A GARDEN OF EASTER STORIES

THE EASTER RABBIT

German Legend

Shrill and sharp North Wind whistled through the forest where the trees and flowers were patiently awaiting the arrival of My Lady Spring. Jack Frost was delighted. Perched on the topmost branches of the great trees he laughed gleefully. “Ha! ha! ha! surely Old Father Winter has forgotten that April is almost here,” said he. “I shall not remind him, not I. They say My Lady Spring who is waiting in Wild-Flower Hollow is growing most impatient!”

“And so am I,” whispered Mother Maple to her neighbour Dame Oak. “I’ve told my babies many pleasant stories about My Lady Spring and her companion Merry Sunshine. I’m afraid I shall be unable to keep them in their dark cradles much longer.”

“Oh! do hold them back a few days,” said Dame Oak. “You remember what trouble that rude rollicking fellow Jack-Frost made last year. So long as he is here he insists on playing with all the babies of the forest. I do wish Lady Spring would come and tell him to be off.”

“He’ll never go so long as his bold brother North Wind remains,” sighed Silver Beech.

“Never mind,” said Dame Oak. “I feel sure we shall not have to wait much longer. Indeed I saw Merry Sunshine dancing near the edge of the forest yesterday. I feel quite hopeful.”

“Oh, how happy I shall be to hear Thrush’s song again,” said Silver Beech.

“And the happy children’s voices! They haven’t been to the forest since nutting season,” said Dame Oak. “I’m sure they are longing to come again.”

For some time Lady Spring had been waiting in Wild-Flower Hollow near the edge of the forest. Only a few days ago the children had come there to gather flowers.

“Not a bird or blossom anywhere. See how brown and bare that bank is!” said one.

“And Easter is almost here. I wonder why Lady Spring is so late!” said another.

“Maybe she has forgotten us,” said a tiny companion.

“I am very disappointed. Last year at this time that bank was blue with violets. Come, let us go home!” And away ran the children.

“I shall wait no longer,” said Lady Spring. “Come, Merry Sunshine.”

Away danced Merry Sunshine and Lady Spring followed in trailing robes of green and white.

Waving her silver wand over the bank of Wild-Flower Hollow she whispered, “Ready, Violets; come, Starry Bluet; my sweet Anemone, you need wait no longer. Ah, brave Arbutus, I see you were expecting me. Did you think I was never coming, my dainty Spring Beauty?”

How graceful Lady Spring looked waving her magic wand here and there through the forest. Wherever she stooped and touched the brown earth the fresh grass leaped forth; when she tapped the great tree trunks the bare branches above instantly veiled themselves in tender green. She waved at the brooklet and away it ran over the moss and pebbles.

“Sing, Merry Sunshine, dance and sing!” Lady Spring called to her companion.

Merry Sunshine trilled the gayest song. It rang sweetly through forest and echoed far away over the hills to the South where the birds were waiting patiently for the call. How gladly they came! Bluebird and Bobolink, Cardinal and Chickadee, Blackbird and Thrush and Wren,—all the forest warblers answered Merry Sunshine’s Song of Spring.

“At last my work is done!” said Lady Spring joyously.

“When are the children coming?” asked Dame Oak.

“Oh, to be sure! I must not forget to send them word that I am here. Robin Redbreast, will you take a message of Spring to the children? I’m sure they will want to see the lovely blossoms and hear the sweet birds’ songs.”

“Lady Spring,” said Robin, “I’m afraid I cannot go to-day. You see my mate and I are building a soft warm nest in Oak-Tree. We are very late this year.”

“To be sure, Robin. I wonder where I can find a messenger.”

“I think Red Fox would go for you,” answered Robin Redbreast. “See, here he comes now.”

“Will you take word to the children that I have come, Reynard?” asked Lady Spring.

“Oh, I should be glad to go, but the people might think I came to steal their chickens. I believe Black Bear would be a better messenger than any of us. I’ll run and ask him to go.”

But Reynard brought back the answer that Black Bear was afraid he would frighten the children too much.

“What shall I do for a messenger,” sighed Lady Spring.

Robin cocked his head on one side and looked very thoughtful. Then he said, “I have it, I believe Bunny Rabbit would go; I saw him hop past but a moment ago. I’ll call him.”

At Robin’s whistle Bunny came leaping out of the bushes.

“Bunny Rabbit, I want you to take a message to the children in the city. Please go and tell them Spring has come.”

“A message to the city, Lady Spring!” exclaimed Bunny, raising his ears upright. “Please ask me to do anything but that! Dear me! The dogs might catch me! They bark so fiercely! And naughty boys might chase me! I’m sure I should never come back!” Bunny dropped his voice and looked quickly about in all directions. Lady Spring was puzzled.

“Bunny,” said Robin, “couldn’t you go at night? You know the dogs and boys go to sleep then and you can hop so softly that I’m sure they would not hear you. Besides, your ears are very sharp.”

“Well, perhaps I could go at midnight,” said Bunny, thoughtfully. “But how could I take a message to the children without wakening them?”

“Oh, I can manage that,” said Lady Spring. “Meet me in Wild-Flower Hollow a little before twelve o’clock. Then you shall know all about my plan.”

“I will come,” said Bunny.

Lady Spring made a beautiful basket out of twigs and leaves and grasses. She lined it with the softest moss. Around the top she placed a garland of choicest wild flowers. And, when the birds knew that she was sending a message to the children, each one wished to help her. So they sent lovely little eggs of all colours—greenish blue, brown, white and spotted. How beautiful they looked lying on the bed of moss wreathed with flowers.

A little before midnight Bunny came to Wild-Flower Hollow.

“I am ready,” said Lady Spring. “See, Bunny, here is plenty of moss. Do be careful with these precious eggs. When you come to a house where a little child lives take out a bit of moss and form it into a wee nest like this,” said Lady Spring, weaving quickly a moss nest. “Then put into each one a wild flower and an egg,—so. Leave an egg for each child in the house.”

“Yes, yes, I understand, Lady Spring,” said Bunny. “How pretty the nest is!”

Off he started as gaily as could be.

On Easter morning Merry Sunshine wakened the children early.

“See! see! I found this little moss nest on the door-step,” cried one of them. “There is a wild-flower and three coloured eggs in it. How beautiful!”

“An egg for each of us!” said another. “I wonder what it means.”

“I know, I know,” said little brother. “There are Bunny tracks on the path. He must have brought the nest to us. Perhaps he came to tell us Spring is here.”

“Of course he did!” cried the children, clapping their tiny hands in glee. “Bunny was Spring’s messenger.”

Away to the woods ran the children, crying out, “Spring is here, Spring is here. Bunny Rabbit brought us the message.”

THE BOY WHO DISCOVERED THE SPRING[15]

Raymond MacDonald Alden

There came once a little Elf Boy to live on this earth, and he was so much pleased with it that he stayed, never caring to go back to his own world. I do not know where his own world was, or just how he came to leave it. Some thought that he was dropped by accident from some falling star, and some that he had flown away, thinking that he could fly back again whenever he chose, because he did not know that children always lose their wings when they come into this world. But no one knew certainly, as he never told any one; and, after all, it did not matter, since, as I have already said, he liked the earth so much that he did not care to leave it.

There was a Hermit who lived in the valley where the little Boy had first come, and, as he had a room in his house for a visitor, he took him in, and they grew to like each other so well that again the little Boy did not care to go away, nor did the Hermit care to have him. The Hermit had not always been a Hermit, but he had become a sorrowful man, and did not care to live where other people lived, or to share any of their pleasures. The reason he had become a sorrowful man was that his only child had died, and it seemed to him that there was nothing worth living for after that. So he moved to the lonely valley, and I suppose would have spent the rest of his life by himself, if it had not been for the little Elf Boy.

It was a very lovely valley, with great, green meadows that sloped down to a rippling brook, and in summer-time were full of red and white and yellow blossoms. Over the brook there hung green trees, whose roots made pleasant places to rest when one was tired; and along the water’s edge there grew blue flowers, while many little frogs and other live creatures played there. It was summer-time when the little Elf Boy came, and the flowers and the trees and the brook and the frogs made him very happy. I think that in the world from which he came they did not have such things: it was made chiefly of gold and silver and precious stones, instead of things that grow and blossom and keep one company. So the Elf Boy was very happy. He did not ask to go to play in the village over the hill, but was quite content with the meadows and the brook-side. The only thing that did not please him was that the old Hermit still remained sorrowful, thinking always of his child who had died and this the Elf Boy did not understand, for in the world from which he came nothing ever died, and he thought it strange that if the Hermit’s child had died he did not patiently wait for him to come back again.

So the summer went merrily on, and the Elf Boy learned to know the names of all the flowers in the meadow, and to love them dearly. He also became so well acquainted with the birds that they would come to him for crumbs, and sit on the branches close by to sing to him; the frogs would do the same thing, and although the Elf Boy did not think their voices as sweet as those of the birds, he was too polite to let them know it.

But when September came, there began to be a sad change. The first thing the Elf Boy noticed was that the birds began to disappear from the meadows. When he complained of this, the Hermit told him they had gone to make their visit to the Southland, and would come back again; and this he easily believed. But as time went on, and the air became more and more still as the last of them took their flight, he began to lose heart.

What was worse, at the same time the flowers began to disappear from the meadows. They were dead, the Hermit said, and in this way the Elf Boy learned what that meant. At first others came to take their places, and he tried to learn to like the flowers of autumn as well as those which he had known first. But as these faded and dropped off, none came after them. The mornings grew colder, and the leaves on the trees were changing in a strange way. When they grew red and yellow, instead of green, the Elf Boy thought it was a queer thing for them to put on different colours, and wondered how long it would last. But when they began to fall, he was very sad indeed. At last there came a day when every limb was bare, except for a few dried leaves at the top of one of the tallest trees. The Elf Boy was almost broken-hearted.

One morning he went out early to see what new and dreadful thing had happened in the night, for it seemed now that every night took something beautiful out of the world. He made his way toward the brook, but when he reached the place where he usually heard it calling to him as it ran merrily over the stones, he could not hear a sound. He stopped and listened, but everything was wonderfully still. Then he ran as fast as his feet would carry him to the border of the brook. Sure enough, it had stopped running. It was covered with a hard sheet of ice.

The Elf Boy turned and went to the Hermit’s house. By the time he had reached it, the tears were running down his cheeks.

“Why, what is the matter?” asked the Hermit.

“The brook is dead,” said the Elf Boy.

“I think not,” said the Hermit. “It is frozen over, but that will not hurt it. Be patient, and it will sing to you again.”

“No,” said the Elf Boy. “You told me that the birds would come back, and they have not come. You told me that the trees were not dead, but their leaves have every one gone, and I am sure they are. You told me that the flowers had seeds that did not die, but would make other flowers but I can not find them, and the meadow is bare and dark. Even the grass is not green any more. It is a dead world. In the summer-time I did not see how you could be sorrowful; but now I do not see how any one can be happy.”

The Hermit thought it would be of no use to try to explain anything more to the Elf Boy, so he said again, “Be patient,” and tried to find some books in which he could teach the Boy to read, and make him forget the outside world.

The next time they went for a walk to the village over the hill, the Elf Boy was very curious to see whether the same thing had happened there that had happened in their valley. Of course it had: the trees there seemed dead, too, and the flowers were all gone from the door-yards. The Boy expected that every one in the village would now be as sorrowful as the Hermit, and he was very much surprised when he saw them looking as cheerful as ever. There were some boys playing on the street-corner, who seemed to be as happy as boys could be. One of them spoke to the Elf Boy, and he answered:

“How can you play so happily, when such a dreadful thing has happened to the world?”

“Why, what has happened?”

“The flowers and trees are dead,” said the Elf Boy, “the birds are gone, and the brook is frozen, and the meadow is bare and grey. And it is so on this side of the hill also.”

Then the boys in the street laughed merrily, and did not answer the Elf Boy, for they remembered that he was a stranger in the world, and supposed he would not understand if they should try to talk to him. And he went on through the village, not daring to speak to any others, but all the time wondering that the people could still be so happy.

As the winter came on, the Hermit taught him many things from the books in his house, and the Elf Boy grew interested in them and was not always sad. When the snow came he found ways to play in it, and even saw that the meadow was beautiful again, though in a different way from what it had been in summer. Yet still he could not think the world by any means so pleasant a place as it had been in the time of flowers and birds; and if it were not that he had become very fond of the Hermit, who was now the only friend he could remember, he would have wished to go back to the world from which he had come. It seemed to him now that the Hermit must miss him very much if he should go away, since they two were the only people who seemed really to understand how sorrowful a place the earth is.

So the weeks went by. One day in March, as he and the Hermit sat at their books, drops of water began to fall from the eaves of the roof, and they saw that the snow was melting in the sunshine.

“Do you want to take a little walk down toward the brook?” asked the Hermit. “I should not wonder if I could prove to you to-day that it has not forgotten how to talk to you.”

“Yes,” said the Elf Boy, though he did not think the Hermit could be right. It was months since he had cared to visit the brook, it made him so sad to find it still and cold.

When they reached the foot of the hillside the sheet of ice was still there, as he had expected.

“Never mind,” said the Hermit. “Come out on the ice with me, and put down your ear and listen.”

So the Elf Boy put down his ear and listened; and he heard, as plainly as though there were no ice between, the voice of the brook gurgling in the bottom of its bed. He clapped his hands for joy.

“It is waking up, you see,” said the Hermit. “Other things will waken too, if you will be patient.”

The Elf Boy did not know quite what to think, but he waited day after day with his eyes and ears wide open to see if anything else might happen; and wonderful things did happen all the time. The brook sang more and more distinctly, and at last broke through its cold coverlet and went dancing along in full sight. One morning, while the snow was still around the house, the Elf Boy heard a chirping sound, and looking from his window, saw a red robin outside asking for his breakfast.

“Why,” cried the Boy, “have you really come back agin?”

“Certainly,” said the robin, “don’t you know it is almost spring?”

But the Elf Boy did not understand what he said.

There was a pussy-willow growing by the brook, and the Boy’s next discovery was that hundreds of little grey buds were coming out. He watched them grow bigger from day to day, and while he was doing this the snow was melting away in great patches where the sun shone warmest on the meadow, and the blades of grass that came up into the daylight were greener than anything the Elf Boy had ever seen.

Then the pink buds came on the maple trees, and unfolded day by day. And the fruit trees in the Hermit’s orchard were as white with blossoms as they had lately been with snow.

“Not a single tree is dead,” said the Elf Boy.

Last of all came the wild flowers—blue and white violets near the brook, dandelions around the house, and a little later, yellow buttercups all over the meadow. Slowly but steadily the world was made over, until it glowed with white and green and gold.

The Elf Boy was wild with joy. One by one his old friends came back, and he could not bear to stay in the house for many minutes from morning to night. Now he knew what the wise Hermit had meant by saying, “Be patient,” and he began to wonder again that the Hermit could be sorrowful in so beautiful a world.

One morning the church bells in the village—whose ringing was the only sound that ever came from the village over the hill—rang so much longer and more joyfully than usual, that the Elf Boy asked the Hermit why they did so. The Hermit looked in one of his books, and answered:

“It is Easter Day. The village people celebrate it on one Sunday every spring.”

“May we not go also?” asked the Elf Boy, and as it was the first time he had ever asked to go to the village, the Hermit could not refuse to take him.

The village was glowing with flowers. There were many fruit trees, and they, too, were in bloom. Every one who passed along the street seemed either to wear flowers or to carry them in his hand. The people were all entering the churchyard; and here the graves, which had looked so grey and cold when the Hermit and the Boy had last seen them, were beautiful with flowers that the village people had planted or had strewn over them for Easter.

The people all passed into the church. But the Hermit and the Elf Boy, who never went where there was a crowd, stayed outside where the humming-birds and bees were flying happily among the flowers. Suddenly there came from the church a burst of music. To the Elf Boy it seemed the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He put his finger on his lip to show the Hermit that he wanted to listen. These were the words they sang:

“I am He that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore!”

The Boy took hold of the Hermit’s hand and led him to the church door, that they might hear still better. He was very happy.

“Oh,” he cried, “I do not believe that anything ever really dies.”

The Hermit looked down at him and smiled.

“Perhaps not,” he said.

When the music began again, a strange thing happened. The Hermit sang the Easter song with the others. It was the first time he had sung for many years.

SHEEP AND LAMBS

Katharine Tynan

ROBIN REDBREAST—A CHRIST LEGEND[16]

Selma Lagerlöf

It happened one day when our Lord sat in His Paradise creating and painting little birds that He conceived the idea of making a little grey bird.

“Remember your name is Robin Redbreast,” said our Lord to the bird, as soon as it was finished. Then He held it in the palm of His open hand and let it fly.

After the bird had been testing his wings a while, and had seen something of the beautiful world in which he was destined to live, he became curious to see what he himself was like. He noticed that he was entirely grey, and that his breast was just as grey as all the rest of him. Robin Redbreast twisted and turned in all directions as he viewed himself in the mirror of a clear lake, but he couldn’t find a single red feather. Then he flew back to our Lord.

Our Lord sat there on His throne, big and gentle. Out of His hands came butterflies that fluttered about His head; doves cooed on His shoulders; and out of the earth beneath Him grew the rose, the lily, and the daisy.

The little bird’s heart beat heavily with fright, but with easy curves he flew nearer and nearer our Lord, till at last he rested on our Lord’s hand. Then our Lord asked what the little bird wanted. “I only wish to ask you about one thing,” said the little bird. “What is it you wish to know?” said our Lord. “Why should I be called Redbreast, when I am all grey from the bill to the very end of my tail? Why am I called Redbreast when I do not possess one single red feather?” The bird looked beseechingly on our Lord with his tiny black eyes—then turned his head. About him he saw pheasants all red under a sprinkle of gold dust, parrots with marvellous red neckbands, cocks with red combs, to say nothing about the butterflies, the goldfinches, and the roses! And naturally he thought how little he needed—just one tiny drop of colour on his breast and he, too, would be a beautiful bird, and his name would fit him. “Why should I be called Redbreast when I am so entirely grey?” asked the bird once again, and waited for our Lord to say: “Ah, my friend, I see that I have forgotten to paint your breast feathers red, but wait a moment and it shall be done.”

But our Lord only smiled a little and said: “I have called you Robin Redbreast, and Robin Redbreast shall your name be, but you must look to it that you yourself earn your red breast feathers.” Then our Lord lifted His hand and let the bird fly once more—out into the world.

The bird flew down into Paradise, meditating deeply.

What could a little bird like him do to earn for himself red feathers? The only thing he could think of was to make his nest in a brier bush. He built it in among the thorns in the close thicket. It looked as if he waited for a rose leaf to cling to his throat and give him colour.

After many years there dawned a new day, one that will long be remembered in the world’s history. On the morning of this day Robin Redbreast sat upon a little naked hillock outside of Jerusalem’s walls, and sang to his young ones, who rested in a tiny nest in a brier bush.

Robin Redbreast told the little ones all about that wonderful day of creation, and how the Lord had given names to everything, just as each Redbreast had told it ever since the first Redbreast had heard God’s word, and gone out of God’s hand. “And mark you,” he ended sorrowfully, “so many years have gone, so many roses have bloomed, so many little birds have come out of their eggs since Creation Day, but Robin Redbreast is still a little grey bird. He has not yet succeeded in gaining his red feathers.”

The little young ones opened wide their tiny bills, and asked if their forebears had never tried to do any great thing to earn the priceless red colour.

“We have all done what we could,” said the little bird, “but we have all gone amiss. Even the first Robin Redbreast met one day another bird exactly like himself, and he began immediately to love it with such a mighty love that he could feel his breast turn. ‘Ah!’ he thought then, ‘now I understand! It was our Lord’s meaning that I should love with so much ardour that my breast should grow red in colour from the very warmth of the love that lives in my heart.’ But he missed it, as all those who came after him have missed it, and as even you shall miss it.”

The little young ones twittered, utterly bewildered, and already began to mourn because the red colour would not come to beautify their little, downy grey breasts.

“We had also hoped that song would help us,” said the grown-up bird, speaking in long-drawn-out tones—“the first Robin Redbreast sang until his heart swelled within him, he was so carried away, and he dared to hope anew. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘it is the glow of the song which lives in my soul that will colour my breast feathers red.’ But he missed it, as all the others have missed it and as even you shall miss it.” Again was heard a sad “peep” from the young ones’ half-naked throats.

“We had also counted on our courage and our valour,” said the bird. “The first Robin Redbreast fought bravely with other birds, until his breast flamed with the pride of conquest. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘my breast feathers shall become red from the love of battle which burns in my heart.’ He, too, missed it, as all those who came after him have missed it, and as even you shall miss it.” The little young ones peeped courageously that they still wished to try and win the much-sought-for prize, but the bird answered them sorrowfully that it would be impossible. What could they do when all other robins had missed the mark? What could they do more than love, sing, and fight? What could—the little bird stopped short, for out of one of the gates of Jerusalem came a crowd of people marching, and the whole procession rushed toward the hillock, where the bird had its nest. There were riders on proud horses, soldiers with long spears, executioners with nails and hammers. There were judges and priests in the procession, weeping women, and above all a mob of mad, loose people running about—a filthy, howling mob of loiterers.

The little grey bird sat trembling on the edge of his nest. He feared each instant that the little brier bush would be trampled down and his young ones killed!

“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

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

IN THE GARDEN AN EASTER PRELUDE

W. M. L. Jay