright one vanished, leaving the child quite well and vigorous. The weariness vanished from her frame, the parching thirst from her mouth, and, what was yet more amazing, she found the little Dove quite well, and she stood with it in her arms before the two roads again.

So she commenced her journey upon the road she had so long ago rejected, and soon found that the snow vanished from the ground and shook itself from the tree-tops; the gra.s.s sprang up, the flowers played beneath her footsteps, and gay birds hopped among the boughs of the trees, making the air melodious with their songs; the brooklets ran murmuring by the road-side, and Maggie's Dove cooed with joy.

O, Maggie knew this was the road leading to the palace of the Great King--the very one her mother had travelled--the road, too, which she had been told did not exist! She met many children here, who sought the same she did; and they talked with Maggie, and she loved them, and with them thanked the King who had made for them such a lovely road to his palace.

At last, one day, there came the same servant who had carried away her brother, and gently, softly, took her in his arms. So often had she thought of his coming that she felt no kind of fear. He told her that the Great King wanted her, and that her mother was all ready to receive her. O, how her heart leaped at this, to hear a real word from her mother, and to think the Great King wanted her! As she lay in his arms, the servant, who wore on his head his bright stars, kissed her eyes and her brow. He carried her a long distance, sped through many a long, dark valley, and then they came out upon a bright sh.o.r.e, where were many people dressed in s.h.i.+ning clothes.

Maggie looked at herself, and saw, with amazement, that she too was dressed likewise, and that the servant who had brought her hither had no longer a black robe, but a silver one, which sparkled so, Maggie was scarce able to look upon it. She had soon crossed the sea, and then her mother caught her in her arms, and wept for joy.

"O, Maggie, Maggie!" she said; "I have watched your journey all along, and my sorrow was so deep when I saw you mistake the roads. It was I whom the Great King sent when you was sick, that I might bear his love to you, and make you well. Come, now, and go with me before his throne."

Upon this they joined the crowd who were entering the palace;--but we cannot enter it,--we must first finish our journey.

THE OLD WOMAN AND THE ENCHANTED SONG.

Ruth had two sisters,--Grace and Jessie. Now Grace and Jessie were twins, and everybody praised their blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and when they laughed, people said, "How sweetly they smile!"--and when they wept, people said, "Poor little ones!" and immediately took them in their arms, and strove to bring back the dimpling smile to their faces.

Grace and Jessie played together always, and little Ruth, who was younger than either of them, was left often alone. No one ever called her beautiful, nor stroked her hair, nor kissed her brow; and when she stood by the side of the twin sisters at the gate, and the people, in pa.s.sing, praised the flaxen curls of Grace and Jessie, then they would turn towards her, and, their smiles vanis.h.i.+ng, they would regard her with a pitiful air, turning silently away. Then she would creep off by herself into some favorite nook of the garden, thoroughly ashamed that she should so far have forgotten herself as to stand by the side of her beautiful sisters.

Her mother, too, often took her in her lap, and, kissing her brow sorrowfully, would exclaim, in sad tones:

"My poor, plain child,--my dear homely Ruth!"

Her father never caressed her. His love seemed to be kept for the twins, whose two bright faces peered over his chair, and whose glad voices were always ready to greet him on his return home.

And still Ruth loved her father so much, and, nestling close in the corner of the garden away off by herself, mourned that he never kissed her, nor called her his dear, pretty Ruth.

"O," thought the child, "how I do wish I could do something for my father, which might please him, so that only once he might call me his dear child! O, why was not I made a twin?" Thus the poor child mourned to herself.

She had a doll, which she made her constant companion, and she played it was very lovely like Grace and Jessie; she told it all her griefs, and really came to feel that the doll understood all she said to it.

She had also another pleasure; it was that of reading. Her mother had given her many books, and she loved to sit among the rose-bushes, and read their beautiful stories. She liked to read about a man who lived off alone upon an island, and had only some cats and monkeys for his companions; how the cave was his house, and the skins of beasts were his garments; how he looked off upon the ocean, and saw not one sail, and wandered about upon his island, without hearing one human sound.