Title: The Story of a Dewdrop
Author: Macduff, John R. (John Ross), 1818-1895
Language: English
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The Story of
A DEWDROP.


[Illustration]


THE
STORY
OF A
DEWDROP

J. R. MACDUFF D D

WITH
FOUR COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS


LONDON MARCUS WARD & CO BELFAST

1881



FOREWORDS.

    To Charlie.


    A Dewdrop is a small affair; and the world would not be the least
    interested, nor a bit the wiser, by knowing how I come
    affectionately to dedicate the story I have written about it to
    _you_. I may tell you it was one line of eleven words, read one
    night from a musty old volume of last century, which suggested it.

    Everybody must have their play-hours and moments of recreation. I
    think I have gone back to other and more serious work all the better
    after writing a page or two of what follows. I am happy thus to have
    had my little holiday along with you in this ideal region of quaint
    conceits.

    Shall we hope that others may share our pleasure?

    Let us try.



_List of_
ILLUSTRATIONS.


_The Procession of the Queen of the Morning_ (p. 41), _Frontispiece._

_The Bird-talk and its surroundings,_                         14

_The Nightingale and the Dewdrop,_                            19

_The Ascent of the Million Army,_                             53



_The Story of_
A DEWDROP.



CHAPTER THE FIRST.


Three birds of very favourable
repute in these regions
met together one evening--a
Thrush, a Lark, and a Nightingale.
And all for what purpose, think you?
It was a queer one--to hold a solemn
conference about a DEWDROP!

Yes, it must be allowed it was an
original thought which brought these
three feathered friends thus into council;
and a pretty talk to be sure they had
about it.

They selected, as an appropriate time
for preliminaries, the close of a bright
day in early summer; just when things
in outer nature were looking their best.
The snowdrop and crocus had long ago
hid their faces to make way for more
ambitious rivals. That always pleasant
season was a great way past, when you
see the drowsy plants (after being
tucked up--it may have been for weeks--in
a white snowy coverlet), first
roused from their sound winter sleep,
yawning and stretching themselves, and
rubbing their little eyes, and looking;
wonderingly about them, saying--"What!
is it now time to wake up
and dress?" The tree foliage was
approaching, if it had not already
reached, perfection; all the mosses,
too, looked so green and fresh; and
how prettily the various ferns were
uncoiling themselves among the rocks
and shady nooks by the stream;
while on this particular occasion
the very Sun seemed to have coaxed
his setting beams into the production
of most gorgeous colouring. Belts of
golden cloud were streaking the western
sky; such long trails of them, that it
was impossible to say whether the great
ball of fire, which gave them their
glory, had actually gone down behind
the horizon, or was just about to do so.
At all events, it was unmistakably
_sundown_: though the scene was far
removed from northern latitudes, it
might be designated by the familiar
Scotch "gloamin'." The groves, and
dells, and hedgerows, which had kept
up a goodly concert the livelong day,
were now silent. Their winged tenants
had, one after another, slunk to their
nests, with very tired throats. They
had left, apparently, all, or nearly all
the music to the aforesaid brook in the
dell. A stone's-throw higher up the
valley, this latter, fed by recent rains,
rattled in gleeful style over a bed of
white and grey pebbles--the tiny
limpid waves chasing one another as
if they were playing at hide-and-seek
amid the sedges, king-cups, and rushes.
But it had now reached a quieter spot
where, however, it still kept up a gentle,
soothing evensong, a lullaby peculiar
to itself, as if it wanted to hush the
little birds asleep in their varied leafy
cradles. The very cattle, that had
been seen lying lazily out of the heat
under the beech-trees, had ceased their
lowings. In fact, Nature had rung
her curfew bell, and the sentry stars
were coming out, one by one, to keep
their night-watch.

       *       *       *       *       *

Let me first, however, say a word
about this Dewdrop, which had awakened
so much curiosity as to gather
three representative members of the
bird-world together.

It was a great puzzle, this Dewdrop
was. It was a puzzle where it came
from; what it had come about; and a
still greater puzzle, what it was made
of. It was evidently a visitor from
some unknown land. Very quietly,
too, it had travelled to its adopted
country. These birds, in succession
(with the curiosity birds generally have),
had endeavoured by stealth to track its
dainty fairy footsteps, and learn its
past history. But it was to no
purpose. However, there it was; not
perhaps making its appearance every
night, but almost every night. And,
then, it invariably managed to perch
itself so daintily on the tip of a rose-leaf.
All three birds agreed that it had
substantiated its claim in this, to be
decidedly a lover of the beautiful.
The leaf, moreover, which it made its
resting-place, was not only pretty in
itself, of a subdued delicate green, but
it hung right over a full-blown rose,
with a mass of pink leaves. The
Dewdrop quite seemed as if it had said
to its own little personality regarding
this round coral ball (or cup, if you
prefer to call it so)--"Well, I shall
have a good look at you at all events,
from my cozy couch, the last thing
at night, and the first thing in the
morning."

[Illustration]

I somehow really believe the rose
must have heard this complimentary
speech, or at all events, by some
instinctive way, have correctly surmised
what the Dewdrop was thinking about;
for, in the last fading, glimmering
light, it covered up its face so coyly
with both hands, and blushed a deeper
and deeper crimson.

       *       *       *       *       *

But to return to the birds. It was
just outside a copsy retreat that these
three winged acquaintances met. The
Thrush, with his brown plumage and
yellow spotted neck, being the biggest,
and, if anything, the more talkative of
the three, began the conversation.

The consultation was a long and
animated one, too long indeed to
report in full, besides there being a
considerable amount of superfluous talk,
what in bird-language is called chattering;
but I can give the close of it.

"Well," said the Thrush, summing
up the discussion, "I must now be off
to bed--at all events after providing
something suitable in the way of
supper for my wife and family, and
seeing them made tolerably comfortable
for the night. And so too must you,"
he added, with a quizzical look to the
Lark, whose left eye was beginning to
droop, as he stood, with one leg up, in
the significant fashion our woodland
friends indulge in when they indicate
that they are tired. "We shall leave
to you, Bird of the night"--were his last
words, as he addressed the Nightingale--"we
shall leave to you the first
interview with this little sparkling
thing from fairyland, or whatever other
land it has quitted. We shall defer
_our_ visit till to-morrow."

So away the two brown-winged companions
sped, I know not exactly where.
But, though both in a great hurry to get
home, they judiciously deemed, as I
have just observed, that they might
do a trifle of purveying business on
the way, by picking up a few seeds; or
if a manageable slug or grub presented
itself, so much the better. I had not
the curiosity to follow them; but I
believe they each contrived to carry
home a dainty supper; the one to the
hole of a big ash-tree, the other to its
nest in the furrow beside some tufts of
golden gorse. It may be interesting,
however, to know, by way of completing
their domestic history, that both had
promising young households--the one
of three, and the other of four--to
support; and the wee downy children
had arrived too at a very ravenous age,
with any capacity for food, which
indeed amounted, at times, on the part
alike of father and mother, to a trial of
temper.

The Nightingale, now left all alone
for the discharge of a somewhat novel
duty, seemed at first to feel his
responsibility: perhaps a feeling allied
to nervousness in the human being.
But he was a knowing little fellow too;
and resolved to proceed in the most
alluring as well as discreet way to his
task. Being fully acquainted with the
position of the rose-leaf, he took wing,
and settled himself on the branch of a
birch close by. Without any possible
warning, he forthwith began (it was the
best way of getting over these nervous
sensations) to pipe one of his very best
and most enchanting songs. He had
somewhat unwarrantably indulged the
expectation that he would get an
immediate response from the Dewdrop.
He had however, in this, to exercise
the virtue of patience.

[Illustration]

"Answer me, pretty Dewdrop," he
said in his most bewitching trill.

But the Dewdrop was silent. It
appeared to pay not the slightest
attention.

Another chirrup and mellifluous
note, and then, coming to a lower and
still nearer spray of the birch-tree,
quite within whispering distance:

"Pretty little noiseless thing," continued
the Nightingale, "what are
you? Where were you born? Have
you any father or mother? or are you
an orphan? My two brother birds
spoke of your brightness and lustre.
My eyes are tolerably good; but I
confess I can see none of these things
about you; you seem rather somehow
to appear sad, though I trust I am
wrong."

"I have reason to be sad," at last
replied the Dewdrop, in the quietest,
mildest, silveriest voice imaginable,
and trembling with an emotion real or
pretended. "You call me a Dewdrop,
but in truth I am not, I am a teardrop;
a teardrop which fell from the sky."

"A teardrop from the sky!" said
the Nightingale, in undisguised astonishment.
"I cannot comprehend you.
Pray tell me what you mean?"

"It is true, despite of your surprise,"
said the other. "The Sky always
weeps at the loss of the Sun; and no
wonder. I tell you again, believe it
or not as you please, I am one of the
tears it shed to-night. You need not,
however, grieve for me. I shall be all
right" (the tiny voice rising to a
falsetto) "when the Sun appears again.
Indeed, I venture to say, you will
hardly know me then. _That_ I am
sure of."

"Ay!" said the Nightingale, with
a sceptical, incredulous chirp.

"Yes! I always get bright, that I
do, when the Sun shows himself. Look
up to those stars, glittering in the sky.
Do you know how they twinkle so?
I am myself neither scholar nor
philosopher, and have no pretensions
either way. But a confidential friend
once told me, and I quite believe him,
that it is because they are either suns
themselves, or else get light from that
beautiful Sun you saw some time ago
tingeing the sky with red and gold.
_My Sun_," continued the dwarf thing of
mystery, raising its tones, with a sort
of conscious pride. (If it had been
aught else but a beaded drop, I would
have described it standing on tip-toe
as it said this.) It had, however, fairly
exhausted itself with a very unwonted
effort in the shape of a speech, and,
without saying another word, turned
on its side on the leafy bed, shut
both eyes, and went to sleep. The
Nightingale was of course too polite,
civil, and considerate to prolong. So
he simply said, "Good night to you,
little Teardrop, or Dewdrop, whatever
you prefer calling yourself. It is time,
and more than time, for me to be on
the wing. I have one or two domestic
anxieties which, in the first place, I
must see to; and, after that, I have an
engagement among these old hawthorns
to serenade till morning."

"Good night, kind bird," replied the
Dewdrop, turning in politeness half
round on its pillow; "thank you for
thinking of me in my loneliness."
And away the songster flew, first to his
home, and then, after some outstanding
duties and civilities, over to his thicket
among the May blossoms. The extreme
beauty of the night seemed to
dispel all care, and to have a decidedly
inspiring effect on his nerves. I cannot
tell whether he had really any such
ambitious thought, but it almost
seemed, from the gush of song, an
attempt was made that every star in
the heavens might at all events hear, if
they could not appreciate his melodies.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER THE SECOND.


It was now morning. The
mist still slept drowsily in the
valley; in some places so
dense, that the smoke of the early fires
in the hamlet could scarcely pierce it.
Already our friend the Thrush had completed
both toilet and breakfast, and had
issued forth on his round of daily work
and pleasure; as active and busy as
the thrush family always are. When
he first rose from bed, he was not
exactly in the very best of humours;
for he had, what was always a cross to
him when it occurred (though that was
rarely), a disturbed night. Shall I tell
you how his rest came thus to be
invaded? Why, the Nightingale, on
his way from the rose-leaf, had, perhaps
somewhat inconsiderately, tapped at
his door, to inform him that all he
could get out of the Dewdrop was
(a very incomprehensible sentiment to
a sleepy bird), that he was a tear wept
by the Sky when it lost the Sun; and
he was bound in all sincerity to add,
that it seemed rather a dull and uninteresting
tear to boot.

"I know better," growled the Thrush.
(I have used the word "growl," because
I can find no better to describe the
reality.) Growling, I am well aware, is a
very uncommon demonstration of feeling
in the case of a warbler. At all
events, if it was not a growl, it was the
nearest approach his beak could make
to one, as he turned on the pillow
which had been thus rudely disturbed.
After, however, dozing for a few more
hours, breakfast over, and his family
seen to, off he sped with all his former
cheerfulness and activity, till he found
himself perched on a branch of the
very tallest elm-tree he could pick out,
and one, too, right above where the
rose and the dewdrop were. Dear
me! how he piped, and chirruped, and
throstled! I thought the Nightingale
had done wonders in that way; but it
was nothing to the Thrush. He doubtless
was under the impression that the
Dewdrop was sound asleep, and needed
no ordinary efforts in the way of
rousing. I am sure if one could have
dived under the yellow feathers, the
little throat must have been purple.

After these musical preliminaries,
our new friend (Songster No. 2) ventured
by-and-by to come nearer. But,
in doing so, he could hardly believe
his eyes, specially after what the
Nightingale had told him.

"A teardrop" indeed! There was
not a bit of the tear about it. Where
had been the Nightingale's eyes? It
was something at all events very
like a bright, unmistakable, beautiful
diamond on which the Thrush looked.
How it glistened and sparkled; and
that too with all the prismatic colours!
The spectator could only (what was an
effort to any member of the Thrush
family) gaze in mute wonder.

"What in all the world can you be,
you lovely, silent sleeper on the rose-leaf,
with your round crystal cheeks?
Dewdrop we thought you were; teardrop
you say you are: I cannot think
you are either. If you are not a
diamond set in rubies--stolen, for
anything I know, from yesterday's
rainbow--you look the thing uncommonly
well."

"I am indeed a diamond," answered
the Dewdrop. "Look at me," said the
little gleaming dot, with the air of an
aristocrat; "do you not say I am fit for
a monarch's crown? And it _is_ a
monarch's crown I am presently to be
set in. Every day I meet the Queen
of the Morning.--Stay," it suddenly exclaimed,
"I see her even now advancing
with her rosy feet, 'sowing the earth
with pearls.' See, for yourself, how the
few stars which still linger in the sky,
and which with their glittering torches
lighted her out of the Eastern Gate,
are paling every minute behind her!
She says, of all the jewels in her tiara
there is not one she is fonder of, or
prouder of, than me. Away, away,
little bird," stammered out the Dewdrop,
with some nervous twitchings
presently to be accounted for; "I must
prepare to meet this Queen Aurora.
But," it added in a kind of afterthought,
"the procession will soon be
over; come back shortly and see me, if
you please." The keen diamond eye
twinkled with a humorous, comical
expression when these last words were
uttered; as much as to say, "I shall
manage to cheat you, old fellow,
wont I?"

The Thrush had some small quantum
of poetry in his nature; but he had a
great deal of shrewd common sense
too, and an immense idea of propriety.
Accordingly, he at once took the hint
as to departure; but with guileless
simplicity cherished the resolution of
renewing the intercourse, in an hour or
two at latest, after the royal cavalcade
had swept by.

This interlude was no peculiar hardship
to our erratic friend, who knew he
could spend the time merrily and
profitably among his numerous kinsfolk
in the groves. To tell the truth, he was
not sorry to get away from the court
pageantry, as all such ceremonial and
pomp of circumstance was an abomination
to him, and had always been
so. It was, therefore, with pleasant
anticipations of an early return that,
by a few fleet bounces, he was lost
from sight in the nearest thicket.

Barely, however, had the specified
period elapsed, when he was back again
upon his twig on the tall elm. He
had certainly not exhausted his strength
or conversational music-powers in that
round of morning visits, for he renewed,
then and there, his merriest
notes, quite in the old style; and after
this prelude, by way of making sure
that the course was clear, he flew with
more than wonted alacrity in the
direction of the rose-leaf.

But, can you imagine? To his
wonder, sorrow, and chagrin, lo! when
he looked for it, the leaf was empty!
Its small householder was gone! Not
a trace of either Dewdrop or Diamond
left! There was no need of asking
any questions; he comprehended in a
moment what the roguish twinkle of the
eye meant an hour before. He had,
in a word, been "sold." It was more
than a mere innocent trick played on
him. His feelings and bird-dignity
had, he felt, been a little compromised
by what, had it occurred at night, would
have been called "a moonlight flitting."
It was more like what the big
creatures in the world around him
were in the habit of describing as an
April errand. It was only too evident
that the Queen of the Morning, in
passing by, had picked up the dew
diamond, and had inserted it in her
crown; and that the little thing had
made no demur to the appropriation.

Well, it must be owned that, anyhow
for once, the Thrush was crestfallen.
He almost never knew any ditties but
joyous ones; but on the present occasion,
with no attempt at concealment, he
went away wailing to the thicket, and
outpoured his wounded vanity in something
very like a dirge. He then
buried his beak in rather sulky fashion
under his wing, and went to sleep.

[Illustration]



CHAPTER THE THIRD.


But what is this? It is a
change of scene. Away up in
the morning sky, oh, how blue
it is! and the light fleecy clouds, how they
float in folds of white ether! The Sun
has climbed higher. It is now above
the tallest of the poplars; and the long
shadows cast by trunks and stems and
branches are visibly shortened. And
see! the cattle are again lowing in the
fat meadows, and by degrees beating
a safe retreat from the coming heat
under the forest trees.

High in that bright dome of azure,
there is a delightful frolicsome twitter
heard. It is not the Nightingale; no,
not so clear and mellow as that. Not
the Thrush; no, not so loud or gushing
as that. It is our little friend the
Lark. Oh! how merry he is! more so
than either of the other two. And
what is he about? He seems to be
floating and soaring, sauntering and
curtseying, skimming and dipping, rollicking
and frolicking--now up, now
down--now describing gyrations, now
imitating a pendulum--now trying to be
so steady with his fluttering wings, that
he looks like a star twinkling in the day-time--in
short, playing all sorts of droll
antics, indulging in every imaginable
pirouette and somersault, in all the
world (in his case _above_ the world) like a
school-boy beginning his holidays; certainly
appearing to put himself to a great
deal of unnecessary trouble and exertion.
But he is unmistakably, with his
winning ways, about _something_, and
something to the purpose. But what
that is, no mortal could guess. As the
thing however must be guessed, or
otherwise found out, Gentle Reader,
I shall take you into confidence, and
unriddle the secret.

The Queen of the Morning, as you
already know, or at all events know
now, had come with all her court, and
troupe of gay courtiers. The Young
Hours had unbarred for her the Gates
of Day, and she at once sallied forth.
Beautiful little pages in the shape of
pink clouds, quite like tiny angels
with wings, were holding up her train.
Some of those fairy cherubs seemed, too,
to have censers in their hands, at least
if one could judge from the delicate
wreaths of mist which rose like incense
from them. Others appeared to be
discharging tiny golden arrows from
silver bows; others to paint, with
invisible pencils, in delicate and varying
hues of amber and purple, the fringes
of clouds; while the Queen herself at
times laid her own finger upon the
larger of these, and braided them with
snow and crimson. And then, how
loyal everything seemed to be on the
earth beneath! How each flower that
had been asleep all night instantly
rose on awaking, and, in the most
duteous manner uncovering its head,
prepared to take its place in the royal
procession. The more gorgeous ones
of the garden led the way, with their
velvet tassels, and silken brocades, and
pendants of opal and turquoise; some
apparently carrying chalices filled with
nectar. Then the fields and hedgerows,
in their rough, rustic, plebeian fashion,
with their fustian jackets and smock-frocks,
said--"We shall not be behind
our betters;" so their buttercups and
wood-anemones, speedwell and scarlet
pimpernel, the meadow violet with its
modest blue, the cowslip with its burnished
cells, the daisy with its "golden
eye and white silver eyelashes," all did
fealty to their adored Queen. Some
went down on their knees; others doffed
their caps; others smiled bewitchingly;
others could do nothing but waft sweet
perfumes. There were even bands of
very varied music and musicians, all
assisting with their efforts in swelling
the Queen's Anthem. The brook,
though it had sung all night, and had
need of a little respite, seemed to say--"No,
I shall go warbling on; she shall
have my very best treble of a ripple."
And then there were minor performers
in this nature-choir. The Blackbird
and Redbreast, Goldfinch and Linnet,
and Chaffinch, each took part with
striking effect. Even the Swallow
in his own quiet way twittered, and the
Tomtit chattered, and the Beetle
droned, and the Bee hummed, and the
big Dragon-fly, in armour of brightest
cobalt, whirred; and the Grasshopper,
poor fellow! did his very uttermost,--he
chirruped, he could do no more.
The Butterfly, who could not raise
a single note, came out in his best
plush court-dress of gold, vermilion,
and blue, dainty little silent outrider
that he is, waking up any exceptional
sleepers. He carried, truth to
say, his zeal sometimes too far; as
when I saw him unjustly reproaching
the Foxglove for having bells and not
ringing them, a thing they were never
meant to do. Even the Spider hung
his silver-tissued web from spray to
spray; as if he had weaved a gossamer
mantle, in case his Queen might like to
use it in the chill of early dawn. (_See
Frontispiece_.)

Well, the latter--I mean the Queen--at
last came to a pause, and, with most
radiant grace in her countenance, she
put her hand up to her crown, and took
out the diamond. There was a little
pet of a crimson cloud that happened
to be floating past at the moment.
She laid the lustrous gem on this
roseate pillow; and then, slowly and
gradually, she and all her retainers,
in ghostly shape, vanished clean from
sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

But what, you will say, has all this
to do with our friend the Lark? His
quick little eye had discerned what your
dull sight and mine could not. He had
watched everything I have now described.
How indeed could he miss
seeing that flashing speck of light lying
so daintily on its cushion of state? No
wonder he circles and zigzags, and does
bird-homage to the brightest gem of
the Regalia. Up, down--hither, thither--just
as I have already told, doing
obeisance in every possible and conceivable
way; till at last, poising
himself immediately above, fluttering
with all his might, and settling himself
in the fixed attitude in which the lark
family are such adepts, he mustered up
courage and said--

"Pretty sparkling thing! I know what
you are. You are a rare diamond just
taken from the crown of the Queen of
the Morning. But, I confess, you look,
too, very like the Dewdrop I spied at a
distance, a few hours ago, on the tip of
a rose-leaf."

"What a capital guesser you are,
tiny minstrel," was the reply; "but you
had better leave me with my diamond
name, at all events for the present. I
shall not say whether some scientific
bird-winged philosophers are right or
wrong when they aver that, though the
Queen of the Morning borrowed me, I
am really and truly a jewel from the
crown of the Sun; that when he took
off his royal robes last evening, to lay
his head on his nightly pillow, I
dropped out of his crown, and tumbled
down to the earth. I may tell you, however,
confidentially (just in a whisper,
you know)," added the brilliant speaker,
"that though they call me Diamond, I
like quite as well the name with which
God's beautiful mist baptized me, that
of _Dewdrop_. But I have brief time
(indeed no time) to converse further
with you now. You have seen, a
short while ago, how the Queen of
the Morning vanished. Will you be
astonished when I tell you that I am
about to do the very same myself? I
am going," it continued, "to my Palace
yonder" (an extra gleam, in the absence
of a finger, was its own special way of
pointing upwards). "I have said my
_Palace_--I should rather perhaps say,
my _Home_. We may meet," it added,
"pretty soaring warbler, on the way to
it. But please leave me now."

What I have said of the Thrush was
true also of the Lark. He was a
peculiarly biddable and discreet bird,
and when he got a hint he always took
it. Moreover, the Dewdrop had spoken
so courteously (he thought condescendingly)
to him, he would not for the
world intrude his company longer than
desired. The other evidently wished
to be all alone, to pack up and prepare
for this great and distant journey.

So the Lark plunged down to the
stream among the alders to bathe his
wings and refresh himself. After the
lustrations were duly completed, up
again he rose like an arrow into the
bright, blue sky. Says he to himself,
"I shall certainly be on the sharp out-look
for that ascent of the Dewdrop.
I can at all events be a silent spectator,
if my services cannot otherwise be of
use." And, to be sure, he did not
require to watch long; for, with that
keenness of perception that belonged
to all his ancestors, he found that he
had soared right into the very midst of
a golden mist. Some people say and
believe (though I am not wise enough
in bird-lore to know the truth of it),
that the lark family have eyes almost
like a microscope; things invisible to
us are said to be quite visible, and
indeed conspicuous, to them. At all
events, this was true in the case of the
present representative of that discriminating
race. So that what, if we had
been there, would only have seemed an
aggregation of glistening atoms, were
to him nothing less than a vast army in
visible shape--chariots and charioteers,
knights mounted on steeds with white
trappings and gold and silver bridles;
other horsemen carrying glittering
spears, polished shields, and flashing
swords; others bearing standards of
cloth of gold. I am only telling you
what the Lark saw, or thought he saw;
and a most wonderful army on march
you can very well believe it was.

[Illustration]

Oh, just see how he twitters and
carols, as I have more than once
pictured, and cannot do so too often--shaking
first his little wings, and then
his little throat; the old zigzagging
to and fro--here, there, everywhere--whisking
in this direction, and bouncing
in that direction, restless gymnastic
that he is, in a very whirl and vortex
of excitement!

"You told me, a little while ago,"
said he, mustering up courage, with an
effort, to speak to this wondrous mass
of knight-errantry; "at all events the
Diamond-drop, of which I know you are
the fragments, told me you were going
to some Palace in the sky. Where is
that?"

"It is our _Home_, soaring warbler,"
said the million million little voices,
their spears and helmets flashing brightly
in the radiance, their horses prancing
and pawing the path of light--"It
is Home, Home, Home!" said the
myriads, the very air tremulous with
the shout.

"Yes, but where is that?" repeated
the Lark, determined to come to the
point, and not to be numerically extinguished,
as he darted like lightning
round and round the brilliant host.

"The Sun! the Sun!" one after
another made answer. The Dewdrop
was a tear that fell from the sky because
the Sun was gone. But, as you
have just told us, we are all parts of it--everyone
of us are; and we are on our
way again to the golden entrance to his
Palace.

The army of misty globules rose
and rose, higher and yet higher. They
seemed, too, to get brighter and brighter
in the ascent, the Lark rising with them,
indeed till his little wings were tired.
Then when he felt that he could act as
convoy no farther, down he came at
one long unpausing dart to the furrow
adjoining the wooded dell below, which
was now all streaked with fleckered
light. He thought (and we shall not
quarrel with the fancy) that these
patches of light were nothing else than
the golden arrows he had seen shot from
the bow of the Cherubs--the little
Angels of the Dawn--and that they
were now lying thick in the green
arcade. He just took breath, after the
exhaustion and excitement, alike of
both body and mind, which his aerial
adventure had entailed; and then
hastened straight to the home of the
Nightingale and Thrush, to tell of the
glorious ascent (what the old and learned
creatures of the earth would have called
the apotheosis) of the Dewdrop on
the rose-leaf; its severance into a
million fragments; and how these,
in the shape of a great army, had
marched right within

THE SUN'S GOLDEN GATES!

[Illustration]



_AFTERWORDS._

_An Angel's Whisper._


The Soul--the Spirit of Man--apart
from the Great Sun,
becomes a teardrop. All is
dark to it, when that All-glorious Source
of Light and Love is away. Earth's
sweetest songs cannot cheer it. But
when the morning comes, and the
Sun returns, the teardrop becomes a
Dewdrop--gleaming like a diamond in
that peerless radiance. And at death,
when it _seems_ to be dissolved, and
has apparently vanished from sight,
it is exhaled--not annihilated. It
passes upward to the Golden Gates,
to be lost in the splendour of THE
EVERLASTING LIGHT!

[Illustration]





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