Saturday Night.
“Oh! it is Saturday night!” exclaimed Ellen; “I had forgotten that. A Bible story, then. I am sure I think the story about Joseph, or that about Isaac, or the prodigal son, or Lazarus and his sisters, as interesting as a fairy story.”
“They are a hundred times more interesting,” said Charles.
It was the custom of Ellen’s mother to tell her children a short story every night after they were in bed. She was very glad to find that the true and instructive histories from the good book, interested her children as much as those stories that were contrived to delight them.
“My dear children,” she said, “I shall not tell you a story from the Bible to-night, but I am going to relate an anecdote—which, you know, means a short story—of some little children of our acquaintance.
“There are two children who have a great and kind Friend, who is always taking care of them, whether they are awake or asleep.”
“I suppose you mean their mother,” said little Charley, who was always impatient to get at the story.
“No, my love; this Friend gave them their father and mother.”
“Oh, you mean God,” whispered Ellen.
Her mother did not reply to her, but proceeded,—
“This bountiful Friend has given to them the most beautiful and wonderful gems in the world.”
“Gems! what are gems, mother?” asked Charles.
“Precious jewels, my dear. Those I am speaking of are very small, but so curiously formed that as soon as the casket which contains them is opened, there is immediately painted on them a beautiful picture of all the objects toward which they are turned. If it be a landscape, like that which you see every morning from your chamber window, there appear on the gems those beautiful mountains that rise one above another; the mist that curls up their sides; the bright lake that glistens in the depth of the valley, and which you call the mountain mirror, Ellen; the large orchards, with their trees gracefully bending with their ruddy and golden fruit; the neat house opposite to us, with its pretty curtain of vines hanging over the door, and rose-bushes clustering about the windows.”
“What, mother!” exclaimed Charles; “all these things painted on a little gem?”
“Yes, Charles, all; the high mountains, and the rose-bushes, every leaf and bud of them. And then, if the gems are turned towards the inside of the house, the landscape disappears, and all the furniture is painted on them, and the perfect pictures of their friends; not such pictures as you see done by painters, looking grave and motionless, but smiling, speaking, and moving.”
“Oh, mother, mother,” exclaimed Ellen, “this is a fairy story, after all.”
“Are there, in reality, any such gems?” asked Charles, who did not like that the story should turn out a fairy story.
“There are, my dear Charles; and the same Friend who gave the children these gems has given to them many other gifts as wonderful. He has given to them an instrument by which they can hear the music of the birds, the voices of their friends, and all other sounds; and another by which they can enjoy the delicious perfume of the flowers; the fragrance you so often spoke of, Ellen, when the fruit trees were in blossom, and the locust trees in flower, and the clover in bloom.”
“Oh, what a generous friend that must be,” said Charles, “to give such valuable presents, and so many of them. Are there any more, mother?”
“Yes, Charles, more than I can describe to you if I were to talk till to-morrow morning. There is a very curious instrument by which they can find out the taste of everything that is to be eaten; and another that, by just stretching out their fingers, they can tell whether a thing is smooth or rough, hard or soft.”
“Why, I can tell that by my fingers,” exclaimed Charles.
“Yes, my dear,” said his mother; “and cannot you taste by putting food into your mouth? and is there not an instrument set in your head by which you can hear?”
“My ear, mother?” asked Charles.
“Yes, my dear,” said his mother.
“And do you mean the eyes by those wonderful gems?” asked Ellen.
“Yes.”
“But I am sure there is no painting in the eyes.”
“Yes, Ellen; every object you behold is painted upon a part of the eye called the retina; but that you cannot understand now, and you must let me go on with my anecdote of the two children. When they arose in the morning, they found that their Friend had taken such good care of them when they slept that they felt no pain; that their limbs were all active, and they could every moment receive pleasure from the precious gems and instruments I have mentioned. They both looked out of the window, and exclaimed, ‘What a beautiful morning!’ The little girl turned her gems toward the multiflora, now full of roses and glistening with dew-drops, and she clapped her hands, and asked her brother if he ever saw anything so beautiful; and he turned his gems to a pair of humming-birds, that were fluttering over the honey-suckle, and thrusting their tiny pumps into the necks of the flowers; and as their bright images shone on his gems, he shouted, ‘Did you ever see anything so handsome?’”
“You mean, mother,” said Charles, “that he looked at the humming-birds, when you say he turned his gems?”
“Yes, my dear; and when he heard the pleasant humming they make with their wings, it was by the instrument set in the head which you call the ear. There was not a moment of the day that the children did not enjoy some good thing their Friend had given to them. They learnt their lessons by using the memories he had given them, because he had given them minds by which they understood them. They loved their parents, and relations, and companions, because their Friend had given them affections.”
“It seems to me,” interrupted Charley, “that Friend gave them everything. It must be God, mother, for I know he gives us everything we have.”
“Yes, my dear Charley; and I am sorry to say these two children neglected their Friend. They had often been told by their mother never to get into bed without first kneeling and thanking him for all his gifts; but they did not think of him. They used and enjoyed his gifts, but they sometimes forgot the Giver.”
Ellen laid her head on her mother’s bosom,—
“Mother,” she said, “you mean us.”
“My dear Ellen,” replied her mother, “your conscience is like the ring in the fairy tale. Yes, I did mean you and Charles. I was sorry, when I came into the room to-night, to see you getting into bed without saying your prayers. God has given you a voice to speak, my children. Your dog, Dash, Charles, cannot speak to thank God for anything he receives; but you can.”
“And I will!” exclaimed the good little boy, ashamed that he had been ungrateful and thoughtless. “Come, Ellen, we will jump up and say our prayers; and,” he added in a whisper, “we’ll speak for Dash too.”
Cromwell at Croyden palace.