“Slowly forth from the village church,
The voice of the choristers hushed overhead,
Came little Cristelle. She paused in the porch,
Pondering what the preacher had said.
“‘Even the youngest, humblest child
Something may do to please the Lord.’
‘Now what,’ thought she, and half sadly smiled,
‘Can I, so little and poor, afford?’
“‘Never, never a day should pass,
Without some kindness kindly shown,’
The preacher said. Then down to the grass
A skylark dropped, like a brown-winged stone.
“‘Well, a day is before me now;
Yet what,’ thought she, ‘can I do, if I try?
If an angel of God would show me how!
But silly am I, and the hours they fly.’
“Then the lark sprang, singing, up from the sod,
And the maiden thought, as he rose to the blue,
‘He says he will carry my prayer to God;
But who would have thought the little lark knew?’
“Now she entered the village street
With book in hand and face demure;
And soon she came, with sober feet,
To a crying babe at a cottage door.
“It wept at a windmill that would not move,
It puffed with its round red cheeks in vain;
One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove,
And baby’s breath could not stir it again.
“So baby beat the sail, and cried,
While no one came from the cottage door;
But little Cristelle knelt down by its side,
And set the windmill going once more.
“Then baby was pleased, and the little girl
Was glad, when she heard it laugh and crow,
Thinking, ‘Happy windmill that has but to whirl
To please the pretty young creature so!’
“No thought of herself was in her head,
As she passed out at the end of the street,
And came to a rose tree, tall and red,
Drooping and faint with summer heat.
“She ran to a brook that was flowing by,
She made of her two hands a nice round cup,
And washed the roots of the rose tree high,
Till it lifted its languid blossoms up.
“‘O, happy brook!’ thought little Cristelle;
‘You have done some good this summer’s day:
You have made the flowers look fresh and well.’
Then she rose, and went on her way.
“But she saw, as she walked by the side of the brook,
Some great rough stones, that troubled its course,
And the gurgling water seemed to say, ‘Look!
I struggle, and tumble, and murmur hoarse.
“‘How these stones obstruct my road!
How I wish they were off and gone!
Then I would flow, as once I flowed,
Singing in silvery undertone.’
“Then little Cristelle, as bright as a bird,
Put off the shoes from her young, white feet;
She moves two stones, she comes to the third;
The brook already sings, ‘Thanks! Sweet! Sweet!’
“O, then she hears the lark in the skies,
And thinks, ‘What is it to God he says?’
And she tumbles and falls, and cannot rise,
For the water stifles her downward face.
“The little brook flows on as before,
The little lark sings with as sweet a sound,
The little babe crows at the cottage door,
And the red rose blooms; but Cristelle lies drowned!
“Come in softly; this is the room.
Is not that an innocent face?
Yes, those flowers give a faint perfume:
Think, child, of heaven, and our Lord his grace.
“Three at the right, and three at the left,
Two at the feet, and two at the head,
The tapers burn; the friends bereft
Have cried till their eyes are swollen and red.
“Who would have thought it, when little Cristelle
Pondered on what the preacher had told?
But the wise God does all things well,
And the fair young creature lies dead and cold!
“Then the little stream crept into the place,
And rippled up to the coffin’s side,
And touched the corpse on its pale round face,
And kissed the eyes till they trembled wide,—
“Saying, ‘I am a river of joy from Heaven;
You helped the brook, and I help you;
I sprinkle your brows with life-drops seven;
I bathe your eyes with healing dew.’
“Then a rose branch in through the window came,
And colored her lips and cheeks with red;
‘I remember, and Heaven does the same,’
Was all that the faithful rose branch said.
“Then a bright, small form to her cold neck clung;
It breathed on her till her breast did fill,
Saying, ‘I am a cherub fond and young,
And I saw who breathed on the baby’s mill.’
“Then little Cristelle sat up and smiled,
And said, ‘Who put these flowers in my hand?’
And rubbed her eyes—poor innocent child—
Not being able to understand.
“But soon she heard the big bell of the church
Give the hour; which made her say,
‘Ah! I have slept and dreamt in this porch.
It is a very drowsy day!’”
|