The Holy Cross and Other Tales | Page 9

warrior host at this thing;
but the Father Miguel knew its meaning; for he was minded of that
vision wherein it was foretold unto the Jew that, pardoned for his sin,
he should sleep forever under the burden of the cross he spurned. All
this the Father Miguel showed unto Don Esclevador and the others, and

he said: "I deem that unto all ages this holy symbol shall bear witness
of our dear Christ's mercy and compassion. Though we, O exiled
brothers, sleep in this foreign land in graves which none shall know,
upon that mountain height beyond shall stretch the eternal witness to
our faith and to our Redeemer's love, minding all that look thereon, not
of the pains and the punishments of the Jew, but of the exceeding
mercy of our blessed Lord, and of the certain eternal peace that cometh
through his love!"
How long ago these things whereof I speak befell, I shall not say. They
never saw--that Spanish host--they never saw their native land, their
sovereign liege, their loved ones' faces again; they sleep, and they are
dust among those mighty mountains in the West. Where is the grave of
the Father Miguel, or of Don Esclevador, or of any of the valiant
Spanish exiles, it is not to tell; God only knoweth, and the saints: all
sleep in the faith, and their reward is certain. But where sleepeth the
Jew all may see and know; for on that awful mountain-side, in a spot
inaccessible to man, lieth the holy cross of snow. The winds pass
lightly over that solemn tomb, and never a sunbeam lingereth there.
White and majestic it lies where God's hands have placed it, and its
mighty arms stretch forth as in a benediction upon the fleeting dust
beneath.
So shall it bide forever upon that mountain-side, and the memory of the
Jew and of all else human shall fade away and be forgotten in the
surpassing glory of the love and the compassion of him that bore the
redeeming burden to Calvary.

THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH
There was none other in the quiet valley so happy as the
rose-tree,--none other so happy unless perchance it was the thrush who
made his home in the linden yonder. The thrush loved the rose-tree's
daughter, and he was happy in thinking that some day she would be his
bride. Now the rose-tree had many daughters, and each was beautiful;
but the rose whom the thrush loved was more beautiful than her sisters,

and all the wooers came wooing her until at last the fair creature's head
was turned, and the rose grew capricious and disdainful. Among her
many lovers were the south wind and the fairy Dewlove and the little
elf-prince Beambright and the hoptoad, whom all the rest called Mr.
Roughbrown. The hoptoad lived in the stone-wall several yards away;
but every morning and evening he made a journey to the rose-tree, and
there he would sit for hours gazing with tender longings at the beautiful
rose, and murmuring impassioned avowals. The rose's disdain did not
chill the hoptoad's ardor. "See what I have brought you, fair rose," he
would say. "A beautiful brown beetle with golden wings and green eyes!
Surely there is not in all the world a more delicious morsel than a
brown beetle! Or, if you but say the word, I will fetch you a tender little
fly, or a young gnat,--see, I am willing to undergo all toils and dangers
for your own sweet sake."
Poor Mr. Roughbrown! His wooing was very hopeless. And all the
time he courted the imperious rose, who should be peeping at him from
her home in the hedge but as plump and as sleek a little Miss Dormouse
as ever you saw, and her eyes were full of envy.
"If Mr. Roughbrown had any sense," she said to herself, "he would
waste no time on that vain and frivolous rose. He is far too good a catch
for her."
The south wind was forever sighing and sobbing about. He lives, you
know, very many miles from here. His home is beyond a great sea; in
the midst of a vast desert there is an oasis, and it is among the
palm-trees and the flowers of this oasis that the south wind abides.
When spring calls from the North, "O south wind, where are you?
Come hither, my sunny friend!" the south wind leaps from his couch in
the far-off oasis, and hastens whither the spring-time calls. As he
speeds across the sea the mermaids seek to tangle him in their tresses,
and the waves try to twine their white arms about him; but he shakes
them off and laughingly flies upon his way. Wheresoever he goes he is
beloved. With their