The Ravens and the Angels Part 27

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"Love!" said the little Thrush, as he warbled to his mate on the spring morning; and the Mother, as she sang soft lullabies to her babe. And all the Creatures said--

"Amen! LOVE makes us musical. In Storms and Suns.h.i.+ne, Suffering and Joy, Action, Union, Life, LOVE is the music at the heart of all. LOVE makes us musical," said all the Creatures.

And from the mult.i.tude before the throne, who, through fires of Tribulation and Storms of conflict, had learned the new song, and from depths of Darkness and the silence of Isolation had been brought together in the Light of Life to sing it, floated down a soft "Amen, for G.o.d is LOVE."

_The Song without Words._

LEAVES FROM A VERY OLD BOOK.

_PART I.--THE SONG WITHOUT WORDS._

CHAPTER I.

The waves were plas.h.i.+ng against the foot of the rocks, but the cave in which the little Child lived was far above their reach; and he lay still on his little bed of dry leaves and moss, in his soft warm clothing, and kept his eyes closed. One little hand lay on his bosom, and the other was stretched out and folded close over a tiny sh.e.l.l; and he lay quietly, with the last soft kisses of Slumber still sealing his eyelids, and talked in his heart to the waves.

"You are awake," he murmured. "You are always awake: night and day you sing, and dance, and roll over one another in play. You do not know what it is to sleep and to dream, nor what the joy of waking is. You sing by my bed all night, and in the morning I go and thank you. But it is not you who call me to rise from my bed." And as he spoke, a sunbeam darted across the tops of the waves, and gently crept from ledge to ledge of the old gray rocks until it pressed through the leaves which drooped over the mouth of the cave, and touched the Child's eyelids. Then he sprang joyfully up, for he knew the sun was awake and was smiling on him, and had sent him this sweet morning kiss to call him.

Meantime, the little cave had burst into an illumination: long crystals like icicles glistened on the roof, and the fine sand on the floor sparkled with a thousand gems; and the Child's heart was glad, for he knew all this was to welcome him and the sun. It was all the rocks and stones could do, and the Child looked gratefully round on the clean bright sand and the rock spars.

But his eyes rested with a different feeling on the little delicate lichens which held up their tiny cups towards him in the shade, and the soft mosses which crept in as far as they could feel the suns.h.i.+ne, and the leaves of the trees which grew outside. For these had each a life of its own; and each tiny threadlet of moss, and each little gray lichen cup, and every one of the green leaves of the trees, trembled and fluttered with a separate joy as the sunbeams smiled on them, the dews kissed them, or the eyes of the Child rested on them.

So he left the cave, to take his morning meal on the mossy bank outside, among the trees and wild-flowers.

The cave was at an angle of the cliffs. On one side a little s.h.i.+ngly path sloped from it to the beach where the waves broke; whilst on the other, the path lay through shrubs and gra.s.sy slopes into a valley. The trees grew thicker and thicker as the path led farther up the valley; but the Child had never wandered far on that side: he loved the open beach and the sunny waves, and every day brought so many pleasures, that the sun was sinking on the other side of the sea before his day's work was done. Often on his little bed he planned a ramble up the valley, and in his dreams wandered along beneath the thick shade; but the morning always led his steps again to the sh.o.r.e.

On this morning he sat on his bank. The little stream which trickled by the cave, and then leaped over the edge of the cliff into the sea, filled the pure white c.o.c.kle sh.e.l.l, which was his breakfast cup; the nuts and fruits which made his little feast were spread on limpet and pearly mussel sh.e.l.ls; and as he sat and enjoyed his simple meal, his heart thanked the trees which fed him, and the joyous little stream which gave him drink, and the sea creatures whose empty dwellings made him such dainty plates and cups, and the sun which ripened and smiled on them all. The harebells trembled on their fragile stems around him, and the violets and many other sweet flowers peeped up at him from their soft nests of leaves; and he said to the flowers, "You and I are like each other; every one has some gift and joy for us, and we have nothing to give them back but our love and our smiles; yet they are content, for we all give each other all we can."

Then the harebells trembled faster than ever, for joy to hear the Child speak, and the violets gazed into his happy eyes. They could none of them speak,--that the Child knew; but they were still, and listened, and he could interpret their looks: so they understood each other, and were all the best friends.

CHAPTER II.

But the Child was eager to reach his friends and playfellows on the sea-sh.o.r.e. Much as he loved the trees, and flowers, and delicate mosses, and well as he understood their meek, kind, listening looks, he would soon have grown weary of their mute, quiet ways: he longed for other voices besides his own, and the rich varieties of higher life.

"Do you never wish to wander, and never long for change?" he said to them one day. "I wish I could take you with me to see some of the wonderful things there are in the world. It must be monotonous always to look on the same patch of sky and the same stems and leaves! You must not be grieved if I go."

But as he spoke a breeze shook the branches of the tree above him, and gently parting them, let in a whole train of sunbeams on the mossy bank.

And the young fern leaves, and the tender green mosses, and the violets, and all the flowers with the dew-drops on them, sparkled in the suns.h.i.+ne, and waved to and fro in the breeze, and seemed to grow even as he looked at them. Then the Child comprehended that every creature had its own measure of gladness full, and tripped joyfully away. His little white feet made music on the s.h.i.+ngly path as he danced down the hill.

But when he reached the gleaming strip of sunny sand at the foot of the rocks, he stepped more slowly and carefully, for all around him were his playfellows, and he often found some of them in want of his help.

This morning the sh.o.r.e was strewn with many well known to him, and some strange to him; for in the night the winds and waves had played rough gambols together, and had greatly disturbed many of the peaceable little dwellers in the deep.

The first thing he met was a Sea-anemone, stranded high on the beach, folding all its pretty flower-leaves into itself, and making itself look as ugly as it could. But the Child knew it well; and he gently laid his hand on it to carry it into a safer place. The little red and green and orange ball resented his interference, rolled itself a little on one side, and tried to bury itself in the sand. The Child spoke to it in its own language, and asked how it came there. The anemone replied by a little grunt. The family were not remarkable for clear articulation, and the Child could never get much out of them; but he met with no further resistance as he placed his hand beneath it and gently carried it to a favourite pool of his among the rocks. There he laid it down near the edge, where the water was shallow, and in a few minutes it shot out all its pretty feelers and rooted itself on the rock and expanded into a floral crown--very petal striped with rose and fawn, every petal like a little busy finger, tossing to and fro in search of food and in the enjoyment of life. Thus the anemone thanked the Child, and from all its sensitive points and its rayed lips came to him a soft chorus of sweet vibrations of pleasure.

He could not listen long, but tripped back over the rocks to the beach, treading softly over the leaves of the large brown sea-weeds, whilst their air-bladders crackled cheerily under his feet; and on his way in crossing a channel of sand, drifted up among the low rocks, he came across a little crab, whose shy spasmodic movements so amused him that he sat down on a large stone and laughed till the rocks rang again.

All the creatures always looked very grave and puzzled when the Child laughed, and the small crab did not seem at all to like it, keeping his large projecting eyes fixed on him, and trying to hide himself, as he went, under the brown leaves, but still glaring from his retreat with an expression of wounded dignity.

At length the Child recovered his speech and said, "Are you in difficulties? Can I help you?"

The crab crept out of his hiding-place on being thus courteously addressed, and planting his two fore legs round a pebble, looked up at the Child, and opened his lips so wide that all his body seemed a mouth.

Then clearing his voice gravely, he said, "There is no living in the sea in these times: the winds and waves are so inconsiderate and violent, I don't know what will be the end of it. Yesterday morning I had found a most convenient apartment, well plastered and furnished, so as to suit me to perfection. I had spent hours in hunting for such an eligible lodging, and congratulated myself on being at length settled for life: when in an instant a large wave broke over me and dashed my house to pieces on the sh.o.r.e. I hardly escaped with my life, and my nerves are so shaken that I can scarcely think calmly--a most hara.s.sing position for a crab of my standing."

"But," said the Child, "what do you mean by _finding_ your house?--most of my friends here build their own."

"That is not my profession," said the crab rather conceitedly; "none of our family were brought up to anything of the kind. Of course it is necessary that some people should be masons and carpenters, but we have all our work done for us."

"What do you do then?" asked the Child.

The crab looked a little embarra.s.sed, but he was too well bred for this to last, so he replied rather evasively, "We eat, and drink, and observe the world; we travel, and occasionally fight, and criticise what other people do. I a.s.sure you it is no idle life: so few people understand their own business."

The Child did not altogether like the tone of the crab's conversation, and he replied rather warmly,--

"I don't know what you mean. All my friends, the c.o.c.kles, the whelks, and the limpets, do their work a great deal better than I could; and I love to watch them."

"Very likely," said the crab, in a cool tone, for he was accustomed to good society; "the whelk family do indeed put their work out of hand in a masterly way; in fact we generally employ them."

"What do they do for you?" asked the Child.

"They build very commodious little residences, quite suitable for people who travel as much as we do, and then leave them to us."

"You live in empty whelk sh.e.l.ls, then!" said the Child.

"We migrate from one such residence to another," replied the crab. "When we outgrow one, we abandon it and hunt for another; and occasionally, when we find a convenient one still tenanted, and cannot make the creature within understand our wants, especially if he begins to talk any nonsense about the rights of property and the claims of labour, we turn him out."

"That is stealing," said the Child indignantly.

"Excuse me," said the crab, "we call it conquest. We are soldiers on our own account--free companions. But I must be on my travels again.

To-morrow, if you will call, we shall no doubt be able to renew our acquaintance under more agreeable circ.u.mstances."

And the Soldier-crab withdrew his long legs from the pebble, and marched away with a braggadocio air among the sea-weeds.

"I do not call you a soldier," said the Child; "you fight for no one but yourself. I call you a housebreaker and a thief;" and he rose with a flushed face slowly, and went on his way, lost in thought until he reached the little beach at the foot of the rocks. The sea had retreated whilst he had been away, and the Child soon forgot his conversation with the crab in watching the waves, dipping his feet in one, and then running away from the next.

So he played until he was tired, and then looking round he saw a lump of jelly stranded just beyond the reach of the tide.

It was clear as crystal, except a little purple colouring in rings at the edge. When the Child touched it with his foot it made a slight plaintive moan, and murmured, "I am alive; be gentle to me."

"How could I know that?" said the Child; "I would not hurt you for the world; I thought you were only a bit of something."

"If you had only seen me last evening," sighed the Medusa. "We were sailing, a fleet of us, far out in the deep sea; we thought it was to be calm, and we came up from the dark depths, to bask in the suns.h.i.+ne. And now I am separated from all my companions, and left to die here."