The sun rays knew better. “You do not see very clearly or very far,” they said. “What plant is it you feel so sorry for?”
“The dandelion, the one they call the devil’s milk pail,” answered the apple branch. “No one ever picks it to make a bouquet. People step on it. There are too many dandelions. When they go to seed, they fly with the wind, like tufts of wool, and get into people’s clothes. They are just weeds! I suppose there have to be weeds, but I am very grateful that I was not born one of them.”
A group of children came across the field; the smallest among them were so tiny that they could not walk, and they were carried by the older ones. In the middle of the field the little ones were put down on the grass to play. They laughed and tumbled and picked the yellow dandelion flowers, kissing them sweetly and innocently. The older children made golden chains out of the flowers and decorated themselves with them. First they made chains to put on their heads like crowns; then longer ones to hang around the neck, and finally, belts. They looked very lovely. Two of the older children had carefully picked a dandelion that had turned to seed; the fine down that would carry seeds out into the world was all there. The dandelions looked like two little airy summer snowballs. The children held them close to their mouths and then they blew as hard as they could. Now if they could blow off all the seeds in one puff, then they would get new clothes that year, so their grandmother had told them. The despised flower was really a prophet.
“There!” said the sun rays. “Do you now see their beauty, their power?”
“Only children care for them,” replied the apple branch.
An old woman came out in the field where the children were playing. She dug up the dandelions by the roots with a handleless knife. Some of these roots she would cook, to make what was called a “poor man’s coffee.” The others she would sell to the apothecary, for the dandelion root is used in medicine.
“But beauty is even more important,” argued the apple branch. “Only the most select are allowed into the kingdom of beauty. There is a difference among plants, as there is among men.”
The sun rays talked about God’s love for the world He had created and for all living things, and how everyone is equal, seen through the eyes of eternity.
“Well, that is your opinion,” retorted the apple branch.
Some people entered the hall. Among them was the young countess who had put the apple branch in the crystal vase, where it stood so beautifully with the sunlight falling on it. She was carrying something very gingerly in her hands. Whatever it was, you could not see it, for she had constructed a cone of green leaves around it to protect it from the wind and drafts. She carried it much more carefully than she had carried the beautiful apple branch. Gently she removed the big leaves. She was holding a dandelion flower that had gone to seed, a “devil’s milk pail.” She had picked it and carried it so carefully so that not one of the seeds would be lost; they were all there, making a perfect crown of white mist. She admired its beautiful form, its airy clearness, its complex pattern, created as it was so that each seed—every down—was free to follow the wind.
“Look how beautifully God has made it,” she said. “I want to paint it standing next to the apple branch. That everyone admits is beautiful, but the little, common flower God has given a lovely form too. They are different, but they are both children of beauty.”
The sun rays kissed the dandelion flower and they kissed the apple branch, causing its flowers to blush a little.
57
The World’s Most Beautiful Rose
There once was a mighty queen in whose garden grew the most beautiful flowers. Every season there were some in bloom, and they had been collected in all the countries of the world. But roses she loved above all flowers, and in her garden were many kinds, from the wild hedge rose with green leaves that smell like apples to the loveliest rose of Provence. Roses grew up the walls of the castle, twined themselves around the marble columns, and even entered the halls and corridors of the castle, where their ramblers crept across the ceilings and filled the rooms with the fragrance of their flowers.
But inside the castle sorrow lived, for the queen was dying. The wisest of all the doctors who were attending her said, “There is only one remedy that can save her. Bring her the world’s most beautiful rose, the one that symbolizes the highest and purest love, and when her eyes see that flower, then she will not die.”
The young and the old brought their roses—the most beautiful ones that grew in their gardens—but it was not such a flower that could cure the queen. From love’s garden the rose must be brought, but which flower would be the symbol of the highest and purest love?
The poets sang of the world’s most beautiful rose, and each mentioned a different one. Word was sent to all, regardless of rank and class, whose hearts did beat for love.
“No one has as yet mentioned the right flower,” said the wise man. “No one has pointed to that place where it grows, in all its glory and beauty. It is not the rose from Romeo’s and Juliet’s tomb or Valborg’s grave, though those roses will always bloom and shed their fragrance in stories and poetry. Nor is it the rose that blooms on Winkelried’s blood-covered lance. From the hero’s blood, shed in defense of his native land, the reddest rose springs; and it is said that such a death is sweet, but it is not the most beautiful rose in the world. The magical wonderful rose, which can only be grown under constant care, through days and years and sleepless nights; the rose of science, it is not either.”
“I know where it blooms,” exclaimed a happy mother who, carrying her babe, had entered the queen’s bedchamber. “I know where the world’s most beautiful rose is to be found, the rose of the highest and purest love. It blooms on the cheeks of my child, when he wakes from his sleep and laughs up at me, with all his love.”
“Yes, in truth, that rose is lovely, but there are those even more beautiful,” said the wise man.
“Yes, far more beautiful,” said one of the ladies in waiting. “I have seen it, and a more exalted, sacred rose than that does not exist. It is as pale as the petals of a tea rose and I have seen it on our queen’s cheeks when, without her golden crown, she walked, carrying her sick child in her arms, back and forth across the room one whole long night. She kissed her babe and prayed to God as only a mother prays in her agony.”
“Yes, wonderful and holy is the white rose of sorrow, but that is not the one.”
“No, the world’s most beautiful rose I saw before the altar of Our Lord,” a pious old priest said. “I saw it shine on an angel’s face. Among a group of young girls who had come to take communion, there was one who looked with such simple and innocent a love up toward her God that on her face bloomed the rose of the highest and purest love.”
“Blessed is that rose too,” said the wise man. “But none of you has yet mentioned the world’s most beautiful rose.”
At that moment into the room stepped a little boy, the queen’s son. His eyes were filled with tears and he was carrying a big book with silver clasps and bound in vellum. The book was open.
“Mother!” said the little one. “Listen to what I have read.” And the child sat down by his mother’s bedside and read about Him who suffered death on the Cross in order to save humanity. “Greater love there cannot be.”
The queen’s pale cheeks took on a pinkish shade, and her eyes became big and clear, as from the pages of the book grew the world’s most beautiful rose, the one that grew from Christ’s blood on the Cross.
“I see it,” she said. “ ‘And those who have seen that rose, the most beautiful in the world, shall never die.”
58
The Year’s Story
It was one of the last days in January; there was a horrible snowstorm. The wind was whirling the snow through the streets and lanes of the town. The windows of the houses were so covered with snow that you could not see through them, and from the roofs little avalanches fell down into the streets. People could hardly walk against the wind; and if they had it behind t
hem, it was almost worse, for then they had to run. When two people met they held onto each other in order not to fall. All the carriages and horses were covered with snow, it looked as if they had been powdered; and the servants who stood on the backs of the carriages bent their knees, in order not to be so tall that their faces got whipped by the wind. The pedestrians walked as close to the carriages as they could, to get a bit of protection from the wind; they could easily keep up with them, for the vehicles could not drive very fast. When the storm finally died down, a narrow path was shoveled along the sidewalks. Every time two people met, they paused, for the path was too narrow for them to pass each other. Which one was to be polite and step into the snowbank, that was the question. Uusally neither of them was willing to get his feet wet in order that the other man could keep his dry. Silently, they faced each other, until by some unspoken agreement both of them would sacrifice one foot by putting it into the deep snow.
Toward evening the wind disappeared completely; the heavens looked as if they had been swept, and the stars shone as if they had been newly minted. Some of them had a blue tinge to them. And it froze. In the morning the snow had formed a crust strong enough to bear the weight of a sparrow. There were enough of them; they hopped around on the snow and on the shoveled path, but they couldn’t find much to eat, and all of them were freezing.
“Peep!” said one sparrow to another. “So that is what they call the New Year! Why, it is worse than the old one; we might as well have kept it. I am very dissatisfied and I have good reasons for being so.”
“Yes, all the human beings were lighting firecrackers to celebrate the New Year,” piped a particularly cold little sparrow. “They were so happy to get rid of the Old Year that I expected that the weather would get warm. But what happened! It is colder now than ever. I think the calendar is not working.”
“You are so right,” said a third sparrow. He was old and had a tuft of white on top of his head. “It is their own invention, the calendar; they believe that everything obeys it. But they are wrong. I go by nature’s calendar and, according to that, the New Year starts when Spring comes.”
“But when does Spring come?” asked all the other sparrows.
“Spring comes when the stork comes back. But he is not very dependable. Here in the city he never shows himself, he prefers the country. Let us fly out there and wait for him; Spring is always a little closer out there.”
“That is all very well,” said a little sparrow that had been peeping all the time without really saying anything. “But in the city one has certain conveniences that I am afraid I shall miss in the country. The family who live in a house near here have hung little wooden boxes on the walls for us to nest in. My husband and I have made our home in one, and there we have brought up our children. I know the family have done it in order to have the pleasure of seeing us fly about; I am sure they wouldn’t have done it otherwise. They throw bread crumbs out, too. It amuses them and gives us a living. We feel we are being taken care of. That is why my husband and I will stay here; not that we are satisfied, mind you, we certainly are not! But we will stay.”
“And we shall fly out to the country and see if Spring isn’t coming soon,” said the others; and away they flew.
It certainly was colder out in the country than it had been in the city; at least, a couple of degrees. The wind was as sharp as a knife when it blew across the snow-covered fields. The farmer, driving in his sleigh, would slap his hands on his back to keep them warm, and that even though he had woolen mittens on. The whip lay in his lap and his lean horses ran so fast that steam rose from their sweaty flanks.
The sparrows jumped about in the sleigh track and froze. “Tweet … Peep!” they said. “When does Spring come? Why does it take so long?”
“So long, so long.” The words seemed to echo across the fields. Where did the voice come from? Were the words spoken by that strange old man who was sitting in the middle of the big snowdrift over there? A long white beard, he had, and frosty silver hair; he was dressed in a white cloak like the ones the peasants used to wear. His cheeks were pale but his eyes were clear.
“Who is that old fellow?” asked the sparrows.
“I know who he is,” answered an old raven who was sitting on a fence post. Since we are all small birds in the eyes of God—and the raven knew it—he condescended to answer the sparrows’ question. “I know the old man! It is Winter: the old fellow from last year. He didn’t die on the first of January, just because the calendar said so. No, he is the guardian of the little prince, Spring. He is the governor. Oh, it is so cold! You little birds must be freezing.”
“That is what I said,” piped the smallest of the sparrows. “That calendar is only a human invention. It doesn’t fit nature. They should have let us figure it out, we are more delicately created.”
A week went by and then another. The forest was black and the little lake was frozen. It looked as if it were not water but lead. The clouds were not real clouds but more like frozen bits of fog hanging over the landscape. The crows flew in flocks but did not scream. It was as if the world slept. Suddenly a ray of sunlight fell upon the ice of the frozen lake and the surface looked like melting tin. The snow on the fields and the hills looked a little different; it didn’t sparkle any more. But the white figure, the old man, still sat on top of the snow-dirft and looked toward the south. He did not seem to be aware that the blanket of snow that covered the ground was slowly melting and seeping into the earth. A little patch of green appeared and here all the sparrows gathered.
“Tweet … Peep! Spring is coming!” they shouted.
“Spring, Spring!” The word traveled across the fields and meadows, through the black-brownish woods, where the moss that grew on the tree trunks already was green. From the south, flying through the air, came the first two storks of the year. On the back of each rode a little child: a girl and a boy. They kissed the earth and, wherever they walked, snowdrops bloomed in the snow. Hand in hand, they went over to old man Winter, greeted him and embraced him; at that moment they were all three hidden in a heavy fog. It spread and covered the whole landscape: everything! Then the wind began to blow; first weakly, making the fog dance like a curtain, then more strongly, until it had swept the fog and mist away. Warmly the sun shone. Winter, the old man, had gone; the children of Spring now sat on the throne of the year.
“That is what I call a proper New Year,” said the sparrows. “Now we will have our rights back and compensation for all we have suffered this winter.”
Wherever the two children went, green buds appeared on the bushes and trees. The grass in the meadows grew taller and taller. The little girl carried flowers in her apron, and these she threw all about her as she walked; but no matter how many she cast, her little apron was as full as ever. In her eagerness she shook her apron over the apple trees, so that they were filled with flowers long before they had green leaves; they looked almost as if they had been covered by snow.
She clapped her hands and the boy clapped his, and birds came, no one knew from where, and they all sang and twittered: “Spring has come!”
It was lovely to watch! Many an old granny came outside in the sunshine; how nice and warm it was. Down in the meadow all the yellow flowers bloomed just as they had when she was a girl. “The world is young again,” she thought; and said, “What a blessed day it is!”
The woods were still a brownish green, and every branch was covered with buds. But down among the roots the fragrant woodruff grew, and violets and tender anemones. Each blade of grass was filled with power. Oh yes, the earth was covered by the most elegant carpet, and on it sat Spring’s young couple and held hands. They sang and laughed; and grew and grew.
A mild rain fell, but the young ones did not notice it, for who can distinguish between raindrops and the tears of happiness? The bride and the bridegroom kissed each other; and at the moment the buds on the trees burst, and when the sun rose all the woods were green.
Hand in hand, Spring’s
children walked beneath the new green roof of the forest, where the fleeting shadows caused shadings in the greenness. Each leaf had a maiden’s innocence. The river and the brooks sang as their clear water rushed across stones, coloring the gravel. All nature seemed to shout of its own eternity, and the cuckoo and the lark sang. It was a beautiful spring, only the willow tree was cautious; it was wearing woolen mittens on its flowers.
Days passed and weeks passed; great waves of heat came rolling from the south and turned the wheat yellow. In the little lakes in the woods, the big leaves of the northern lotus spread themselves out over the still waters; and the fishes would swim underneath them, enjoying their shade. Ripe, juicy, almost black cherries hung from the trees and all the rosebushes were blooming. The sun baked the cottage walls. There on the south side, on a bench, sat Summer. She was a beautiful woman; maybe even lovelier than she had been, when last we saw her, as the young bride of Spring. She is looking toward the horizon where black clouds are building a mountain range all the way up to the sun. Like a petrified black-blue ocean, the clouds swallow up the sky. In the forest, not a bird is singing. Nature is silent. No breezes blow, everything is still, locked in expectancy. But along roads and paths everyone is hurrying, and that whether they are walking, riding, or driving in a carriage. They have one thought, all of them, and that is to seek shelter.
Suddenly a great light bursts forth, blinding and sharper than the sun’s. Then again darkness, followed by the noise of a great thunderclap. The rain pours down. Light and darkness, silence and thunder alternate. In the marshes the young reeds, with their brown featherlike tops, sway and roll like waves on an ocean. The branches of the trees are hidden behind sheets of water, and the grain on the field lies prostrate flat on the ground. It looks as though it could never raise itself up again.