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The Height
by
The old man went from his room refreshed by sleep, and partook of the bread and honey which the kind woman had ready for him. Then, thanking them for their hospitality, he departed.
The laborer and wife watched him out of sight, and thought they had never seen anything more beautiful than his white hair waving in the morning breeze.
At dusk a light shone in the vacant cottage, and they sent him fresh cakes, milk, and honey for his evening meal.
* * * * *
Ten years passed away. The old man had cultured his land, and no fairer flowers or sweeter fruits grew in the valley than his own. He had taught the people many truths which he had learned in his solitary life on the mountain, and in return had learned much from them. He faded slowly away. The brilliant flowers within his garden grew suddenly distasteful to him. He longed to look once more on a pure white blossom which grew only at the mountain top. With its whiteness no flower could compare. There were others, growing half way up, that approached its purity, but none equaled the flower on the summit.
“I should like, of all things,” answered the old man, when they desired to know what would most please him,–for he had become a great favorite in the valley,–“to look once more upon my pure white flower ere I die; but it’s so far to the mountain top, none will care to climb.”
“Thou shalt see it!” exclaimed a strong youth, who was courageous, but seldom completed anything he undertook, for lack of perseverance.
The old man blessed him. He started for the mountain, and walked a long way up its side, often missing his footing, and at one time seeking aid from a rotten branch, which broke in his grasp and nearly threw him to the base.
After repeated efforts to reach the summit, he found a sweet, pale blossom growing in a mossy nook by a rock.
“Ah! here it is–the same, I dare say, as those on the mountain top. So what need of climbing farther? What a lucky fellow I am to save so many steps for myself!” and he went down the mountain side as fast as he could, amid the rank and tangled wood, with the flower in his hand.
Day was walking over the meadows with golden feet when he entered the cottage and placed the blossom exultingly in the old man’s palm.
“What! so quick returned?” he said. “Thou must have been very swift–but this, my good young man, never grew on the mountain top! Thee must have found this half way up. I remember well those little flowers–they grew by the rocks where I used to rest when on my journey up.”
The crowd who had come to see the strange white flower now laughed aloud, which made the youth withdraw, abashed and much humbled. Had he been strong of heart, he would have tried again, and not returned without the blossom from the mountain top. Many others tried, but never had the courage to reach its height; while the old man daily grew weaker.
“He’ll die without setting eyes on his flower,” said the good woman who had given him shelter the night he came to the valley. She had not the courage to try the ascent, but she endeavored to stimulate others to go to the top and bring the blossom to cheer his heart. She offered, as reward, choice fruits and linen from her stores; but all had some excuse, although they loved the old man tenderly: none felt equal to the effort.
Towards noon, a pale, fragile girl, from a distant part of the vale, appeared, who had heard of his desire, and stood at the door of his cottage and knocked.