Daisy: or, The Fairy Spectacles

Then the tears were dried at once; and the child, taking Daisy's hand, said firmly, "Wherever you lead me I will go."

Daisy never knew what made her change her mind, for she had not heard the fairy's whisper; but angels in heaven knew it, and saw how, at that moment, the child unconsciously stepped into one of the golden paths that lead to the beautiful city on high.

For no good deed, no good thought or intention even, is lost. Few, perhaps, behold them here; but hosts of the heavenly people may always be looking on.

And even if they were not, it is better to be good and kind: the good deed brings its own reward; it makes our hearts peaceful; it makes us respect ourselves, so that we can look serenely in the face of every one, and, if they blame us, answer, "I have done the best I could."

CHAPTER XX.

TWILIGHT

When Maud had gone far enough to lose sight of Daisy and the dame, she slackened her pace, and looked about to see how beautiful the path had grown.

The trees met in green arches above her head; the road side was sprinkled with lovely flowers, fragrant in the evening air; and the breeze, stirring freshly, gave motion and a sweet, low sound to every thing. Insects were chirping merrily, and stars began to twinkle through the boughs.

Even Maud did not feel lonely; she had much to remember about the fair – all her purchases, all the compliments she had heard paid to her beauty, all Daisy's usefulness, and how sure she would be to make her go again.

But the scene about her grew every moment quieter and more beautiful; so that, leaving her worldly thoughts, a solemn feeling came over Maud, and she began to think of the still more beautiful place which was some time to be her home, —

And then of that Glorious One whom she was to love; mean and coarse seemed her earthly lovers when she thought of him, and their compliments vulgar and idle beside his gracious words.

"Ah, if I could but see this Christ once," thought Maud, "so that I might know what would please him, and could always remember him just as he really is! It is strange that he does not come when he must know how I am longing to behold his face."

And, in truth, Maud had never for an hour forgotten her sister's vision, but was constantly thinking what more she could do to make herself attractive when the Beautiful One should come.

She would not go out at noon, for fear of tanning her complexion; she hardly ate enough to live, because of a fancy that angels have very poor appetites; she gave up the sweet smile which she had preserved with so much care, and looked serious, and even sad. And the foolish girl made it an excuse for not doing her share of the household work, that she could not go to heaven with the stains of labor on her hands.

"What more can he require of me?" thought Maud. "Let him but say, and I will do any thing to serve this greatest of all the angels – will die – will be his slave!"

In the twilight, Maud saw, all at once, beside her a being more beautiful than she had even thought her Christ. He was thin and pale; he looked tired, and there were drops of blood on his forehead and tears in his eyes.

Yet was there something noble and good about him, that seemed grander than all the beauty of this earth, and melted the heart of the haughty Maud; so that she asked him to come to her cabin for food, and promised to make the old dame give him clothes.

He shook his head, and answered, "I have come to you before, naked, and hungry, and tired, and sad; but you drove me away."

"O, no, you are mistaken," said Maud; "I never saw you in my life before."

"When you refused food and shelter to the poor, old, and wretched, you were starving and freezing me."

"How could I know that?" said Maud, a little peevishly. "But, come, take my hand, and I will lead you where there is shelter and food."

He drew back from the hand she offered. "I cannot touch these fingers; wicked words are written over them."

"No such thing!" said Maud, thoroughly vexed. "There is not a man at the fair but would be proud to take my hand. Read the wicked words, if you can."

"Waste, weakness, indolence, selfishness, scorn, vanity," he read, as if the hand were a book spread out before him.

And then the beautiful being disappeared; and Maud, never dreaming that she had spoken with Christ, and hearing her sister's voice not far behind, hurried on quickly, so as to be in the cabin first.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE FAIRY LETTERS

Maud was so tired of being alone, and so anxious, besides, to ask if Daisy had seen the stranger who disappeared from her, that she ran good naturedly enough to the door, to welcome her sister.

But when she saw the dame's wretched old face, and the little beggar whom she had thrust away so scornfully, and Daisy herself bending under the heavy load of sticks, Maud's wrath came back again.

"Here I shall have to wait an hour for my supper," she complained, "because you chose to lag behind, and tire yourself with bringing burdens for other folks. I should like to know where you will put your precious friends: not in our house – be very sure of that."

But the dame quickly silenced her by asking, "Who has fed, and clothed, and taken care of you and all your kith and kin? Who gave you the gown on your back and the beauty in your cheeks? And when you found your sister lying half dead by the roadside, – as you would have been but for my care, – what were you willing to do for her? O Maud, for shame!"

"She is no sister of mine," answered Maud, making way; however, as she spoke, for the beggar to enter her door.

"Ask Daisy," was the dame's reply.

"O Maud, I was so sorry that you left us," Daisy said; "for the beautiful man I saw in heaven, whom you are to love, came and spoke to me, with a look and words I can never forget in all my life."

"Where was it?" asked the sister eagerly.

"In that part of the road which our father used to call the Church, because the trees made such grand arches overhead, and it was so still and holy, with the stars looking through the boughs. You remember the elm, with the grape vine climbing up among its boughs, and hanging full of fruit: I met him there."

"But he could not be half so beautiful as the man I saw in that very place," boasted Maud. "I talked with him a while; then I suppose he heard you coming, for he went away."

The old dame's bright, sharp eyes were fixed upon her; and Maud cast her own eyes down in shame, as Daisy continued, —

"The dame's bundle of wood was very heavy, and this little girl dragged so upon my skirts as we toiled on, that I knew she must be tired. I was feeling glad that I happened to meet them, because I am both young and strong, you know, and used to work, when, as I told you, Christ appeared, standing beneath the elm."

"How ashamed you must have felt! I suppose he thought you the old dame's daughter, or a beggar, perhaps. I'm glad you did not bring him to our cabin; how it would look beside his palace in the golden city above! What did he say to you?"

"'Blessed, O Daisy, are the merciful,' he said; I was hungry, and you gave me food; thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was sad, and you cheered me; tired, and I rested on your arm.'

"'O, no,' I answered, 'you must be thinking of some one else. I never saw you before, except in my vision once.'

"He took my hand, and looked into my face with such a gentle smile that I did not feel afraid, and pointed at the wood: 'This burden was not the old dame's, but mine; the blood you wiped away was mine; when you fed and comforted this little one, you were feeding and comforting me. You never can tell how much good you are doing, Daisy; poor girl as you are, you may give joy to my Father's angels. Look through your spectacles.'

"So I looked, and there sat the poor little beggar, (see, she has fallen asleep from weariness!) moaning and sobbing in the grass, as when we found her first; and an angel stood beside her, weeping, too."

"An angel beside her?" interrupted Maud.

"Yes, a beautiful angel, with the calm, holy look which they all wear in heaven, but I never saw upon this earth; he wept because she had no friend; and, just then, I was so fortunate as to come past, and, not seeing the angel, I asked her to take my hand, and run along beside me.

"But now I saw that, when the child began to smile, the angel also smiled, and lifted his white wings and flew – O, faster than lightning – over the tree tops, and past the clouds; and the sky parted where he went, until I saw him stand before the throne, in the wonderful city above.

"And Christ said, 'He stands there always, watching her, unless she needs him here; and when her earthly life is over, he will lead her back, to dwell in my Father's house. For the great God is her Father, and yours, and mine; she is my sister: should I not feel her grief?'"

Maud's heart fell, for she felt that the being whom she had met must also have been Christ, and asked Daisy if he looked sad and tired, and had wounds in his hands.

"O, no – what could tire him, Maud? He looked strong, and noble, and glad, and seemed, among the dark trees, like a shining light."

"Alas! then it was I who tired him, and made him sorrowful," thought Maud; then said, aloud, "But, Daisy, are you sure he took your hand? See, it is smeared with the old dame's blood, and soiled with tears you wiped from the beggar's face, and stained and roughened with hard work: are you sure he touched it?"

"The whole was so strange, that I dare not be sure whether any part of it was real," replied Daisy, who was so modest that she did not wish to tell all Christ had said.

"I am sure, then," outspoke the dame. "He took her hand, and – listen to me, Maud! – he said, 'This blood, these tears, these labor stains, will be the brightest jewels you can wear in heaven; have courage, and be patient, Daisy – for beautiful words are written here, that never will fade away.'"

And when Maud asked what they were, the dame replied sharply, "Exactly the opposite of words that are written on somebody's fine hands: self-sacrifice, and generosity, and faith, and earnestness, and love. Such words as these make Daisy's rough hands beautiful."

CHAPTER XXII.

THE FACE AND THE HEART

"Can I give up my beautiful face, and become a poor little drudge, like Daisy?" asked Maud of herself. "No, it's a great deal too much trouble. I can find plenty of friends at the fair; and so I will forget the sad, sweet face that has haunted me all these months."

So Maud never told that she had looked upon Christ; though every time Daisy spoke of him, she felt it could be no other.

The winter came on; and the report of Maud's beauty had spread so far, that she was invited to balls in the neighboring towns; and she no longer walked, for people sent their elegant carriages for her.

The dame took care that she should have dresses and jewels in abundance; and Daisy could not but feel proud when she saw her sister look like such a splendid lady; though sometimes she would be frightened by seeing the eyes of a live snake glittering among Maud's diamonds, and something that seemed like the teeth of a wolf glistening among her pearls.

The beauty had many lovers, but she found some fault with each; until, one day, the handsomest and gayest man in all the country round asked her to marry him.

She refused, at first, because he had not quite so much money as the others; but when she saw how many ladies were in love with him, Maud felt it would be a fine thing to humble them, and show her own power. The old dame could give them money enough; and so she changed her mind, and began to make ready for her wedding.

Then you should have seen the splendid things that the old dame brought, day after day, and poured on the cabin floor – velvets, and heavy brocades, gay ribbons and silks, and costly laces; as for the pearls and diamonds, you would think she had found them by handfuls in the river bed, there were so many.

Meantime Daisy had come across a very different jewel, though I am not sure but it was worth a cabin full of such as Maud's.

Once she was walking with the little beggar girl, whom Daisy called her own child now, and named Susan, after her mother; before them, climbing the hill side, was a man in a coarse blue frock, who seemed like a herdsman.

He was driving his cows, and turning back to look for a stray one, Susan chanced to see his face; she broke from Daisy, and with a cry of joy, ran into the herdsman's arms.

His name was Joseph; and Daisy learned that, when the little girl's mother was sick, Joseph had brought her food, and taken the kindest care of her; but his master sent him to buy some cows in a distant town, and before he reached home again, Susan's mother did not need any more charity, and the poor child herself was cast out into the streets.

They sat on the grass beside Joseph; and Daisy found that, for all his coarse dress, he loved beautiful things as well as herself, and had sat there, day after day, watching the river and sky, and finding out the secrets of the birds, seeing the insects gather in their stores, and the rabbits burrow, and listening to the whisper of the leaves.

And, in cold winter nights, he had watched the stars moving on in their silent paths, so far above his head, and fancied he could find pictures and letters among them, and that they beckoned, and seemed to promise, if he would only try, he might come and live with them.

Then, out of some young shoots of elder, Joseph had made a flute; and Daisy was enchanted when he played on this, for, besides that she had never heard a musical instrument before, he seemed to bring every thing she loved around her in his wonderful tunes.

She could almost see the dark pine tops gilded with morning light, and the cabin nestling under them; and then the song of a bird, and of many birds, trilled out from amidst the boughs, and the little leaves on the birch trees trembled as with joy, and her rabbits darted through the shade.

Again, she saw the wide river rolling on, the sky reflected in it, and the flowers on its banks just lifting their sweet faces to the sun, and every thing was wet with dew, and fresh, and silent.

And then he played what was like a storm, with lightning, and huge trees crashing down, and the old dame seated before her fire in the cave, and Daisy herself creeping alone through the dark, tired, and drenched with rain.

Daisy told her new friend that she lived in the wood, and what a beautiful sister she had at home, and how she wished that Maud could hear his music.

But Joseph seemed contented to play for her, and could not leave his cows, he said, to look upon a handsome face; he did not care so much for bright eyes and pretty lips as for goodness and gentleness, that would make the ugliest face look beautiful to him.

CHAPTER XXIII.

JOSEPH

What with Joseph's music, and all he had to say to them, Daisy and Susan sat for hours on the hill side, and promised, at parting, to come very soon again.

But they found Maud ready, as usual, to spoil all their pleasure, by fretting because they had left her alone, and had not come earlier, and a hundred other foolish things.

She wouldn't hear a word about the music, but asked her sister if she was not ashamed to talk with a cow boy, and declared that neither she nor Susan should go to the hill again.

But it was no strange thing for Maud to change her mind; so, one day, she told Daisy she had dreamed about Joseph's music, and must hear it, and they would all go that very afternoon.

Daisy was glad, you may be sure; but she had great trouble with her sister on the way, for Maud would shriek at an earth worm, and start at a fly, and was afraid of bats, and snakes, and owls, and more other things than Daisy ever thought of.

Then the sharp sticks cut through her satin boots; and when she sat a while to rest, the crickets ate great holes in her new silk gown, and mosquitos kept buzzing about her, and little worms dropped down sometimes from the boughs.

When any of these things happened, of course poor Daisy had to be scolded, as if it were her fault. If a shadow moved, or a bird flew quickly past, or a bee buzzed by, – thinking of any one except Miss Maud, – the beauty would fancy that a tiger or rattlesnake was making ready to spring at her, and suffered a great deal more from fright than she would from pain if the creatures she dreaded had really been near, and she had allowed them quietly to eat her up.

When, after all this trouble, she found that Joseph wore a coarse blue frock, and did not oil his curly hair, and hardly looked at her, while he was overjoyed at seeing Daisy again, Maud began to pout, and say she must go home.

But Joseph brought a kind of harp he had made from reeds and corn stalks; and when he began to play, Maud started, for it was as if she stood under the arching trees again, and the Beautiful Being stood beside her, with his sad eyes, saying, "O Maud, when you despise my little ones, you are despising me."

She thought it must only be a kind of waking dream, however, and tossing her head, asked Joseph if he could play any opera airs, and where he bought his harp, and who his teacher could have been.

"The trees, and river, and birds, the morning wind and midnight sky, sorrow, and joy, and hope have been my teachers," he answered gravely.

"They're an old-fashioned set, then," said Maud. "We haven't had any of the tunes you play at our balls this year; and you must find more modern teachers, or else be content to take care of your cows."

Joseph heard not her sneers; he was talking with Daisy; and every thing he said seemed so noble, and wise, and pure, so unlike the words of Maud or of the fretful dame, that Daisy could not help loving him with all her heart.

The more she thought of Joseph the less she said of him to Maud; but whenever her sister was away, they were sure to meet; and the herdsman grew as fond of Daisy as she was of him.

In the long winter evenings, when Maud was away at her balls, she little dreamed what pleasant times Daisy had at home. When floating about in the dance, to the sound of gay, inspiring music, she thought of her sister only to pity her, and did not know that she was listening to sweeter music from Joseph's humble harp of reeds.

We often pity people who are a great deal better off than ourselves, forgetting that what seems fine to us may be tedious enough to them.

Then it was such a new thing for Daisy to have any one think of her comfort, and plan pleasant surprises for her, and even admire her serious face, and – best of all – appreciate her spectacles.

As soon as Joseph came, he wanted her to put them on, and tell him about a hundred things which he had looked at only with his naked eyes. Daisy found so often that he had seen rightly and clearly, and had in humblest paths picked up most lovely things, and every where found what was best, she told him that he must have borrowed the old dame's lantern.

But Joseph said, no, he had only taken care that the lantern in his own breast should be free from dust and stains; while that burned clearly, there was no use in borrowing another's light.

Maud's lover took her to dances and sleigh rides, and gave her jewels and confectionery; Daisy's lover took her to see the old sick mother he supported, and to look at his cows in their neat barn, and brought her a new apron sometimes from the fair, or a bag of chestnuts which he had picked up in the fall.

But Joseph gave the love of a fresh, honest heart; and Daisy thought this better than all her sister's bright stones and sugar plums.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE FRESHET

The spring came; and Maud's wedding day was so near that she and Daisy went to the town every week to make purchases.

Now, the river which they were obliged to cross always overflowed its banks in spring. Although, in summer, Daisy had often walked across it, by stepping from stone to stone in the rough bed, it had risen now to a height of many feet.

Then, blocks of ice came down from the mountain streams above, and swept along bridges, and hay ricks, and drift wood with them, just as happened once, you may remember, when Susan was alive.

A new bridge had been built; but it jarred frightfully when the heaped blocks of ice came down, or some great tree was dashed against it by the rapid stream.

Things were in this state when the two sisters reached home, one day, from town. When Maud felt how the bridge jarred, she ran back screaming, and told Daisy to go first, and make sure it was safe.

Daisy was not a coward; but this time she did think of her own life for once, or rather of Joseph – how he would grieve if she were swept away and drowned.

Her heart beat faster than usual; yet she walked on calmly, and soon gained the other side. Then she called back for Maud to wait till she could find Joseph, and secure his help.

But Maud, always impatient, grew tired of waiting, and mustering all her courage, stepped upon the bridge alone.

She had hardly reached the centre when its foundations gave way; and, with a great crash and whirl, with the trees, and ice, and drift wood whirling after it, the bridge went sweeping down the stream.

So Joseph and Daisy returned only in time to hear Maud's shrieks, which sounded louder than the heavy, jolting logs, and creaking beams, and grinding ice.

Running across the bridge wildly, she beckoned for Joseph to come to her – implored him to trust himself upon the blocks of ice, or else send Daisy, and not leave her to perish alone.

There came new drifts of ice from above, jolting against the bridge, and throwing Maud from her feet; and so the heavy structure went whirling, tossing like a straw upon the stream.

Joseph turned to Daisy. "If I go to her help, we both may slip from the unsteady blocks of ice, and drown. Yet I may possibly save her; shall I go or stay?"

"Go," she said instantly.

"Then good by, Daisy; perhaps we never shall look in each other's faces again."

"Not here, perhaps; but, go."

"What's that?" asked the sharp voice of the dame. "Foolish children! Don't you know that, when Maud is drowned, there will be no one to separate you, and, as long as she lives, she will not let you be married?"

"She is my sister," said Daisy. And Joseph, stepping boldly upon the ice, creeping from log to log, – lost now in the branches of a tree, dashed into the water, and struggling out again, – found his way to the bridge, and threw his strong arm about the form of the fainting Maud.

But here was new trouble; for she declared that she would never venture where Joseph had been, not if they both were swept away.

Finding her so unreasonable, the herdsman took Maud, like an infant, in his arms, and, though she shrieked and struggled, stepped from the bridge just as its straining beams parted, and fell, one by one, among the drift wood in the stream.

When Maud stood safely on the shore, she was so glad to find herself alive, that she took off every one of her jewels and offered them to Joseph.

But the herdsman told her that he did not wish to be paid for what had cost him nothing, and had he lost his life, the jewels would have been no recompense.

"So you want more, perhaps," said Maud, the haughty look coming again into her handsome face. "Well, what shall I give you for risking your precious life?"

"Daisy," he answered.

"My sister? Do you dare tell me that she would marry a cowboy?"

"Ask her."

"Yes," said Daisy.

"Nonsense! you will live with me, Daisy, in my new great house; and if you marry at all, it will be some rich, elegant man, so that you can entertain us when I and my husband wish to visit you."

"I shall marry Joseph or no one," Daisy answered firmly.

"Well, then, Joseph, cross the river on the ice once more, and Daisy shall be your wife." Maud thought she had found a way to rid herself of the troublesome herdsman; for it seemed to her the dreadful voyage could not be made again in safety; and then she half believed that Joseph would sooner give up Daisy than try.

But, without a word, he darted upon the ice – slipped, as at first; and when Daisy saw him struggling, she flew to his help – slipped where he slipped: a tree came sailing down, and struck them both. Maud saw no more.