The Ravens and the Angels, with Other Stories and Parables

Whilst he was waiting he found the teredo a very amusing companion.

"What do you look like?" he asked.

"My own house is not so large as one of your finger-nails," replied the teredo; "but I have a long winding passage leading from it to the sea outside, and through this, however deep I am buried, I keep myself provided with air and water by means of a long trunk which I possess."

"Do you often bury yourself very deep?" asked the Child.

"We are seldom engaged on such a trifling affair as this," replied the teredo; "we eat through ships and piers, and piles made of the hard trunks of oaks."

The Child had no idea of what ships and piers were, and the little busy creature was quite ready to tell him all she knew; so all day he sat listening to her stories, which to him were wonderful fairy tales. And when the darkness came, he tripped joyously up to his cave to sleep away as fast as he could the night which was to bring the morning when the strange box would fly open.

But on his little bed he kept wondering what was inside. Was it a beautiful little living being which was to be his companion? was it a tiny ship like the great ones the teredo had been talking about, only made to sail in the air, and to carry him up to where the sweet Singers lived? So he fell asleep full of happy visions.

The next morning he could scarcely eat his breakfast or say a word to the flowers, he was so eager to reach the place where his treasure lay, and see if it were safe. But the sea was still covering the beach, and it was some time before the waves were curbed in, and ceased to dash into the rock-pool.

At length the tide drew back, and the Child clambered over the wet rocks to the pool.

There, safe on the ledge where he had placed it, lay the little carved tube. He took it carefully out of the water: the little teredo had done her work well, and in an instant the cover flew open. His heart fluttered fast as he watched to see what would happen next.

But no living creature sprang out; only a roll of parchments, marked all over with strange twisted black lines, fell on the rocks. The Child thrust in his little hand and felt all through the tube, but there was nothing more within, and he was so disappointed he had scarcely heart to thank the teredo.

Tears of vexation would fall fast over his face, and at length he hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. His hopes had soared so high! Soon his sobs subsided into quiet weeping. All the creatures tried to comfort him; he felt grateful to them, but still they could not dry his tears.

At length they gave up speaking to him, and through the silence came on his ear the sound of the old sweet solemn Song. Then the Child thought of his dream, of the Singers in heaven, and of the loving Voice, and he looked up on the sparkling sea and the sunny blue sky, and smiled through his tears. He felt ashamed of having been so cast down, and quietly took up the roll of parchments from the rocks.

It was traced all over with black figures, delicately and carefully drawn; but the Child could not see in them anything more than the delicate traceries he had often observed on the shells and flowers; and turn it over and gaze on it as he would, he could find nothing in it but a roll of dead leaves.

Nevertheless he took it with him to his cave (leaving the cover to the teredo as an acknowledgment of her kindness), and carefully replaced it in the wooden tube. At all events the little carved basket was beautiful, and still he could not help linking it with his dream, and with the heavenly Singers who knew the words of the Song.

PART II.—THE WORDS OF THE SONG.

CHAPTER I.

That night there was a great storm on the sea. The Child could not sleep for the tumult. There were thunders and lightnings, and all the winds seemed drawn up in battle, so that he could not distinguish the thunder of the clouds from the roar of the winds or the sullen plunges of the waves as they dashed into the hollows of the rocks, undermining the cliffs. Yet all this was not half so terrible to the Child as the sound of human voices like his own, which came to him wailing through the storm. He rose and stood at the entrance of his cave with his arms clinging to the trunk of an old tree, and looked out over the sea. Not a star was to be seen; and if he tried to speak he could scarcely hear his own voice. Yet through all the roar of the sea and the thunder and the wild raging of the winds, ever and anon came those plaintive human cries straight to the Child's heart. Now and then also he caught the gleam of a light twinkling far out on the waters, but it was extinguished in an instant, and the darkness looked darker than before. At length the wailing voices died away, and the gray morning broke over the foaming waves, and the storm began to lull.

When the day came up, all the sky was calm and bright as if nothing had happened; but the flowers lay exhausted on the mossy bank; the path into the wood was strewn with many branches torn from the trees; all the creatures seemed frightened and cowed by the storm; and the Child sat at his breakfast in silence and alone. He was half afraid to venture to the beach: the sea had not forgotten its last night's battles, and as far out as the Child's eyes could reach, angry waves were tossing their plumed crests, whilst on the shore they curved their proud necks, and foamed as if they would have swallowed the earth, dashing their spray over the tallest cliffs. And to the Child there was something terrible in the calm sunshine, which smiled down so peacefully on all this tumult.

Yet there was a kind of wild joy to him in watching the mighty waves. He stood as close to them as he could, and enjoyed the spray they flung in his face. He felt they were not at play this morning, but he wondered and rejoiced to see his old playfellows in this their hour of strength and daring; his spirit seemed to grow as he looked at them, and he began to feel a new sense of power and a longing to exercise it. So he clambered on among the rocks, breasting the wind, and fronting the waves, till he came to a quiet sandy bay at some little distance from his home. His sea friends, for the most part, kept themselves at home, the sand-borers in their sand-chambers, the fish in their shells, the crabs under the thick sea-weeds,—not yet feeling any confidence in the weather; so that he was more alone than usual.

And as he stood on the rocks which enclosed the bay, on the other side he caught sight of something white gleaming among the rocks. As fast as his little feet could carry him he hastened across the bay to discover what this could be, skirting the waves which curved towards the shore, and in his haste often plunging into them.

But when he reached the point to which he was hastening, surprise and awe nearly took away his breath, and he stood with parted lips and a sudden paleness in his cheeks. Lashed to a plank lay a little creature like himself,—a little maiden with her eyes closed as if she were asleep, and her lips and face as white as her dress.

The Child watched her in silence a minute to see if she would speak. He felt sure the sweet Singers had sent her to him from the heavens, and he feared to disturb her till she awoke. But at length he ventured to whisper, and then to speak louder and louder, asking her to wake. Still the white lips did not close, nor the pale eyelids open. Then a cold awe crept over the Child, and at last he burst into tears. Was it to be another disappointment, like the silent roll of dead leaves? and should he never find any who would understand him or speak to him? In his tears he forgot all his awe, and stooping down he took one little cold hand in both his warm ones, and said gently, "Speak to me—only one word. Indeed I would understand you, and I would love you so dearly."

Then, as still no answer came, he threw both his arms around the little maiden's neck, and pressed his warm breast to hers, and laid his cheek to hers, and prayed her only to wake, even if she would not speak; until, as he folded her thus, so tight and warm, in his little soft arms, he felt something faintly beating against his heart, and a quiver passed through the pale lips, and the Child sobbed aloud, "You hear me! you are waking! you will speak to me!"

And his tears fell faster than ever for joy.

Then the pale-veined eyelids slowly opened, and two eyes looked into his, as blue as the violets. But they were not flowers; they were sweet human eyes. They looked at him with a strange, bewildered, questioning look, and at length a faint voice murmured, "Is it a dream?—are we in heaven?"

It was the first human voice the Child remembered to have heard, but it did not surprise him. It seemed familiar, as if he had heard it long ago, he knew not where; and he said, "No, we are not in heaven, and it is not a dream; but the sweet Singers in heaven have sent you to me."

Then the Child unfastened the cords which bound the little maiden to the plank, and she sat upright and looked around her. The sun poured down his warmest rays, and soon dried her dress. And when she was able, he led her gently over the rocks to his cave, and laid her on his own warm little bed, and gave her honey and fruits, and sat by her and watched her till she fell asleep. In her sleep she still clung to his hand, and if he moved she would stir uneasily and murmur in her sleep; so the Child made up his mind to sit beside her all night, and not once close his eyes. It was such a joy to feel that she could not do without him.

But he was more tired than he knew, with the storm of last night and the great delight of the day; and before he thought of it, sleep had crept into his eyes and shut them fast; and the little weary head sank down beside the maiden, and he dreamt of the sweet Singers carrying her in their arms through the winds and waves to him.

CHAPTER II.

When the Child opened his eyes he was very much ashamed to find the little maiden awake before him, and gliding quietly about the cave, making herself quite at home. Yet he could not help lying still, and watching what she would do while she thought he was asleep.

And first he saw her kneel down on the white sand, and clasp her hands, and look up, and speak softly to some One. He followed her eyes, but he could see no one; and he wondered to whom she could be speaking. He was sure it must be One who listened, for the little maiden's eyes filled with tears; and yet when she rose she looked so happy.

Then as she was moving silently about, she seemed to see something which gave her great joy, for she clasped her hands, and looked up again, while the tears streamed over her cheeks. And, to the Child's surprise, she took up the little carved wooden tube, and drew out the parchments, and kissed them, and pressed them to her heart. But the Child's surprise increased when he saw her seat herself on the ground, and spread the roll on her knee, and trace her finger along the twisted lines, and smile and sigh, as if the roll of dead leaves were talking to her. And as she sat, every now and then her eyes were lifted up as when she had been kneeling, and the Child felt sure there must be One listening to her. So he rose and went outside the cave, but he could see no one; and then he came back, and sat down by the little girl, and said, "I cannot find any one. Whom are you talking to?"

"Do not you speak to God?" said the maiden with a look of wonder and sorrow.

The Child gazed earnestly into her face for some moments, and then said in a soft whisper, "Is that the Name?"

"What Name?" asked the maiden.

"The Name they are always trying to speak on the shore, and on the sea, and in the wood, and among the stars!"

"Yes; it must be God!" she replied. "There is no other Name; for He is everywhere, and He made everything!"

The Child sat silent for some time, with a look of awe in his eyes, and then he said, "Was it to Him you were speaking whilst I was asleep?"

"Yes," she said.

"What were you saying?" he asked.

"I was thanking Him for bringing me here, and asking Him to take care of you and me."

"Then it was God who took care of you in the storm?"

"It is God who gives us everything good. He is so very good, and He loves us so much!"

"Did you ever hear Him speak?" asked the Child, after another silence. "You seem to know Him so well."

"No, I never heard Him," replied the maiden; "but when I look at this," she added, folding the parchment close to her, "He talks to me in my heart!"

The Child clasped his hands round his knees as he sat on the ground, and looking up into her face, he said, "It is very wonderful. I should like to know more about it. But who told you?"

The little girl could not answer him: she burst into tears, and could only sob, "My mother—oh, my mother!"

The Child was frightened to see her cry so bitterly. He kissed her and told her not to cry, and then he brought her all his prettiest shells to look at; but she would not look at them, nor be comforted, but kept sobbing, "Mother, mother!—shall I never see you any more?—are you lost in the deep, cold sea?—will you never speak to me again?" So at last he sat down and began to cry too; for he thought of the storm, and the wailing voices, and the little faithful mother-bird spreading her wings over her brood, and he felt something very sad must have happened to the little girl, and she must have lost what was dearest to her in the world. At length, as she wept on, he nestled his hands into hers, and whispered timidly, "Cannot God help you?—speak to Him!"

Then the little maiden became quieter, and the two little ones knelt down together, and she murmured, "Our Father who art in heaven."

Her tears fell fast, and she could not say any more; but when she rose, her face was beaming, and her eyes smiled gravely through her tears: and the Child felt there was One who loved them and was near them, wherever they were.

But he was afraid to ask her any more questions, so he led her into the wood. He thought she might not like to go beside the sea. And there, among the flowers, and the sunbeams, and the birds, the two children forgot their tears, and rejoiced in the joy of all the happy creatures.

In the evening, when they were sitting hand in hand at the entrance of the cave, the little maiden suddenly said,—

"How long have you been here?"

"I do not know," said the Child, looking up at her in surprise. "Always, I suppose!"

"But I think I know," said the maiden. "You are my little younger brother who was lost so long ago. I am sure you are!" she added; "for whenever I look at you, my mother's eyes seem looking at me through yours."

And the children hugged each other close, and laughed and wept together. And the happy Child was long in falling asleep that night, for he had found a sister, and he had learned the blessed Name, and he knew there was One watching over them always, and loving them dearly.

CHAPTER III.

The Child awoke happier than ever, and began to prepare a feast for his little sister; but when he had finished, and stood in the entrance of the cave looking toward the sea, a cold shudder crept over him. Now the waves were sparkling and laughing, and he knew that thousands of happy creatures were busy amongst them; but he could not forget the storm and the wailing voices, for he thought of the tender mother whose kind eyes might have smiled on him, who was lying there. So he turned from the sea, but he could not turn from the thought. And as they were walking again by the green path into the wood, at length he ventured to say,—

"Sister, was our mother with you on that stormy night?"

"Yes," she said, very sorrowfully; "we were all in the ship together."

"Then," he said, "if God could take care of you, may He not have taken care of her, and be bringing her to us?"

The maiden shook her head and murmured,—

"She is dead, brother; she will never come to us. It is death that keeps her from us."

"What is death?" said the child.

"I do not know," replied the maiden, her tears beginning to flow again; "she is happy with God; but she will never come to us again."

The Child was silent for some minutes. Then he said,—

"It must be the same that happened to my own dear little bird last winter."

"What little bird?"

"My little bird which used to come and sing to me every day whilst I took my breakfast, and eat from my hand, until one morning I found it lying quite still on the mossy bank. I spoke to it, but it would not open its eyes; and when I took it up, its little breast and wings, which were always so soft and warm, were quite cold. And it never sang to me again."

"Yes," said the maiden softly, "that must have been death."

They walked on some steps without speaking, till the Child said,—

"Why does God let anything die, when He is so good?"

"My mother said it was not God who sent death into the world," she replied, "but sin; and God and sin cannot dwell together."

"What is sin?" asked the Child.

"It is when we are fretful or unkind, or when we are loving ourselves best," she said.

And then she told him all she knew about the beautiful Garden, and the two happy people for whom God made it all; and of the Enemy who tempted them to distrust God's love and disobey Him. And since then, she said, sin and death had never left the world.

The Child looked very much perplexed and grieved, and asked if that was the end of all God had made so good and happy?

Then the little maiden told him another story of wonderful love and sorrow: of One, great and good and glorious above all, who left the happy heavens and came down to bear all the sin; of His poor cradle in the manger, about which the angels came to sing; of His being so poor that He had not where to lay His head; of His walking about teaching until He was weary; of the sick people He healed; of the little dead girl whose cold hand He touched, and she sat up and began to speak; of His taking little children in His arms, laying His hands on them, and blessing them; and then of where the cruel people stretched those kind arms which had been folded so tenderly around their little ones;—until the Child hid his face on the mossy bank where they were sitting, and wept as if his heart would break.

Tears were in the little maiden's eyes also, yet she was frightened to see him sob so bitterly, and tried to comfort him; but he only wept on and sobbed out,—

"O sister! I cannot bear to live, since He is dead!"

Then the maiden's eyes glistened with joy, and she took his hands, and said,—

"He is not dead, brother—He rose from the cold grave where they laid Him, and now He is alive for evermore in heaven; and He loves little children just as He used: and one day He will come and take us up to be with Him."

"Shall we see Him?" said the Child, his tears stopping in a moment, as he looked up with a beaming face, "will He speak to us, to you and to me?"

The little maiden believed surely that He would.

"And is our mother with Him?" asked the Child.

"I am sure she is; she loved Him so dearly!" the little girl replied.

"Then we must never wish her back, sister," he said; "only think how happy she must be!"

So all day the happy children wandered about the wood, and spoke of the blessed stories the little maiden had heard from her mother or read in the Book, their hearts full of that Name which is above every name. And when evening came, and they had knelt together in prayer, the little maiden began to sing a hymn.

She sang of God, and of Him who loved God and loved men, and offered Himself up to keep the holy law, and save lost and sinful men who had broken it. She thanked Him for making everything so good and beautiful; she thanked Him for so loving and redeeming them. The words were very simple, but the things she sang about were very high and deep; and as the Child listened to her, he heard again the old, sweet, solemn Song; sweet and solemn as he had never heard it before. It pealed up from the waves and the countless multitudes of living creatures who dwelt in them; it streamed from the wood in a thousand tones of joy; it thrilled from star to star through the heavens;—and every silvery note of melody, and every grand burst of harmony, fitted into the words of the little maiden's song, and echoed the sacred Name she uttered.

The Child listened for some time in a trance of speechless joy, till (he scarcely knew how) the love and thankfulness which were in his heart burst from his lips, and he also sang the Words of the Song.

CHAPTER IV.

So the happy days glided on one after another, and bore the busy happy children with them. They disentangled the weeds which twisted themselves too tight around the tender young saplings; they trained back the branches to let the sunbeams through on the flowers which were growing pale in the shade; they raised the drooping heads of many a delicate blossom, and twined their fragile stalks around a stronger stem, till every flower in the wood knew them, and flushed with joy as they passed; and the branches bent towards them as willows towards the rivers.

They watched the busy sea-creatures at their work. They saw the sea-birds poise on the wing, dive under the waves, and then soar up again, their breasts glittering like opals, and the spray raining in sparkling drops from their wings; and the Child climbed the rocks to peep into the nests, whilst his sister watched him from below. Many a stranded anemone expanded its petals gratefully as they laid it in the clear rock-pool; and many a shipwrecked medusa spread its crystal streamers on the waves where they replaced it, thus paying them royal honours.

And as they worked and watched, they and the happy creatures sang together, and the Song was complete.

The little maiden also taught the Child to read the Book; and often the day would pass so quickly as they read together on the mossy banks, or wandered hand in hand beside the waves or among the trees, talking of all the blessed histories they knew, that morning and evening seemed to touch.

But as they read on, and grew themselves, the Book seemed to grow and unfold before them. They read of a warfare and a race, of crowns to be placed on the heads of those who won, with words of welcome from a Voice they knew. They read of many who suffered and toiled, and of the cup of cold water a child's hand could carry, which should in no wise lose its reward.

They read of a World which God loved, and of many lost children whom He sought to bring home to Him. And as they often talked about it together, they became sure that the World must be beyond the mountains which rose above the waterfall. Thither, therefore, they would often go; and thence they would follow the little stream across the plain, trying to reach the mountains where it was born. Every time they tried they drew nearer, until one day the creatures in the wood and on the shore lost sight of them, and never saw them more.

But in the land on the other side of the mountains there was found, long afterwards, a strange legend of two children who came from beyond the hills, with a wonderful Book, and a sweet and solemn Song. They went from house to house, reading the Book to all who would listen, and teaching the Song to any who would learn. And it was said that wherever they went, joy and music sprang up in their footsteps.

In homes where jarring voices made sad discord, they read the Book and taught that blessed Song, and voices which joined in it soon lost their harshness and ceased to jar. By sick-beds they sang it, and the voice of patience and peace replaced the murmurs of disease; they taught it in homes of poverty and toil, to little lisping children, to mothers burdened with many cares, to men toiling by the wayside.

In some places the Children met with rough usage, like Him whose Name gave all the power and sweetness to their Song; but nothing could dry up the flood of love and melody in their hearts; and it was believed that although their footsteps had passed away from earth, they were still singing the blessed Song in a happy place beyond the heavens.

But the Book remained with the people, and the Song lived in their hearts; and if you go to that country you may hear it now, in palaces and in lowly homes of toil, by beds of sickness, and by the wayside; in happy choruses, or sung by lonely voices, which but for it would have had no music. And trees and flowers, the sea and the stars, streams and busy living creatures, and even rocks and stones, join in it. For the Song is no more without Words.

THE END.

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF

"Chronicles of the Schönberg-Cotta Family."

NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION.

An intensely interesting tale of German family-life in the times of Luther, including much of the personal history of the great Reformer.

A story of the career and death of Joan of Arc, professedly narrated by those who witnessed some of her achievements, and who believed in her purity and sincerity.

A Tale for young people, the scene chiefly in London. Wealth and poverty are contrasted, and the happiness shown of living, not for selfish indulgence, but in the service of Christ, and doing good to others.

This Diary forms a charming tale; introducing the lights and shades, the trials and pleasures, of that most interesting revival period that occurred in the middle of last century.

A tale of English family life and experience in modern times.

A tale of the times of Charles I. and Cromwell: records kept by two English families—one Royalist, the other Puritan—of public events and domestic experiences.

A volume of interesting stories and sketches, many of them in the allegorical form.

The struggles and trials of the early Christians are graphically described in this volume.

A lady's notes of a tour in the Holy Land, returning home by Damascus and the coast of Asia Minor.

The many readers who have been charmed by the prose writings of this well-known and much-admired writer, will no doubt be glad to see a collection of poems from the same pen.

Young Lady's Library.

"There are some remarks in its pages with which sensible people of every creed and every shade of opinion can scarcely fail to sympathize.... It is pleasantly and prettily told."—Saturday Review.

An interesting study of character, going mainly to show the beauty of a quiet, manly Christian life; on the other hand the terrible moral degradation to which selfishness unchecked may lead.

A very interesting tale for young people. The charm of a thoroughly unselfish character is displayed, and in one of an opposite description the idol Self is at last dethroned.

"We heartily commend this fresh, healthy, and carefully-written tale, with its truthful and vivid pictures of Scottish life."—Aberdeen Free Press.

"Is interesting from the intensity of human feeling and sympathy it develops."—Literary World.

It is a work of great human interest, and all the more is it human because it recognizes the supreme human interest—namely, that of religion, and the strength, purity, and gladness which religion brings to them who receive it in its simplicity and power. A wholesome, suggestive, and wisely-stimulating book for young women.

A tale for the young. Alice and Lina, while themselves children, trying to teach on Sunday evenings a very young and ignorant child, become learners also in the best sense of the word.

A touching story of two girls, giving an interesting account of their education and school experiences.

"This is a book we should like to see in the hands of children. It will help them to be both happy and good."—Daily Review.

"A well-conceived, well-told, and deeply interesting story."—Presbyterian Messenger.

Library of Historical Tales.

A story of the dragonnades in France in the time of Louis XIV. Also of the persecutions in England under James II., the Monmouth rebellion, the Bloody Assize, and the Revolution.

"No finer, more touchingly realistic, and truthfully accurate picture of the Languedoc Huguenots have we met."—Aberdeen Free Press.

"The plot of the romance is skilfully constructed, the dialogue is admirable, and the principal actors in the history are portrayed with great ability."—U. P. Missionary Record.

Faithfully portrays the state and character of society at the time of the Reformation (in Switzerland).

Two tales, the first connected with the second. One, of country life in France during the war; the other, life within the besieged capital.

A thrilling and fascinating story.

Presents a vivid picture of the religious and social condition of Bohemia in the fifteenth century.

An interesting tale of the great Franco-Russian war in 1812-13; the characters partly French, partly Russian.

The object of the writer of this tale is to portray the life of the people in the days of Knox.

A tale illustrating in fiction that stirring period of English history previous to the Reformation.

Prize Temperance Tales.

ONE HUNDRED POUND PRIZE TALE.

An interesting prize temperance tale; the scene partly in Lancashire, partly in Australia.

ONE HUNDRED POUND PRIZE TALE.

A prize temperance tale for the young. With illustrative engravings.

ONE HUNDRED POUND PRIZE TALE.

This interesting tale was selected by the Band of Hope Union last year, from among thirty-seven others, as worthy of the £100 prize. It now forms a beautiful volume, with six good illustrations.

FIFTY POUND PRIZE TALE.

A prize temperance tale for young persons, the hero an Irish boy, who owes everything in after life to having joined a Band of Hope in boyhood.

FIFTY POUND PRIZE TALE.

An interesting prize temperance tale for the young, with illustrative engravings.

SEVENTY POUND PRIZE TALE.

"In construction the story is good, in style it is excellent, and it is certain to be a general favourite."—Manchester Examiner.

"Attractive in its incidents and forcible in its lessons."—Liverpool Albion.

SPECIAL PRIZE TALE.

Replete with touching, often saddening, and frequently amusing incidents.

SPECIAL PRIZE TALE.

A prize temperance tale, "written for an earnest purpose" and consisting almost entirely of facts.

An interesting tale—the scene laid in England—illustrating the influence over others for good of one consistent Christian man and temperance advocate.

Stories of Home and School Life.

A tale of girlhood and early married life, with discipline and trials, all resulting in good at last. Every girl should read this remarkably truthful and fascinating book.

A tale of home life, with its ordinary joys and sorrows, under the guidance of its leading spirit,—a wise, loving, pious mother.