Chapter VII: Introduction (7)

“Be careful!” he cried to the little defenceless young ones. “Creep together and remain quiet. Here comes a horse that will ride right over us! Here comes a warrior with iron-shod sandals! Here comes the whole wild, storming mob!” Immediately the bird ceased his cry of warning and grew calm and quiet. He almost forgot the danger hovering over him. Finally he hopped down into the nest and spread his wings over the young ones.

“Oh! this is too terrible,” said he. “I don’t wish you to witness this awful sight! There are three miscreants who are going to be crucified!” And he spread his wings so that the little ones could see nothing.

Robin Redbreast followed the whole spectacle with his eyes, which grew big with terror. He could not take his glance from the three unfortunates.

“How terrible!” said the bird after a little while. “They have placed a crown of piercing thorns upon the head of one of them. I see that the thorns have wounded his brow so that the blood flows,” he continued. “And this man is so beautiful, and looks about him with such mild glances that every one ought to love him. I feel as if an arrow were shooting through my heart, when I see him suffer!”

The little bird began to feel a stronger and stronger pity for the thorn-crowned sufferer. “Oh! if I were only my brother the eagle,” thought he, “I would draw the nails from his hands, and with my strong claws I would drive away all those who harm him!” He saw how the blood trickled down from the brow of the Crucified One, and he could no longer remain quiet in his nest. “Even if I am little and weak, I can still do something for this poor suffering one,” thought the bird. Then he left his nest and flew out into the air, striking wide circles around the Crucified One. He flew around him several times without daring to approach, for he was a shy little bird, who had never dared to go near a human being. But little by little he gained courage, flew close to him, and drew with his little bill a thorn that had become imbedded in the brow of the Crucified One. And as he did this there fell on his breast a drop of blood from the face of the Crucified One;—it spread quickly and floated out and coloured all the little fine breast feathers.

Then the Crucified One opened his lips and whispered to the bird: “Because of thy compassion, thou hast won all that thy kind have been striving after, ever since the world was created.”

As soon as the bird had returned to his nest his young ones cried to him: “Thy breast is red! Thy breast feathers are redder than the roses!”

And even unto this day the blood-red colour shines on every Robin Redbreast’s throat and breast.

THE MAPLE SEED

On the topmost twig of a maple tree there grew a seed. In the springtime the gentle movement of the sap and the soft rustle of the leaves whispering among themselves had awakened him; then, day by day, half sleeping and half conscious, he had fed upon what the roots provided, stretching himself lazily in the sunshine. Presently his wing began to unfold.

“That is very curious,” said he, stirring a little. “It must be a mistake. I don’t flutter about like the bees.” That bit of wing, which seemed his and not his, puzzled him. “It must belong to something else,” he thought. And afterward he was always on the lookout for a bee or a dragon fly with only one wing. But none came.

The hot summer noons and the long moonlit nights became sultrier and the leaves dropped. “How withered I am!” said the seed to his most intimate friend, a leaf that hung from a near bough. “It makes me feel quite brittle.” But the leaf did not answer, for just then it fell from the twig with a queer, reluctant shiver to the ground.

“Ah!” murmured the maple seed, “I understand.” So he was not surprised when a rude breeze twisted him off one day, and sent him spinning into space.

“Here I go,” thought he, “and this is the end of it.”

“Puff!” said the breeze, who had seen much of the world, and looked with contempt upon the untravelled. “Puff! how ignorant!” and he blew the seed right into a crack in the earth.

“It must be the end, for all that,” insisted the seed. No wonder he thought so, for it was cold and dark where he lay. A troubled cloud leaned down and wept over him. Then he began to grow amazingly in the warmth and moisture.

“If this goes on,” he thought, “I shall certainly burst, and then I must die. How is one to live, with a crack in his sides?”

But the maple seed was wrong. He did not die. An unsuspected, mysterious strength sustained him. His roots found food in the brown earth, and he lifted up a slender stem into the pure sunlight and warm air. Through spring, summer, autumn and winter, year after year, this lived and grew, until the tiny sapling had become a beautiful tree, with spreading branches.

“Ah!” said the tree, “how stupid I was.”

It was very pleasant on the lawn. An old couple from the house near by came out in good weather to sit under the tree. They reminded him of some fragile leaves he had seen fluttering somewhere in the past. He was glad to have them come, and he kept his coolest shade for them. Partly for their sakes, he liked to have the robins sing in his branches.

The years went by. The old man tottered out alone to sit in the cool shadow. He was bent and sorrowful.

“Ah!” sighed the tree, “I know! I know! He has lost his leaf, and feels brittle. If I could only tell him this is not the end!”

After this, many sunny days came, but not the old man, and the tree concluded that he had been blown away. “If he only knew that he would grow again!” he said to himself. “Unless one knows that, it is so uncomfortable to lie in the dark.”

A great storm came. The sky blackened, the winds blew with might, and the heavy rain fell. The maple was uprooted and broken. The next day there came men with axes who cut the tree in pieces, and drew it to the house.

“Is this the end?” he questioned. But no,—the logs were piled one day in the fireplace in a large, sunny room. The old man leaned from his chair to warm his hands by the cheerful heat the crimson flame gave out. “Is it the maple?” he said. “Ah! this goes with the rest.”

The fire grew brighter, burned duller, turned to embers, smouldered to ashes. The hearth was cold. The figure was sitting still in the armchair, but the old man himself had gone away.

The spirit of the maple whispered, “Does he know? There is _no_ end.”

WHY THE IVY IS ALWAYS GREEN[17]

MADGE BINGHAM

There were once two small plants that grew on the edge of a rough, red ditch. One of them was an ivy plant and the other a tiny fig tree.

It was early in the morning when they first awoke and looked around to see how they liked the world.

“I think it is an ugly old world,” said the young fig tree. “I see only a rough, red ditch with dirty water flowing below.”

“Oh, it is a beautiful world,” replied the ivy vine. “I see clouds floating on high, and sunshine, and such lovely trees and flowers growing over on the other side of the ditch! Let us try to make this side beautiful, too.

“I will cover the rough, red places with pretty, green leaves, and you can decorate with your wonderful pink blossoms. Come, let us try.”

“No,” said the small fig tree, “I would not waste my time trying to make this ugly old place beautiful.

“Now if, like my mother, I could have grown in the soft, rich earth of the garden, I would have tried to do something, but here there is no use.”

So, from day to day, the little fig tree grumbled. Nothing pleased her. If the sun shone she said it was too hot; if the rain fell she said it was too wet; and if the wind blew she said it was too cold.

But with the little ivy vine it was very different, and she was as happy as a lark from early morning until night.

“Whether the sun shines or whether the rains fall, it is God’s will,” said the little vine, “and I am well pleased. I shall do all I can to make my side of this ditch beautiful, and I shall begin to-day.”

And so she did. Though she lived only on the edge of the red ditch, she spread out her leaves day by day, running here and there and yonder, hiding this red spot and that red spot, until by and by nothing could be seen but the beautiful green leaves of the ivy, and she did not stop until every ugly spot was hidden by her graceful garlands.

“Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful, now,” cried the ivy; “only look!”

“Yes,” said the fig tree, crossly, “but no one sees it. What are you going to do now? Dry up, I suppose, since you can never cross the ditch.”

“Oh, but I shall cross the ditch,” said the ivy vine. “I shall keep on trying until I do. There is so much on the other side I can do to help make the earth-world beautiful. Surely there is a way to cross.”

So she ran out little tendrils, reaching here and there, searching everywhere for a way to cross the ditch. And at last, by climbing down to the edge of the muddy water, she reached a rock half way across, where she stopped for a moment to rest and wonder what next to do.

“You’ll never get across,” laughed the fig tree. “I told you so! You might as well make up your mind to dry up and stop trying.”

“I shall never stop trying,” called back the ivy vine. “There is a way to cross all ditches, and I shall cross this one. Wait and see.”

“Bravo, my pretty one!” said the voice of the old oak tree close by. “Cling to my roots there. I am old and worn, but it is a joy to help one like you; reach out and I will pull you up.”

So with one huge stretch the ivy vine clung tightly to the twisted roots of the old oak, and was soon laughing merrily on the other side.

“Dear me, but you are a brave little vine,” said the old oak. “I have been watching you across the ditch all these months, and you have changed its ugly, red banks into a real thing of beauty.

“Now there was a time, once, when flowers and grasses grew there, and ferns fringed the edge of the brook, and it was beautiful, indeed. Every fall I shook armfuls of crimson and yellow leaves upon the bank, but that was long ago, before the great forest fire which robbed me of my limbs and leaves and left me old and worn.

“What a joy it would be to me if only I might have my branches decked in leaves one more time,—especially do I long for this in the glad springtime, when trees and flowers are robing themselves for the joyous Easter Day.

“Sad, indeed, it is to me, to know that I shall be clothed no more in a fresh dress of delicate green, like your own pretty leaves, dear Ivy.”

“But you shall,” said the ivy vine, clapping her hands; “you have helped me cross the ditch to-day, and I mean to give you an Easter dress. Watch me.”

Now vines had never climbed high before this. They had only run along the ground and down the hill, and over walls, but this little ivy vine wrapped her delicate arms around the rough bark of the old oak, and began to climb her first tree.

She pulled and stretched, and stretched and pulled, until little by little, up, up, higher and higher she went, leaving a trail of rich, green leaves behind her. It was a lovely sight.

“See!” she called to the old oak; “I am bringing you a most beautiful Easter dress,—how do you like it?”

“Beautiful, beautiful!” laughed the old oak. “You make me feel young again. But what will you do when you reach my branches?”

“Why, I shall keep on climbing,” replied the ivy vine. “When I give a dress at all, it must be a whole dress, don’t you know? I shall not stop until I have covered every branch, as I did the bare spots on the ditch.”

And so she did. Every day she climbed a little higher, until by and by every limb on the great, old oak was completely hidden by the beautiful leaves of the ivy. The old oak laughed in delight, as she looked on her beautiful Easter dress of fresh, rich green.

Now the queen of the fairies who, I told you, was always on the watch for beautiful deeds, stood under the old oak on Easter Day and wondered at the beautiful sight. It made her glad to see the joy of the old oak in her new dress, and of course she knew who had given it.

So, turning with a smile to the ivy vine, she said, “Because you have tried to make others happy and to make the earth beautiful your leaves shall never fade. Forever and forever they shall stay beautiful and green. Cold shall not hurt them nor summer’s heat destroy them, and wherever you go you shall gladden the hearts of men with your freshness and beauty.”

Very happy, indeed, did these words make the pretty ivy vine, and ever since she has been climbing over the earth-world, hunting bare places to make more beautiful.

Stone walls and churches and houses,—no place seems too high for her to climb, and never does she weary in making fresh Easter dresses for the trees that are old and worn and cannot make them for themselves.

JONQUILS

MARGARET DELAND

Blow golden trumpets, sweet and clear,
Blow soft upon the perfumed air:
Bid the sad earth to join your song,
“To Christ does victory belong!”

Oh, let the winds your message bear
To every heart of grief and care:
Sound through the world the joyful lay,
“Our Christ has conquered Death to-day.”

On cloudy wings let glad words fly
Through the soft blue of echoing sky:
Ring out,—O trumpets, sweet and clear,
“Through Death, immortal Life is here!”

WHEN THOU COMEST INTO THY KINGDOM

MARY STEWART

Many years ago, in a rocky cave half way up a steep mountain, there lived a band of robbers. From the mouth of their cave they could look far out over the villages of white houses which dotted the green valley below to the blue waters of the sea beyond, and between the villages and the sea there ran a straight white road. It was there that the robbers waylaid travellers, robbing them of money, bales of rich stuff or jewels, until the band became a terror to the neighbourhood and the very name of Tibeous, their leader, was whispered fearfully among travellers.

One clear bright morning Tibeous climbed down the mountain path alone and mingled, unrecognised, among the villagers. He was young and strong and did not look very differently from the fishermen who, returning from a night’s work, were carrying their nets of shining fish across the beach and through the narrow streets. Only the eyes of Tibeous were as keen and suspicious as those of a wild animal, and often his hand went to his belt where beneath his cloak of skins he carried, for protection this time, a sharp dagger.

Through the streets he walked down to the seashore. There had been heavy rains during the night, and in the morning sunshine the tall beach grass sparkled as if hung with diamonds, the sky was blue and cloudless, and the dancing waves broke merrily upon the glittering beach. Watching the peaceful scene Tibeous forgot for a moment the errand which had drawn him from his safe retreat. By listening, unnoticed, to the talk of the village, he had hoped to learn whether any rich merchants were expected, so that he and his men could be ready to waylay them upon the road. But as he stood upon the beach watching the barefooted boys play in the waves, a picture of his own boyhood rose in his mind. He, too, had lived beside the sea and had helped his fisherman father draw in nets and carry strings of silvery fish. How happy he had been, he thought, and now for the last five years the sun seemed to have ceased shining in his life. His parents had died, and not content with the small, though honest, living he made at the fishing, he had fallen in with the band of robbers. They soon made him their leader and although younger than any of them, he was a very good one, for he did not know what fear was, was ready for any wild adventure and cared so little for the treasure he risked his life to steal that he divided it up among his followers.

But that golden morning Tibeous had forgotten all this, and as he gazed at a woman walking toward him with a boy clinging to one hand and a baby nestled against her shoulder, he thought only of his own boyhood, and of the mother who had loved and guarded him. So intently was he watching the woman that he did not notice a crowd which was collecting behind him until, warned by a sudden murmur of many voices, he turned sharply, his dagger half drawn. But the men and women had not noticed him, they were all clustering around a white-robed man, and as Tibeous turned their murmurs died away and they stood motionless, eagerly listening to the voice of the figure in their midst. Tibeous could not see his face, could not at first catch his words, but the tones of the speaker’s voice reached him, and like the ripples of the waves and the glimmer of the sunshine they reminded him afresh of his own joyous boyhood.

He saw the little boy’s hand tighten in his mother’s clasp as he urged her forward, and Tibeous was not surprised; that thrilling voice seemed to draw all toward it and he, too, followed the lad. And then, as they reached the outskirts of the crowd, the men drew back, making a pathway up to the Master, who, Tibeous now saw, was already surrounded with children. The boys and girls were looking up at him admiringly and even the baby in its mother’s arms held out its arms, as though to one to whom it belonged.

Again the Master was speaking, and as Tibeous gazed, half startled at that beautiful face, he heard the words:

“Verily, I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.”

“The kingdom of God,” thought Tibeous with a shudder, how far that was from the kingdom of robbers over which he ruled on the wild mountain side. And as far asunder as those two kingdoms was he, an outlaw and a thief, from the gracious white-robed man whose words stirred every heart upon that shining beach.

From that day Tibeous surprised even his own rough followers by his recklessness. He risked capture and death over and over again, attacking travellers in the daytime as well as under cover of the night, robbing not only merchants, but priests and wealthy Pharisees, men whose power was so great that if the band was caught, one word would suffice to hang them all to the nearest trees. But instead of being captured they only made themselves hated and feared more than ever. At length a proclamation went forth promising a large reward to any man who could bring Tibeous a prisoner to Jerusalem. As a warning to all robbers the thief, if captured, would be crucified outside the city walls.

None knew that since that one glorious morning upon the beach, the pain in the heart of Tibeous had been well-nigh unbearable.

“Such gentle scenes have no place in my wild life,” he would cry bitterly to himself, and with the hope of forgetting the picture of the lad in the Master’s arms he dashed wildly into every dangerous adventure.

One morning the robber band, looking out from the cave, saw a multitude of people journeying toward the mountain, which sloped down to the far end of the blue sea. Some came by boat, others rode, while many, who seemed to be quite poor people, walked.

What could draw them to that out of the way spot, the robbers wondered, and only Tibeous suspected the truth. They had probably travelled so far to meet again the Master whom he had seen upon the beach. He did not tell the others of his surmise, but when they planned to ride around the landward side of the mountain and rob these people as they journeyed home, he refused to go with them.

“In any dangerous attack,” he said, “I am always ready to lead you, but as to robbing poor men and women and children” ... he turned away disgusted, while again there rose before him the picture of the mother upon the beach, bringing her children to that marvellous man who talked about the kingdom of God.

Slowly the day passed and the sun sank behind the mountains while Tibeous sat alone, at the entrance of the cave, pondering deeply. He remembered that his mother had often spoken of a King who would some day come into the world, a great Deliverer she had called him, before whom all the nations of the world would bow and called Him blessed.

Tibeous had wondered at times during the last weeks whether the glorious white robed figure could be that King, but this day, as he sat watching the sun sink, he decided that it was impossible.

Beautiful the man was and tender and stirring, but surely, Tibeous thought, no one could be a King and a Deliverer without courage and strength a thousand times greater than even he, a lion among his followers, possessed. Could that gracious, gentle figure possess such miraculous power? “And yet if I thought for an instant,” he murmured, “that that wonderful man was the King of whom my mother dreamed, I would forsake this lawless life and become his loyal follower.”

At that moment he saw a dark cloud rising out of the west, the sign of one of the sudden storms which come so often in that country. Quickly it spread across the sky, the waves of the sea grew black and in a few moments they rose high crested with white foam, and the wind tore over them, while above the thunder pealed and the lightning flashed across the darkness.

Tibeous stood in the cave watching intently. “Verily,” he exclaimed, “to conquer and subdue his foes, a great Deliverer must have power stronger even than this mighty storm.”

A flash of vivid lightning lit up the whole scene, and in the midst of the furious sea Tibeous saw a tiny boat. He saw the desperate men within it and guessed at their terror. “Surely,” he thought, “the next wave will engulf them,” and then walking upon the storm-tossed waters toward the boat he saw a figure, his white robes fluttering in the wind.

Again all was darkness while Tibeous stood before the cave unheeding the torrents of rain which drenched him, his gaze fixed intently upon the sea, longing, almost praying, for the lightning to flash once more and show him again that mysterious figure.

Another flash, and standing in the stern of the boat Tibeous saw the white robed man while the others knelt before him as if in reverence, and then—there was perfect peace. The storm died away, the waves were stilled, and the moon breaking out from behind the jagged clouds, threw its silvery light upon the boat sailing quietly across the sea.

“Even the winds and the waves obey him!” cried Tibeous. “Surely this is the King all powerful, whom I vowed, if I ever found, to follow forever.”

Two days later Tibeous was taken prisoner, carried bound to Jerusalem, and thrown into a dark dungeon. With his usual fearlessness he had searched undisguised, through the villages for the Deliverer, but before he had found the Master he was recognised and captured. Many a weary month he lay in the prison. At times his restless energy drove him almost crazy, and he would rush up and down his narrow cell like a caged beast. At other times, when the first beams of early dawn pierced the narrow slit in the stone wall, which was his only window, or when a silvery ray of moonlight struggled through, the scenes of his wild life seemed blotted out, and he thought only of the Christ, and of his kingdom to which now, alas, he could never belong.

He supposed first it was an earthly kingdom, full of brave soldiers who would fight for the great King, to whom at last all the nations of the world would bow. But one morning, after nearly a year of imprisonment, he was taken out of his dark cell and led, his hands bound with leathern thongs, toward a green hill outside the city walls. Beside him walked another prisoner, a coarse, savage-looking man, well known for his brutal deeds, and upon the shoulders of each of them was laid a heavy cross. Upon those crosses they were to be crucified.

Tibeous was wan and pale from his long imprisonment, but in his eyes, which gleamed out of his white face, there was no look of fear or hate. He was as willing to die as to linger on hopeless in the dungeon. The vision of the great Deliverer on which he had dwelt for so long seemed to fill his soul, his one longing was to serve him, and as that was impossible he had nothing else to live for.

When they left the prison the sky was blue and clear, but as they reached the foot of the green hill dark, threatening clouds hung over them. The two prisoners paused there, resting upon the ground the heavy crosses under which they had staggered, and then up the road from the city-gate another procession came toward them. There were priests in long robes, soldiers in red cloaks and shining armour, women—sobbing, many of them—and fishermen and peasants walking side by side with wealthy publicans and Pharisees.

In the midst of the crowd walked a white-robed figure, and Tibeous caught his breath in astonished wonder. Could it be, yes it was, the King, the great Deliverer, who had drawn crowds to him upon the sunlit beach, and who by his great power had stilled the raging storm. And yet he was here to-day as a prisoner, his hands bound and his garments torn, while before him walked a man bearing the cross on which the Christ, like a common thief or murderer, was to be crucified.

“But he looks more like a King than ever,” thought the bewildered Tibeous, and then he understood!

Around the Master pressed those who belonged to the kingdom of this world, their faces cruel, or evil, or merely weak, and among them the Lord whom they had bound walked as fearlessly and graciously as a young king on his way to be crowned. But others, the poor fishermen and many of the women, seem to have caught his look of perfect goodness. They were frightened and heartbroken as they gazed at their King who was so soon to be taken from them, but they belonged to him, to his kingdom which was not of this world, and their faces, in spite of their sorrow, were full of childlike faith and trust.

Up the hill streamed the procession, Tibeous and his companion, with their guard of soldiers, walking slowly behind.

And then followed the deed at which through all the centuries that have passed since then men and women have shuddered with awestruck horror.

Jesus Christ, the Deliverer of the world, was nailed upon a cross, while upon two other crosses, one on his right and one on his left, hung the dying robbers. “With righteous wrath will he not denounce his murderers?” thought Tibeous, and then Jesus spoke: “Father, forgive them,” he said, “for they know not what they do.” And during the following hours of anguish he uttered no word of anger or condemnation. “How like a king he is even here,” thought Tibeous. “Above the mocking, cruel crowd he hangs, unmoved by pain, glorious, noble, kingly to the end. Soon my life will be over and I shall never see that wonderful face again. Ah! if for one moment only I might feel that I have belonged to his kingdom. I, a miserable dying thief, who richly deserves this bitter agony.”

Then as the crowd jeered at the Master, crying, “He saved others, let him save himself if he be Christ, the chosen one of God!”, the other robber mocked him also.

“If thou be Christ save thyself and us!” he said.

But Jesus answered not a word, and Tibeous cried to the robber:

“Dost thou not fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And we, indeed, justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds, but this man hath done nothing amiss.”

Then turning his pain-dimmed eyes toward Jesus he gazed with adoration and longing upon the face of the glorious dying Master.

“Jesus,” he said, his voice trembling with wistful entreaty, “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”

And Jesus, gazing back at him with tender compassion, answered slowly:

“Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.”

The terrible hours wore away and then—we know no more, but can we not picture to ourselves a faint glimmer of the glory into which that very day Tibeous entered?

Jesus had said, “Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.” And it seems to me that when, in the twilight, the spirit of Tibeous entered the kingdom of heaven, all his wild and selfish life was forgotten, and he was like a little lad again at his mother’s side. Surely his mother was waiting for him there, her arms outstretched with tender longing, and we know that he was with Jesus, the glorious King, the Light of Life, the Joy of the World.

And so to Tibeous, the dying thief, there came the glory of Easter.

THE LEGEND OF THE EASTER LILY

When Jesus grew to be a man He went about teaching the people how to live. Many loved Jesus and believed what He told them. But some doubted His words, while others were unkind and even cruel. At last some wicked people believed it was unwise to let Jesus live and teach; and they hanged Him upon a cross. All His friends were very sad after they had seen Him die. They wrapped His body in linen clothes and laid Him in a tomb in a garden. A great rock was rolled in front of the tomb and soldiers were placed to guard the way day and night; for the wicked people who had killed Jesus did not wish any of His friends to take His body away.

All night and all the next day the soldiers watched at the tomb. The second night a strange and wonderful light came slowly in the east and some little birds began to sing beautiful songs. Suddenly, there was a great noise and a shaking of the ground and a beautiful angel came down from heaven, rolled the stone away from the tomb and Jesus came forth! Two beautiful angels stood at the door to meet Him and with them He walked away through the garden.

When the friends of Jesus came to the tomb early in the morning they saw a wonderful sight. “Behold,” said one, pointing to the garden near the tomb, “pure white lilies have come forth.” “And behold!” said the other, “where pure white lilies mark the footsteps of Jesus and the angels.”

SONG

HENRY NEVILLE MAUGHAN

There was a knight of Bethlehem;
Whose wealth was tears and sorrows:
His men-at-arms were little lambs,
His trumpeters were sparrows;
His castle was a wooden cross,
Whereon He hung so high;
His helmet was a crown of thorns
Whose crest did touch the sky.

IN THE GARDEN

AN EASTER PRELUDE

W. M. L. JAY