And Mignon went on from village to village, singing and dancing and seeking. Always she was thinking, "Who knows but tomorrow, in the next village or the next, I will find the real joy? it will come to me as I sing or stir with the beautiful music!"
But, children, Mignon never found it.
The feet that were meant to fly on loving errands only danced, and though it was so beautiful it was really nothing, and the real joy was not in it.
Do you not know that every little child that comes into the world has a blessed deed in its life? But with Mignon it only lay heavy on her heart, and she was more weary than any child who serves all day. And after awhile this weariness grew as deep as her life, and the poet tells us that she died. We read in his strange book that they bore her to the dim hall of the Past, and that she lay there white and beautiful. Four boys clothed in blue with silver stood beside her, slowly waving white plumes. And when the people had come in and stood together very silently, the most beautiful singing voices began—
"'Whom bring ye us to the still dwelling?'"
The four boys answered:
"'Tis a tired playmate whom we bring you. Let her rest in your still dwelling. Let us weep. Let us remain with her!'"
But the sweet voices rang out,
"'Children, turn back into life! Your tears let the fresh air dry. Haste back into life! Let the day give you labor and joy, till evening bring you rest.'"
And the listening children understood.[Contents]