I WRITE to you to-day with a certain sort of sadness, and yet not mourning as one without hope.
I think one can become strongly attached to inanimate things, and, after associating with them for years, come to invest them with certain human attributes, and even to love them. They grow to be part of one's self, and reflect, in some degree, the individuality of the possessor. I have now sat for nearly three years at the old desk before me, in the same old corner, with the same blank prospect of brick walls and the little patch of blue sky no bigger than the lace handkerchief which swings from your finger, my dear Madame, and discoursed each week upon all sorts of pleasant topics in my careless way, always satisfied if here and there you might find a little flower worth laying away in your memory as a souvenir. Many of you who started on our journey through the World of Amusement are with me still, but some have left and gone up higher to the Beautiful Country; and one cruel summer which killed so many birds and blighted so many flowers, we all travelled with heavier hearts, thinking of the little ones whom the jealous angels enticed away, and some of us could hardly see the way for a time for the black shadow of the valley and the mists which were in our eyes.
I shall write to you no more from the old desk in the old corner, for, when next Saturday comes, I shall be at the new desk, in a new corner of the new building, and yet I cannot part from it without regret, for I have learned to love it, ink-begrimed, scratched and cut as it is. There are pleasant memories indelibly connected with it, and the next owner who possesses it will be richer than he knows, for he will buy some priceless associations. I frankly confess that I look forward to the new desk with some suspicions. It will be a better desk, a handsomer desk. The old, tried friend, whom you have grappled to yourself, as with hooks of steel, through storms and shine, it is hard to give up for the new comer, whom you have to learn before you can love, and who may deceive you, when it is all too late. And yet it is cheerful to know that when I say good-bye to the old desk next week, you will accompany me to the new desk, and that I shall continue to talk to you so long as it shall please you to listen. Aurelia, and the baby and husband, Celeste, Fitz-Herbert, Mignon and Blanche, and Old Blobbs and Mrs. Blobbs, will all go with me, and Old Blobbs has promised me that he will have something to say next Sunday from the new desk.
In this, my last letter from the old desk, I frankly state that I am going to say something to the children. You know that I thoroughly believe in children. I think they represent nearly all the love, and innocence, and purity there is in the world, and I want to tell them a story which may lead them to preserve that love, and innocence, and purity, until the end. I therefore warn all the grown up children, that this story is for the little ones, so that those desiring to leave, can go now, without disturbing us after we have commenced. Should any desire to remain, I hope they will keep as still as possible. Perhaps they will hear something which will benefit them. We will therefore wait a few minutes, after which the doors will be closed.
*********
The story is a simple one, but it has its lesson for you. Some of those older ones, who have just gone out, if they were here, would tell you, even with tears in their eyes, that it is true. It is the story of the Three Roses. One of them was a
WHITE ROSE.
This white rose grew in a large garden, where there were many other flowers: great, coarse, vulgar dahlias, always dressing in gaudy colors, without any regard to taste; delicate little anemones, who would drop their petals off in fright, if even a bee went buzzing by them; tulips, in whose breast the butterflies used to sleep; blue-bells, who rang the matins for the other flowers to wake, and the vespers for them to drop their little heads and fold up their petals in sleep; azaleas, who were very jealous of the fuschias, because the latter had a graceful way of hanging from their stalks, which the former could not get, although they tried until they were pink in the face; heliotropes, and their little cousins, the mignonettes, whom all the flowers loved for their sweetness, and never could see that it was because they were so humble that their lives were so full of perfume; passion-flowers, whose lives were full of pain; and those sensitive little flowers who were so nervous, that if you even pointed your finger at them, they would shiver all over, and draw themselves up in a heap. The White Rose was a very proud flower. She always dressed in pure white, with a beautiful gold ornament on her breast, and devoted most of her time to lazily swinging in the wind, admiring her beautiful garments. She never recognized other flowers in the garden. She never even condescended to notice the butterflies and the bees, who were great friends with the rest of the flowers. She would now and then nod to the green-and-gold humming-birds, who took good care, however, to keep out of her way, because they were afraid of her thorns. She had set her cap very high, and would marry nothing short of a prince, and thus she slighted some of her friends, and wounded others with her cruel thorns.
One day the prince came by that way, and his name was Zephyr. He was a gay, careless young fellow, without any heart in him. He came from a far country, and in his travels had flirted with every one. He had ruined many flowers in other gardens. He had even dallied with the tender leaves in the tree tops, of an evening, until the stern old trees angrily kept him away. Troops of the ghosts of the dandelions and pink thistles and young gossamers, whom he had deceived, followed in his train, and even the blue-birds, and robins, and orioles, were enamored of him, and kept the air full of melody, singing to him. Prince Zephyr came gaily dancing over the garden, and all the little flowers nodded their heads to him. The White Rose looked her prettiest, and at once beckoned him to come to her, and hid all her thorns. The two were long together, even until the sun went down, and the blue-bell had rung her vespers. It would have been well for the White Rose to have gone to sleep too; but Prince Zephyr dallied with her, and whispered all sorts of pretty nothings to her, and the foolish flower listened to him, and believed all he said. He promised to be true to her, and to return in the morning; and when they kissed good night, he stole away her perfume, which was her life. When the morning came, however, Prince Zephyr did not return. Many mornings came, but Prince Zephyr was far away, whispering that same sweet story to other roses, in other gardens. And the White Rose waited in vain, and withered and died, and was buried by the larch-tree in the corner of the garden, the cypress, and rue, and rosemary being the mourners at the funeral, the birds singing the hymns, and the little many-legged bugs in the grass, making the orchestra, with the bee at the baton.
And the name of the White Rose was Pride, which must always have a fall, my dear children.
But there was another rose. It was the
RED ROSE.
The Red Rose grew by the side of a tiny little brook, which had nothing to do the livelong day but to dance over its pebbles, and sing pretty songs, and laugh in the sunshine. The Red Rose was very discontented with her lot, for there was no one around with whom she could associate, but white and red clovers, dandelions and butter-cups. The Brook, who was a garrulous little fellow, made her still more discontented, by telling her what fine things there were out in the world, and how she would enjoy them if she would go with him and see them. One day, tired of looking into the Brook and seeing only herself, she dropped into his arms, and he tenderly carried her along. She floated very lazily and pleasantly along for a time, for the heavens were all blue, and the sunshine was bright, and the Brook was smooth, and so they rode along merrily together. The wild laurels, and red Betties, and Jack-in-the-pulpit, and starry asters, crowded together on the marges of the Brook to see her pass, and nodded to her. The white lilies who grew in the Brook rippled the water with their mocking laughter, for they knew her fate. The sober ferns warned her, but she paid no heed to the warning, and sailed down the meadow as proudly as Cleopatra under her silken sails on the turbid Nile. By and bye she got out of the meadow and it was not so pleasant. The flowers disappeared, and she had hard work to avoid the flags and rushes, and old gnarled stumps, and the sun was hidden by the interlaced tree-tops, and there were all sorts of water-spiders and little glossy black bugs which she disliked. After a time, the frogs and the water-snakes terrified her, and one day she found herself in a little whirlpool which made her dizzy. When she recovered, she was in the foam of a water-fall, and the foam-bells dazzled her so with their sheen that she plunged about among the rocks very wildly and before she emerged from them, some of her petals were badly damaged. It was now too late to return. She had made the first fall and she must go on. She no longer recognized the little Brook in the brawling, muddy waters which carried her through the rank swamps, where she met all kinds of noxious, ill-favored flowers, the hemlock, and nightshade, and belladonna, and poisonous ivies, which mocked her. The Brook was now a river, and too wide for her to escape. On she must go, ever on, bruised and weary as she was, and presently the river swept her through a great city, rank with corruption and filth; swept her past the vessels at the wharves, loading and unloading, and noisy with the curses and cries of the sailors; under the wheels of steamboats; now sunk into the corrupt depths, and now rising to the surface again, but so changed that none of the flowers in the country, who nodded to her that bright morning, would ever have known her; under the arches of the bridges and close by slimy mouldering piers; and one evening, so close to the dead body of a woman, who had hurled herself out of the world and out of misery, that she almost got tangled in the streaming black hair which rose and fell in the turbid current; and so on, until one morning she found herself out of the river and into the mighty surges of the ocean, when it was all too late.
And the name of the Brook was Pleasure and the name of the Red Rose, Folly.
I have now to tell you of the third rose, the
WILD ROSE.
The Wild Rose grew in a forest, and was a simple modest flower, who was sheltered in the winter from the cruel winds by the mighty pines. In the spring and summer she was even more beautiful than the White Rose or the Red Rose, although she had a tiny little petal of white just suffused with a blush. Her leaves were very small but they were very fragrant. There were no other flowers in the forest for her to love, and so she loved a Star which she used to see every night through the branches of the trees. Sometimes when the dew fell in the night, the Star would come to her in the drops, and she could see and feel his radiance on her petals, although she could never go to the Star. And there was a little Child who, sometimes, used to roam through this forest, who loved the Rose, and used to stop and talk to it in her childish way, and the Star, which the Rose loved, was the Child's Star. For, even for each little child, shines a star which is its own—a star which always rains down blessed influences upon it—a star which will always guide the child if it will but follow. One day the Child did not come to the forest, for an Angel had come down out of the blue heavens—the Angel of Death—and forever closed the eyes of the little one and sealed its ears to the sweet sounds of earth, and hushed its merry prattle forever, and strangers went to the forest and plucked the Rose which the little Child had loved, and they placed it in the cold marble hands, and the Angel of Light, the sister of the Angel of Death, came and took the Child and the Rose and carried them to the Star, and the three were re-united and were happy.
And the name of the Wild Rose was Wisdom.
These are the stories of the Three Roses, which I tell to you, my children, upon the old desk, before I leave it forever, and I pray Heaven for you all, blue eyes and black eyes, brown hair and gold hair, whether you live in hovel or in hall, whatever ways your little feet may wander, that they go not in the way of the White Rose which is that of disappointment leading to death; neither in the way of the Red Rose which is that of folly leading to ruin; but in the way of the Wild Rose, which is that of contentment and wisdom.
