MARIE AND THE MEADOW-BROOK.
A little maid sat sadly weeping while the sunbeams played merrily at hide-and-seek with the shadows that the great oak branches cast on the ground; while the warm summer wind sang softly to itself as it passed, and the blue sky had not even a white cloud with which to hide the sad sight from its eyes.
"Why do you weep?" asked the oak-tree; but Marie did not hear it, and her tears tell faster than ever.
"Why are you so sad?" questioned the sunbeams; and they came to her gently and tried to peep into her eyes.
But she only got up and sat farther away in the shadow, and they could do nothing to comfort her. So they danced awhile on the door-step; and then the sun called them away, for it was growing late.
And still the little maid sat weeping; and if she had not fallen asleep from very weariness, who knows what the sad consequences might not have been?
"How warm it is!" murmured the dandelions in the meadow. "Our heads are quite heavy, and our feet are hot. If it was not our duty to stand up, we would like nothing better than to sink down in the shade and go to sleep; but we must attend to our task and keep awake."
"What can you have, you wee things, to keep you busy?" asked the tall milkweed that grew near the fence-rails; and the mullein-stalk beside it echoed,—
"What, indeed?"
"Now, one can understand one so tall as I having to stand upright and do my duty; but you,—why, you are no taller than one of my green pods that I am filling with floss—"
"And not half so tall as one of my leaves that I must line with velvet," interrupted the mullein-stalk again.
The dandelions looked grieved for a moment, but answered brightly: "Why, don't you know? It must be because you live so far away—there by the fence—that you don't know we are here to pin the grass down until it grows old enough to know it must not wander off like the crickets, or to blow away like the floss in your own pods. Young grass is very foolish,—I think I heard the farmer call it green the other day, but we don't like the expression ourselves,—and it would be apt to do flighty things if we did n't pin it down where it belongs. When we have taught it its lesson, we can go to sleep. We always stay until the last minute, and then we slip on our white nightcaps,—so fluffy and light and soft they are,—and lo! some day we are gone, no one knows where but the wind; and he carries us off in his arms, for we are too tired to walk; and then we rest until the next year, when we are bright and early at our task again."
Then the milkweed and the mullein-stalk bowed very gravely and respectfully to the little dandelions, and said,—
"Yes, we see. Even such wee things as you have your duties, and we are sorry you are so weary."
So the milkweed whispered to the breeze that the dandelions were too warm, and begged it to help them; but the breeze murmured very gently,—
"I don't know what is the matter with me, dear milkweed, but I am so faint, so faint, I think I shall die."
And sure enough, the next day the little breeze had died, and then they knew how they missed him, even though he had been so weak for the last few days; for the sun glared down fiercely, and the meadow thought it was angry, and was so frightened it grew feverish and parched with very dread.
"We wish our parasols were larger," sighed the toadstools; "but they are so small that, try as we may, we cannot get them to cast a large shadow, and now the breeze has died we have no messenger. If only one knew how to get word to the clouds!"
But the clouds had done such steady duty through the spring that they thought they were entitled to a holiday, and had gone to the mountain-tops, where they were resting calmly, feeling very grand among such an assembly of crowned heads.
Meanwhile the meadow grew browner and browner, and its pretty dress was being scorched so that by and by no one would have recognized it for the gay thing it had been a week ago. And still the sun glared angrily down, and the little breeze was dead.
Then the grasses laid down their tiny spears, and the dandelions bent their heads, and the locusts and the crickets and the grasshoppers called feebly,—
"Oh, little brook, cannot you get out of your bed and come this way?"
"Our hearts are broken," cried the daisies.
"We shall die," wailed the ragged-sailors. Then they all waited for the brook to reply; but she was silent, and call as they would they could get no answer.
"Hush!" whispered the springs. "Her bed is empty. Have n't you noticed how little she sang lately? The weeds must have fallen asleep and she has run away. You know they always hindered her."
They did not tell that they were too weak to feed the brook; so it had dried away. And still the sun glared down, and the little breeze was dead, and the brook had disappeared; while there on the door-step sat Marie weeping big tears,—for the little maid was always sad, and come when you would, there was Marie with her dark eyes filled and brimming over with the shining drops.
The beeches beckoned her from the garden; she saw them do it. Their long branches waved to her to come, like inviting arms; and still weeping, she stole quietly away.
"Come," whispered the gnarled apple-trees down in the orchard; and she threaded her way sadly among the trunks, while her tears fell splash, splash, on her white pinafore.
"Here!" gasped the meadow-grass; and she followed on, sobbing softly to herself, as she sat down where, days ago, the brook had merrily sung.
"Why do you grieve?" asked the pebbles; and she heard them and answered,—
"Because I am so sad. Things are never as I want them, and so I cry. I am made to obey, and then, when the stars come out and I wish to stay up, I am sent to bed; and the next morning, when I am so sleepy I can hardly open my eyes, I am made to get up. Oh, this is a very sad world!" And she wept afresh.
Then the flowers and the grasses and the pebbles, seeing her tears, all said at once: "Would you like to stay here with us? Then you could stay awake all night and gaze at the stars, and in the morning you need not get up. You may lie in the brook's empty bed, and you need never obey your parents any more."
Marie was silent a moment, and then a hundred small voices said, "Do, oh, do!" And her tears fell faster and more fast, and larger and larger, for she felt more abused than ever now the meadow had shown her sympathy, as she thought. She kept dropping tears so quickly that by and by even her sobbing could scarcely be heard for the splash, splash, of the many drops that were falling on the white pebbles in the brook's bed.
How they fell! The brown eyes grew dim, and Marie could not see. She felt tiny hands pulling her down—down; and in a moment she had ceased to be a little girl and had become a brook, while her weeping was the murmur of little waves as they plashed against the stones.
Yes, it was true!
She need never go to sleep when the stars came out; she need never get out of her bed in the morning,—how could she when the strong weeds hindered her,—and how could a brook obey when people spoke?
And meanwhile the meadow grew gay again, for the brook cooled its fever; and by and by the dandelions tied on their large, fluffy nightcaps and disappeared, and the sun ceased to glare—for Marie was gone from the door-step with her weeping, and he need not look down on the ungrateful little maid who ought to have been so happy. The clouds came back; and when they heard how the meadow had suffered they wept for sympathy, and the underground springs grew strong, until one day there was a great commotion in the meadow.
A little bird had told the whole story of Marie's woe to the breeze, and he rose and sighed aloud; the trees tossed their arms about, because it was so wicked in a little girl to be ungrateful. The crickets said, "Tut, tut!" in a very snappy way; and at last the great wind rose, and whipped the poor brook until it grew quite white with foam and fear.
Then Marie knew how naughty she had been, and she made no complaint at her punishment. In fact, she bore it so meekly that after the wind had quieted down and the stormy flurry was over, she began to sing her quiet little song again, although she was very tired of it by this time, and was so meek and patient that all the meadow whispered:
"Good little thing now,—good little thing!" and then they told her how everything in the world, no matter how small it is, has a duty to perform, and should do its task cheerfully and gladly, and not weep and complain when it thinks matters are not going in the right way, but try to keep on with its task and relief will come.
Marie listened like an obedient little brook as she was, and was just going to float another merry little bubble to the little reeds below when she heard a voice say, "Give me my bed; I want it," and lo! there was the real brook come back. She pushed Marie aside and hurt her, though she seemed so gentle.
Marie tried to rise, but it was difficult; her limbs were stiff lying all this time in the meadow, her eyes were weary gazing at the sky, and her voice hoarse with the song she had been forced to sing.
She tried again, and this time she succeeded; and behold! there she was on the door-step, and the sun was going down.