Melchior's Dream and Other Tales Read online

  THE BLACKBIRD'S NEST.

  "Let me not think an action mine own way, But as Thy love shall sway, Resigning up the rudder to Thy skill."

  GEORGE HERBERT.

  One day, when I was a very little girl (which is a long time ago), Imade a discovery. The place where I made it was not very remote, beinga holly-bush at the bottom of our garden; and the discovery was not agreat one in itself, though I thought it very grand. I had found ablackbird's nest, with three young ones in it.

  The discovery was made on this wise. I was sitting one morning on alog of wood opposite this holly-bush, reading the story of GoodyTwoshoes, and thinking to myself how much I should like to be likeher, and to go about in the village with a raven, a pigeon, and a larkon my shoulders, admired and talked about by everybody. All sorts ofnonsense passed through my head as I sat, with the book on my lap,staring straight before me; and I was just fancying the kindcondescension with which I would behave to everybody when I became aGoody Twoshoes, when I saw a bird come out of the holly-bush and flyaway. It was a blackbird: there was no doubt of it; and it must have anest in the tree, or why had it been there so long? Down went my book,and I flew to make my discovery. A blackbird's nest, with three youngones! I stood still at first in pure pleasure at the sight; and then,little by little, grand ideas came into my head.

  I would be very kind to these little blackbirds, I thought; I wouldtake them home out of this cold tree, and make a large nest of cottonwool (which would be much softer and better for them than to be wherethey were), and feed them, and keep them; and then, when they werefull-grown, they would, of course, love me better than any one, and bevery tame and grateful; and I should walk about with them on myshoulders, like Goody Twoshoes, and be admired by everybody; for, I amashamed to say, most of my day dreams ended with this, _to be admiredby everybody_. I was so wrapped up in these thoughts that I did notknow, till his hands were laid upon my shoulders, that my friend, thecurate of the village, had come up behind me. He lived next door tous, and often climbed over the wall that divided our garden to bringme flowers for my little bed. He was a tall, dark, not very young man;and the best hand at making fire-balloons, mending toys, and making abroken wax doll as good as new with a hot knitting needle, that youcan imagine. I had heard grown-up people call him grave and silent,but he always laughed and talked to me.

  "What are you doing, little woman?" he said.

  "I have got a nest of poor little birds," I answered; "I am so sorryfor them here in the cold; but they will be all right when I have gotthem indoors. I shall make them a beautiful nest of cotton wool, andfeed them. Won't it be nice?"

  I spoke confidently; for I had really so worked up my fancy that Ifelt quite a contemptuous pity for all the wretched little birds whowere hatched every year without me to rear them. At the same time, Ihad a general idea that grown-up people always _did_ throw cold wateron splendid plans like mine; so I was more indignant than surprisedwhen my friend the curate tried to show me that it was quiteimpossible to do as I wished. The end of all his arguments was that Imust leave the nest in its place. But I had a great turn fordisputing, and was not at all inclined to give up my point. "You toldme on Sunday," I said, pertly, "that we were never too little to dokind things; let me do this."

  "If I could be sure," he said, looking at me, "that you only wish todo a kind thing."

  I got more angry and rude.

  "Perhaps you think I want to kill them," I said.

  He did not answer, but taking both my hands in his, said, gravely,"Tell me, my child, which do you wish most--to be kind to these poorlittle birds? or to have the honour and glory of having them, andbringing them up?"

  "To be kind to them," said I, getting very red. "I don't want anyhonour and glory," and I felt ready to cry.

  "Well, well," he said, smiling; "then I know you will believe me whenI tell you that the kindest thing you can do for these little birds isto leave them where they are. And if you like, you can come and sithere every day till they are able to fly, and keep watch over thenest, that no naughty boy may come near it--the curate, for instance!"and he pulled a funny face. "That will be very kind."

  "But they will never know, and I want them to like me," said I.

  "I thought you only wanted to be kind," he answered. And then he beganto talk very gently about different sorts of kindness, and that if Iwished to be kind like a Christian, I must be kind without hoping forany reward, whether gratitude or anything else. He told me that thebest followers of Jesus in all times had tried hard to do everything,however small, simply for GOD's sake, and to put themselvesaway. That they often began even their letters, etc., with such words,as, "Glory to GOD," to remind themselves that everything theydid, to be perfect, must be done to GOD, and GOD alone. And that indoing good kind things even, they were afraid lest, though the thingwas right, the wish to do it might have come from conceit orpresumption.

  "This self-devotion," he added, "is the very highest Christian life,and seems, I dare say, very hard for you even to understand, and muchmore so to put in practice. But we must all try for it in the best waywe can, little woman; and for those who by GOD's grace reallypractised it, it was almost as impossible to be downcast ordisappointed as if they were already in Heaven. They wished fornothing to happen to themselves but GOD's will; they didnothing but for GOD's glory. And so a very good bishop says,'I have my end, whether I succeed or am disappointed.' So you willhave your end, my child, in being kind to these little birds in theright way, and denying yourself, whether they know you or not."

  I could not have understood all he said; but I am afraid I did not tryto understand what I might have done; however, I said no more, andstood silent, while he comforted me with the promise of a new flowerfor my garden, called "hen and chickens," which he said I was to takecare of instead of the little blackbirds.

  When he was gone I went back to the holly-bush, and stood gazing atthe nest, and nursing angry thoughts in my heart. "What a _preach_," Ithought, "about nothing! as if there could be any conceit andpresumption in taking care of three poor little birds! The curate mustforget that I was growing into a big girl; and as to not knowing howto feed them, I knew as well as he did that birds lived upon worms,and liked bread-crumbs." And so _thinking wrong_ ended (as it almostalways does) in _doing wrong_: and I took the three little blackbirdsout of the nest, popped them into my pocket-handkerchief, and ranhome. And I took some trouble to keep them out of everyone'ssight--even out of my mother's; for I did not want to hear any more"grown-up" opinions on the matter.

  I filled a basket with cotton wool, and put the birds inside, and tookthem into a little room downstairs, where they would be warm. Before Iwent to bed I put two or three worms, and a large supply of soakedbread-crumbs, in the nest, close to their little beaks. "What can theywant more?" thought I in my folly; but conscience is apt to berestless when one is young, and I could not feel quite comfortable inbed, though I got to sleep at last, trying to fancy myself GoodyTwoshoes, with three sleek full-fledged blackbirds on my shoulders.

  In the morning, as soon as I could slip away, I went to my pets. Anyone may guess what I found; but I believe no one can understand theshock of agony and remorse that I felt. There lay the worms that I haddug up with reckless cruelty; there was the wasted bread; and there,above all, lay the three little blackbirds, cold and dead!

  I do not know how long I stood looking at the victims of mypresumptuous wilfulness; but at last I heard a footstep in thepassage, and fearing to be caught, I tore out of the house, and downto my old seat near the holly-bush, where I flung myself on theground, and "wept bitterly." At last I heard the well-known sound ofsome one climbing over the wall; and then the curate stood before me,with the plant of "hen and chickens" in his hands. I jumped up, andshrank away from him.

  "Don't come near me," I cried; "the blackbirds are dead;" and I threwmyself down again.

  I knew from experience that few things roused the anger of my friendso strongly as to see or hear of animals
being ill-treated. I hadnever forgotten, one day when I was out with him, his wrath over a boywho was cruelly beating a donkey; and now I felt, though I could notsee, the expression of his face, as he looked at the holly-bush and atme, and exclaimed, "You took them!" And then added, in the low tone inwhich he always spoke when angry, "And the mother-bird has beenwandering all night round this tree, seeking her little ones in vain,not to be comforted, because they are not! Child, child! hasGOD the Father given life to His creatures for you to destroyit in this reckless manner?"

  His words cut my heart like a knife; but I was too utterly wretchedalready to be much more miserable; I only lay still and moaned. Atlast he took pity, and lifting me up on to his knee, endeavoured tocomfort me.

  This was not, however, an easy matter. I knew much better than he didhow very naughty I had been; and I felt that I had murdered the poortender little birds.

  "I can never, never, forgive myself!" I sobbed.

  "But you must be reasonable," he said. "You gave way to your vanityand wilfulness, and persuaded yourself that you only wished to be kindto the blackbirds; and you have been punished. Is it not so?"

  "O yes!" I cried; "I am so wicked! I wish I were as good as you are!"

  "As I am!"--he began.

  I was too young then to understand the sharp tone of self-reproach inwhich he spoke. In my eyes he was perfection; only perhaps a little_too_ good. But he went on:--

  "Do you know, this fault of yours reminds me of a time when I was justas wilful and conceited, just as much bent upon doing the great dutyof helping others in my own grand fashion, rather than in the humbleway which GOD's Providence pointed out, only it was in a muchmore serious matter; I was older, too, and so had less excuse. I amalmost tempted to tell you about it; not that our cases are reallyquite alike, but that the punishment which met my sin was sounspeakably bitter in comparison with yours, that you may be thankfulto have learnt a lesson of humility at smaller cost."

  I did not understand him--in fact, I did not understand many thingsthat he said, for he had a habit of talking to me as if he werespeaking to himself; but I had a general idea of his meaning, and said(very truly), "I cannot fancy you doing wrong."

  I was puzzled again by the curious expression of his face; but he onlysaid, "Shall I tell you a story?"

  I knew his stories of old, and gave an eager "Yes."

  "It is a sad one," he said.

  "I do not think I should like a very funny one just now," I replied."Is it true?"

  "Quite," he answered. "It is about myself." He was silent for a fewmoments, as if making up his mind to speak; and then, laying his head,as he sometimes did, on my shoulder, so that I could not see his face,he began.

  "When I was a boy (older than you, so I ought to have been better), Imight have been described in the words of Scripture--I was 'the onlyson of my mother, and she was a widow.' We were badly off, and she wasvery delicate, nay, ill--more ill, GOD knows, than I had anyidea of. I had long been used to the sight of the doctor once or twicea week, and to her being sometimes better and sometimes worse; andwhen our old servant lectured me for making a noise, or the doctorbegged that she might not be excited or worried, I fancied thatdoctors and nurses always did say things of that sort, and that therewas no particular need to attend to them.

  "Not that I was unfeeling to my dear mother, for I loved herdevotedly in my wilful worldly way. It was for her sake that I hadbeen so vexed by the poverty into which my father's death had plungedus. For her sake I worried her, by grumbling before her at our narrowlodgings and lost comforts. For her sake, child, in my madness, Iwasted the hours in which I might have soothed, and comforted, andwaited on her, in dreaming of wild schemes for making myself famousand rich, and giving her back all and more than she had lost. For hersake I fancied myself pouring money at her feet, and loading her withluxuries, while she was praying for me to our common Father, andlaying up treasure for herself in Heaven.

  "One day I remember, when she was remonstrating with me over a badreport which the schoolmaster had given of me (he said I could work,but wouldn't), my vanity overcame my prudence, and I told her that Ithought some fellows were made to 'fag,' and some not; that I had beenwriting a poem in my dictionary the day that I had done so badly, andthat I hoped to be a poet long before my master had composed agrammar. I can see now her sorrowful face as, with tears in her eyes,she told me that all 'fellows' alike were made to do their duty'before GOD, and Angels, and Men.' That it was by improvingthe little events and opportunities of every day that men becamegreat, and not by neglecting them for their own presumptuous fancies.And she entreated me to strive to do my duty, and to leave the restwith GOD. I listened, however, impatiently to what I called a'jaw' or a 'scold,' and then (knowing the tender interest she took inall I did) I tried to coax her by offering to read my poem. But sheanswered with just severity, that what she wished was to see me a goodman, not a great one; and that she would rather see my exercises dulywritten than fifty poems composed at the expense of my neglected duty.Then she warned me tenderly of the misery which my conceit would bringupon me, and bade me, when I said my evening prayers, to add thatprayer of King David, 'Keep Thy servant from presumptuous sins, lestthey get the dominion over me.'

  "Alas! they had got the dominion over me already, too strongly for herwords to take any hold. 'She won't even look at my poem,' I thought,and hurried proudly from the room, banging one door and leavinganother open. And I silenced my uneasy conscience by fresh dreams ofmaking my fortune and hers. But the punishment came at last. One daythe doctor took me into a room alone, and told me as gently as hecould what everyone but myself knew already--my mother was dying. Icannot tell you, child, how the blow fell upon me--how, at first, Iutterly disbelieved its truth! It seemed _impossible_ that the onlyhope of my life, the object of all my schemes and fancies, was to betaken away. But I was awakened at last, and resolved that,GOD helping me, while she did live, I would be a better son.I can now look back with thankfulness on the few days we weretogether. I never left her. She took her food and medicine from myhand; and I received my First Communion with her on the day she died.The day before, kneeling by her bed, I had confessed all the sin andvanity of my heart and those miserable dreams; had destroyed with myown hand all my papers, and had resolved that I would apply to mystudies, and endeavour to obtain a scholarship and the necessarypreparation for Holy Orders. It was a just ambition, little woman,undertaken humbly, in the fear of GOD, and in the path ofduty; and I accomplished it years after, when I had nothing left of mymother but her memory."

  The curate was silent, and I felt, rather than saw, that the tearswhich were wetting my frock had not come from my own eyes, though Iwas crying bitterly. I flung my arms round his neck, and hugged himtight.

  "Oh, I am so sorry!" I sobbed; "so very, very sorry!"

  We became quieter after a bit; and he lifted up his head and smiled,and called himself a fool for making me sad, and told me not to tellany one what he had told me, and what babies we had been, except mymother.

  "Tell her _everything_ always," he said.

  I soon cheered up, particularly as he took me over the wall, and intohis workshop, and made a coffin for the poor little blackbirds, whichwe lined with cotton-wool and scented with musk, as a mark of respect.Then he dug a deep hole in the garden and we buried them, and made afine high mound of earth, and put the "hen and chicken" plants allround. And that night, sitting on my mother's knee, I told her"everything," and shed a few more tears of sorrow and repentance inher arms.

  * * * * *

  Many years have passed since then, and many showers of rain havehelped to lay the mound flat with the earth, so that the "hen andchickens" have run all over it, and made a fine plot. The curate andhis mother have met at last; and I have transplanted many flowers thathe gave me to his grave. I sometimes wonder if, in his perfecthappiness, he knows, or cares to know, how often the remembrance ofhis story has stopped the current of conceited day-dreams, and brough
tme back to practical duty with the humble prayer, "Keep Thy servantalso from presumptuous sins."