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Page 37
They were drawn back; but nothing could be seen, and still the old man
gazed as if in ecstasy.
"Light!" he murmured. "The Angel! the Star!"
Again there was silence; and then he stretched forth his hands, and
cried passionately,
"The Angel is beckoning to me! Mother! Mother dear! Please open the
window."
The sash was thrown open, and all eyes turned involuntarily where those
of the dying man were gazing. There was no Christmas tree--no tree at
all. But over the house-tops the morning star looked pure and pale in
the dawn of Christmas Day. For the night was past, and above the
distant hum of the streets the clear voices of some waits made the
words of an old carol heard--words dearer for their association than
their poetry:
"While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around."
When the window was opened, the soul passed; and when they looked back
to the bed the old man had lain down again, and, like a child, was
smiling in his sleep--his last sleep.
And this was the Third Christmas Tree.
* * * * *
AN IDYLL OF THE WOOD.
"Tell us a story," said the children, "a sad one, if you please, and a
little true. But, above all, let it end badly, for we are tired of
people who live happily ever after."
"I heard one lately," said the old man who lived in the wood; "it is
founded on fact, and is a sad one also; but whether it ends badly or no
I cannot pretend to say. That is a matter of taste: what is a bad
ending?"
"A story ends badly," said the children with authority, "when people
die, and nobody marries anybody else, especially if it is a prince and
princess."
"A most lucid explanation," said the old man. "I think my story will
do, for the principal character dies, and there is no wedding."
"Tell it, tell it!" cried his hearers, "and tell us also where you got
it from."
"Who knows the riches of a wood in summer?" said the old man. "In
summer, do I say? In spring, in autumn, or in winter either. Who knows
them? You, my children? Well, well. Better than some of your elders,
perchance. You know the wood where I live; the hollow tree that will
hold five children, and Queen Mab knows how many fairies. (What a
castle it makes! And if it had but another floor put into it, with a
sloping ladder--like one of the round towers of Ireland--what a house
for children to live in! With no room for lesson-books, grown-up
people, or beds!)
"You know the way to the hazel copse, and the place where the wild
strawberries grow. You know where the wren sits on her eggs, and, like
good children, pass by with soft steps and hushed voices, that you may
not disturb that little mother. You know (for I have shown you) where
the rare fern grows--a habitat happily yet unnoted in scientific pages.
_We_ never add its lovely fronds to our nosegays, and if we move a
root it is but to plant it in another part of the wood, with as much
mystery and circumspection as if we were performing some solemn
druidical rite. It is to us as a king in hiding, and the places of its
abode we keep faithfully secret. It will be thus held sacred by us
until, with all the seed its untouched fronds have scattered, and all
the offshoots we have propagated, it shall have become as plentiful as
Heaven intends all beautiful things to be. Every one is not so
scrupulous. There are certain ladies and gentlemen who picnic near my
cottage in the hot weather, and who tell each other that they love a
wood. Most of these good people have nevertheless neither eyes nor ears
for what goes on around them, except that they hear each other, and see
the cold collation. They will picnic there summer after summer, and not
know whether they sit under oaks or ashes, beeches or elms. All birds
sing for them the same song. Tell _them_ that such a plant is rare
in the neighbourhood, that there are but few specimens of it, and it
will not long be their fault if there are any. Does any one direct them
to it, they tear it ruthlessly up and carry it away. If by any chance a
root is left, it is left so dragged and pulled and denuded of earth,
that there is small chance that it will survive. Probably, also, the
ravished clump dies in the garden or pot to which it is transplanted,
either from neglect, or from ignorance of the conditions essential to
its life; and the rare plant becomes yet rarer. Oh! without doubt they
love a wood. It gives more shade than the largest umbrella, and is
cheaper for summer entertainment than a tent: there you get canopy and
carpet, fuel and water, shade and song, and beauty--all gratis; and
these are not small matters when one has invited a large party of one's
acquaintance. There are insects, it is true, which somewhat disturb our
friends; and as they do not know which sting, and which are harmless,
they kill all that come within their reach, as a safe general
principle. The town boys, too! They know the wood--that is to say, they
know where the wild fruits grow, and how to chase the squirrel, and rob
the birds' nests, and snare the birds. Well, well, my children; to know
and love a wood truly, it may be that one must live in it as I have
done; and then a lifetime will scarcely reveal all its beauties, or
exhaust its lessons. But even then, one must have eyes that see, and
ears that hear, or one misses a good deal. It was in the wood that I
heard this story that I shall tell you."
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