The Ravens and the Angels, with Other Stories and Parables

by Elizabeth Rundle Charles

So he left the cave, to take his morning meal on the mossy bank outside, among the trees and wild-flowers.

The cave was at an angle of the cliffs. On one side a little shingly path sloped from it to the beach where the waves broke; whilst on the other, the path lay through shrubs and grassy slopes into a valley. The trees grew thicker and thicker as the path led farther up the valley; but the Child had never wandered far on that side: he loved the open beach and the sunny waves, and every day brought so many pleasures, that the sun was sinking on the other side of the sea before his day's work was done. Often on his little bed he planned a ramble up the valley, and in his dreams wandered along beneath the thick shade; but the morning always led his steps again to the shore.

On this morning he sat on his bank. The little stream which trickled by the cave, and then leaped over the edge of the cliff into the sea, filled the pure white cockle shell, which was his breakfast cup; the nuts and fruits which made his little feast were spread on limpet and pearly mussel shells; and as he sat and enjoyed his simple meal, his heart thanked the trees which fed him, and the joyous little stream which gave him drink, and the sea creatures whose empty dwellings made him such dainty plates and cups, and the sun which ripened and smiled on them all. The harebells trembled on their fragile stems around him, and the violets and many other sweet flowers peeped up at him from their soft nests of leaves; and he said to the flowers, "You and I are like each other; every one has some gift and joy for us, and we have nothing to give them back but our love and our smiles; yet they are content, for we all give each other all we can."

Then the harebells trembled faster than ever, for joy to hear the Child speak, and the violets gazed into his happy eyes. They could none of them speak,—that the Child knew; but they were still, and listened, and he could interpret their looks: so they understood each other, and were all the best friends.

CHAPTER II.

But the Child was eager to reach his friends and playfellows on the sea-shore. Much as he loved the trees, and flowers, and delicate mosses, and well as he understood their meek, kind, listening looks, he would soon have grown weary of their mute, quiet ways: he longed for other voices besides his own, and the rich varieties of higher life.

"Do you never wish to wander, and never long for change?" he said to them one day. "I wish I could take you with me to see some of the wonderful things there are in the world. It must be monotonous always to look on the same patch of sky and the same stems and leaves! You must not be grieved if I go."

But as he spoke a breeze shook the branches of the tree above him, and gently parting them, let in a whole train of sunbeams on the mossy bank. And the young fern leaves, and the tender green mosses, and the violets, and all the flowers with the dew-drops on them, sparkled in the sunshine, and waved to and fro in the breeze, and seemed to grow even as he looked at them. Then the Child comprehended that every creature had its own measure of gladness full, and tripped joyfully away. His little white feet made music on the shingly path as he danced down the hill. But when he reached the gleaming strip of sunny sand at the foot of the rocks, he stepped more slowly and carefully, for all around him were his playfellows, and he often found some of them in want of his help.

This morning the shore was strewn with many well known to him, and some strange to him; for in the night the winds and waves had played rough gambols together, and had greatly disturbed many of the peaceable little dwellers in the deep.

The first thing he met was a Sea-anemone, stranded high on the beach, folding all its pretty flower-leaves into itself, and making itself look as ugly as it could. But the Child knew it well; and he gently laid his hand on it to carry it into a safer place. The little red and green and orange ball resented his interference, rolled itself a little on one side, and tried to bury itself in the sand. The Child spoke to it in its own language, and asked how it came there. The anemone replied by a little grunt. The family were not remarkable for clear articulation, and the Child could never get much out of them; but he met with no further resistance as he placed his hand beneath it and gently carried it to a favourite pool of his among the rocks. There he laid it down near the edge, where the water was shallow, and in a few minutes it shot out all its pretty feelers and rooted itself on the rock and expanded into a floral crown—very petal striped with rose and fawn, every petal like a little busy finger, tossing to and fro in search of food and in the enjoyment of life. Thus the anemone thanked the Child, and from all its sensitive points and its rayed lips came to him a soft chorus of sweet vibrations of pleasure.