CHAPTER V.
TROUBLE FOR DAISY
It was fortunate that Susan was so happy while she could be; for the poor woman little dreamed how soon her sunny home was to become a sad, dark place for her.
Peter used to go forth in the morning, whistling as gayly as any of the birds; and Daisy following him, proud enough that she could carry his little dinner basket for the short way she went.
She did not know that what was such a heavy load to her was only a feather for the strong man to lift, and so delighted in thinking she had grown old enough to help her dear father.
Still Peter had to watch his dinner closely; for Daisy would espy some beautiful flower or vine looking at her from away off in the shade; and down the basket would go, and the little girl was off to take a nearer look, and see if she could not break off a branch to carry home to her mother.
Sometimes Peter walked so fast, or Daisy staid so long, that they lost each other; and then the father made a call that could be heard for miles, which frightened all the birds home to their nests, and must have startled the old dame herself, wherever she might be lurking in the wood.
But the call was music to Daisy; and before many minutes, she would come bounding into her father's arms, almost hidden in the waving white blossoms with which she had loaded herself.
And all this while, unless Peter himself took care of it, what would become of his dinner!
When Susan went to meet her husband at evening, now, Daisy was sure to be with her – one moment holding her hand, the next skipping away alone, or kneeling to gather bright pebbles and sheets of green moss, to make banks and paths in her garden. She fluttered about in the sunshine like the butterflies she loved, and was as harmless and gentle.
But, alas! one night, no Peter came to meet them; and though Daisy kept thinking she heard his step or his voice, it could only be the fall of some dead limb or the hooting of an owl.
The night grew darker, and it lightened so sharply that Daisy clung to her mother's skirts, and begged her to hide somewhere under a rock until the storm should be past, as the little girl felt almost sure her father had done.
But Susan groped her way on, with the wind blowing the branches into their faces, and the dead boughs snapping and falling about them, and the snakes, that they had never seen before, gliding across the path, hissing, and running their forked tongues out with fear.
And at length they found poor Peter, dead, on the ground. The tree which he had been cutting down had fallen suddenly, and crushed his head so under its great trunk that they only knew him by his clothes.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SWEETEST FLOWER
Small as Daisy was, she saw that her father could never speak to her again; she remembered how kind he had always been; how many good times they had had together; how, that very morning, he had waited, on his way to work, and climbed a tall tree, only to tell her whether the eggs were hatched in the blue-jay's nest.
She thought, too, how he had let her go farther than usual, and then walked back with her part way, to be sure she was in the right path, and how gently he had kissed her at parting, and told her to be a good girl, and help her mother.
Ah, she would take care to do that now, and never forget the last words which her dear father spoke to her.
When our friends are taken away, we remember every little kind word, or look, or smile they ever gave us – things we hardly noticed while they were alive; and Daisy could remember only kindness, only smiles and pleasant words. She thought no one could ever have had so good a father as Peter was to her, and that no little girl could be so lonely and wretched as she was now.
Who was there left to call her up in the morning before the birds, and to make her garden tools, and swing her in the boughs, and listen to her stories at night about the rabbits and flowers? It seemed as if her heart would break.
But Daisy had one pleasant thought to comfort her – it seemed like a sweet flower that her father had dropped down from his new home in paradise, and which she would always wear in her bosom; and perhaps he would know her by it when, after a great many years, she should go to live with him there.
This dear thought was, that when Peter lived, she had done every thing in her power to please him and make him forget his weariness, and that he had known of this thoughtfulness, and loved her for it, and had always felt younger and happier when she was by his side.
If your brothers and sisters or parents die, whether by accident or sickness, are you sure that they would leave you such a comforter as Daisy had? Think about it; for when you stand by their coffins, and it is too late to change the past, and the cold lips have spoken their last word, this little flower will be worth more to you – though no one may see it except yourself – than all the treasure in the world.
But if you have been cold and cruel, there will come into your heart, instead, when you think of them, a dismal shadow, which all the light of the blessed sun cannot drive away.
CHAPTER VII.
THE WOODMAN'S FUNERAL
Daisy did not see the lightning, nor hear the snakes, nor feel the drops of rain that began to patter down; she only felt the cold hand that would never lead her through the wood again; for when she lifted it, it fell back on the ground, dead – dead!
She asked her mother if they were not going home; but Susan said her home was with Peter; and if he staid out in the dark wood, she must stay there, too. She was frightened, and wild with sorrow, and did not know what she was saying, and began, at last, to blame the old woman, who had brought her there, she said, to be so happy for a little while, and always afterwards lonely and wretched – the old hag!
"What old hag!" said a voice close to Susan's ear, that brought her senses back quickly. "Is this all your gratitude, Susan? And are you going to kill your child, out here, with the cold and damp, because your husband's gone? Come! we must bury him; and then away to your home, and don't sit here, abusing your best friend."
Daisy, you know, had never seen the woman, and she had never looked so dreadfully as now; she was pale and starved, and her great eyes glittered like the eyes of the snakes, and her voice was sharp and shrill enough to have frightened one on a pleasanter night than that.
With Peter's axe the fairy sharpened two stout sticks; one of these she made Susan take, and there, by the light of the quick flashes of lightning, and a little lantern that the woman wore like a brooch on her bosom, Daisy watched them dig her father's grave.
The fallen tree was one of the largest in the wood, and the two women could not lift it; so they dug the earth away at the side and underneath the trunk; and when the place was deep enough, poor Peter's body dropped into its grave. While her mother and the fairy were filling it over with earth, Daisy went for the moss which she had gathered to show her father, and, by the light of the fairy's lamp, picked the sweetest flowers, and fragrant grasses, and broad leaves that glistened with the rain, and scattered them on the spot.
Then, with one of Susan's and one of Daisy's hands in hers, the old dame hurried them out of the wood. They stumbled often over the broken boughs, and stepped, before they knew it, on the snakes, that only hissed and slid away among the grass. Susan was crying bitterly, and their guide kept scolding her, and Daisy heard the wolves growl in their dens.
She had heard of great funerals, where there were carriages and nodding plumes, and heavy velvet palls, and bells tolling mournfully; but Daisy thought it was because her father had been such a good man, that his funeral was so much grander.
She knew that all about his grave, and on, on, farther than eye could see, the great forest trees were bending and nodding like black plumes, and sounds like groans and sighs came from them as they dashed together in the wind; the lightning was his funeral torch; and the thunder tolled, instead of bells, at Peter's grave; and the black clouds swept on like a train of mourners; and the great, quick drops of rain made it seem as if all the sky were weeping tears of pity for the little girl.
Ah, and Daisy could not see how the dreadful old woman only seemed such, and was, in truth, a good and gentle fairy, who meant still to watch over the little orphan with tender care, as she had always done; whose soft, white wings, even now, were spread above, to shelter her from the cold rain and wind, and whose kind heart was full of pity for that little aching heart of hers.
You and I, and all the people we know, walk through the world with this same strange fairy; who seems to frown, and scold, and force us on through cruel storms, and yet who is really smiling upon us, and shielding our shrinking forms with tender care, and leading us gently home.
Have you thought yet what can be the fairy's name?
CHAPTER VIII.
DAISY'S MISSION
No sooner had Daisy stepped inside of her mother's door, than there came such a crash of thunder as she had never heard; and the little house shook as if it must surely fall.
The old trees ground their boughs together, and, blown by the wind, the night birds dashed with their wet wings against the door; the screech owl hooted, for the young were washed out of her nest; and the rain leaked under Susan's door sill, ran across the floor, and put out the little fire of brushwood which was burning on the hearth.
And Daisy thought of her father, out alone in this fearful night, and how the cold rain must be dripping into his grave.
She peeped through the window. The sharp, jagged lightning made the sky look as if it were shattering like a dome of glass. She wondered if that lightning might not be the light of heaven she had heard about, and whether, if the sky should really fall, heaven and earth would be one place, and by taking a long, long journey, she could find her father, and live with him. And she thought that, for the sake of having him to take her by the hand again, she would walk to the end of a hundred worlds.
Then the sky seemed to Daisy like a great black bell; and the thunder was the tongue of it that tolled so dismally over her father's grave.
She was startled by a bony hand laid upon her shoulder, and looking up, heard the old woman say in her sharp, shrill voice, "Come, little girl! don't you know I am hungry after all this work? Fly round, and get me something to eat."
And when Daisy noticed her poor, starved face, she wondered that she had not thought to offer her some food.
So she went to the closet, – the same one which poor Peter had shown to his wife with so much pride, – and pointed to bread and a dish of milk, – for the shelves were so high that Daisy could not reach them, – and drew her mother's easy chair into the dryest place she could find, and begged the dame to seat herself.
She did not wait to be asked twice, but hobbled into the chair, and, to Daisy's wonder, ate all the bread at a mouthful, and drank the milk at a swallow, and then, looking as hungry as ever, asked for more.
So the little girl brought meat, and then some meal, and some dried fruit, and even cracked nuts; but the more she brought, the more the fairy wanted.
If Daisy had feared any thing, she would have trembled when, at last, the old dame fixed her glittering eyes upon her, and began to talk.
"Couldn't you do any better, Daisy, than this," she said, "for your mother's friend and yours? Are you not ashamed, when I am so hungry and tired, to give me such mean food?"
"I am sorry, if you do not like it," said Daisy; "it is the best we ever have."
"Don't tell me that," and the dame began to look angry. "Do you call it good food that leaves me thin as I was before, and as hungry, and my clothes as ragged, and does not rest or soothe my poor old aching bones?"
"If you wait till mother has done crying, she can make a drink out of herbs that will stop the aching – I am sure of that," said Daisy, looking up in the fairy's face.
"But I want it now; and, O, I am so cold! and she will cry all night. Do, Daisy, find me something else to eat."
The poor old woman shivered as she spoke, and tears came into her eyes.
"If it were daytime, I could find you berries and nuts out doors, for mother says I have sharp eyes."
"Have you – have you? And could you find my hut? There is a beautiful loaf of bread and a flask of medicine on the table. O, dear! this dreadful pain again!" and the ugly face grew uglier, as its wrinkles seemed all knotting up with agony.
"I am almost sure I could find it, and I am so sorry your bones ache; pray, let me try."
"What! go out into the dreadful night, with the owls, and wolves, and snakes, and with bats flapping their wings in your face, and the thunder rolling and rumbling overhead?"
"None of these things ever hurt me, and I don't believe they will now. May I try?"
"Just listen to the wind and rain, and see the lightning cut through the darkness like a sword; and think, Daisy, if you should see your father, just as he lay in the wood, with his head all crushed."
"My father has gone to heaven," said the little girl; "that is only his body out in the woods, just as that is his coat on the wall; and I shall see nothing except the nice loaf of bread and the medicine, and think only how they will cure your pain."
Without another word, the fairy took the lantern from her bosom, and fastening it to Daisy's, led her to the door, and pointed out into the black night.
"Who could see to hurt me, when it is so dark!" the little girl exclaimed. "Now, tell me which way I shall turn, and see if I am not back soon."
"Walk only where the light of the lantern falls." She was saying more; but the wind slammed the door suddenly, and Daisy found herself alone.
CHAPTER IX.
FAIRY FOOD
The lantern made a little pathway of light, sometimes leading straight forward, sometimes turning, running among thick bushes or over the rocks; and Daisy went bravely on, never minding the frightened birds that fluttered through her light, like moths, nor the sad sigh of the wind, nor the dripping trees.
She looked for pleasant things, instead of frightful ones; and let me whisper to you, that, with fairy help or without it, we always find, in this world, what we are looking for.
The mosses seemed like a green carpet for her feet, and the pebbles like shining jewels; and the little flowers looked up at her like friends, and seemed to say, "We are smaller and weaker than you are, Daisy; but we stay out here every night, and nothing harms us."
And the trees bowed, and folded their leaves above her, as she passed, so gently, that she thought they were trying to shelter and take care of her.
At length the light paused before a rock; but Daisy could find no house, until she parted a clump of bushes, and then saw the entrance to a cave.
She crept in; and as her lantern filled the place with light, she saw what a damp, uncomfortable home the old dame had, with only some stones for seats, and a table, and a ragged bed, and a smoky corner where she built her fire.
There, however, upon the table stood the loaf and flask which Daisy had come to find; she took them and hurried away, for it seemed as if the old dame's face were looking at her out of the rocky wall on every side.
It was a heavier load for the little girl than her father's basket had been; but she had a strong heart, if her hands were weak. She ran along, trying to get before the light, that was always just in front of her, and singing the merriest songs she knew, so as not to hear the wind nor think about the faces on the wall.
She reached home safely, but could not open the door; for the latch was high, and the dame had gone fast asleep. Daisy thought she must wait until daylight out there in the cold, and sat on the step, feeling disappointed and sad enough.
But one of her tame rabbits, awakened, perhaps, more easily than the dame, hopped out of his burrow, and nestled in Daisy's lap, and looked up at her with his gentle eyes, while she warmed her hands in his fur, and did not feel so much alone.
At last the old woman started from her sleep, and wondering what had become of Daisy, went to look for her.
She seized the bread with a cry of joy, and breaking a morsel, ate it eagerly, as she led Daisy towards the fire, which she had built up again.
"Now, see the difference between your food and mine." As the fairy spoke, Daisy looked up, and saw, to her surprise, the wrinkles smooth away, and a beautiful light break over the old brown face, the wide mouth shrink to a little rosy one, all smiles, and pearly teeth inside. The fairy's eyes grew brighter than ever; but the dreadful glittering look had gone, and they were full of joy, and peace, and love.
"Wait, now, till I take my medicine." Her voice had changed to the softest, most silvery one that Daisy ever heard.
And when she had tasted the drink, her poor old crooked hands grew plump and white, her bent form straightened, and, what made Daisy wonder more, even her clothes began to change.
First they looked cleaner, then not so faded, then the rags disappeared, and they seemed new and whole; and then they began to grow soft and rich, till the ragged cotton gown was changed to velvet and satin, the knotted old turban to delicate lace, that hung heavy with pearls, but was not so delicate and beautiful as the golden hair that floated about the fairy wherever she moved.
"Poor child!" she said; "you are tired and cold; come, rest with me;" and taking Daisy in her arms, began to sing the sweetest songs, that seemed to change every thing into music, even the wailing tempest and her mother's sobs.
And all the while that tender, loving face bent over her, and the gentle hands were smoothing her wet hair, and folding her more closely to the fairy's heart.
Upon this pillow our tired Daisy fell asleep.