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The Height
by
“What dost thou wish?” he asked from within.
“To go to the mountain for the flower and place it in thy hand,” she answered, as she entered his room and meekly stood before him.
“Thou art very frail of body,” he replied, “but strong of heart. Go, try, and my soul will follow and strengthen thee, fair daughter.”
She kissed his hand, and departed.
The morning came, and she returned not. The end of the second day drew nigh, and yet she came not back.
“Pooh, pooh!” exclaimed one of a group of wood-cutters near by the cottage. “Such a fool-hardy errand will only be met by death. The old man ought to be content to die without sight of his flower when it costs so much labor to get it.”
“So think me,” said his comrade, between the puffs of his pipe; “so think me. Our flowers are pretty, and good ‘nough, too. Sure, he orter be content with what grows ’round him, and not be sending folk a-climbing.” This said, he resumed his smoking vigorously, and looked very wise.
* * * * *
The aged man of the mountain was passing rapidly away. The kind neighbors laid him for the last time on his cot, and sat tearfully around the room. Some stood in groups outside, looking wistfully towards the mountain; for their kind hearts could not bear to see him depart without the flower to gladden his eyes.
“The girl’s gone a long time,” remarked one of the women.
“The longer she’s gone, the surer the sign she’s reached the mountain top. It’s a long way up there, and a weary journey back. My feet have trod it often, and I know all the sharp rocks and the tangled branches in the way. But she will come yet. I hear footsteps not far away.”
“But too late, we fear, for your eyes to behold the blossom, should she bring it.”
“Then put it on my grave–but hark! she comes–some one approaches!”
Through the crowd, holding high the spotless flower, came the fair girl, with torn sandals and weary feet, but with beaming eyes. The old man raised himself in bed, while she knelt to receive his blessing.
“Fair girl,”–he spoke in those clear tones which the dying ever use,–“the whiteness of this blossom is only rivaled by the angels’ garments. Its spotless purity enters ever into the soul of him who plucks it, making it white as their robes. To all who persevere to the mountain top and pluck this flower, into all does its purity, its essence, enter and remain forever. For is it not the reward of the toiler, who pauses not till the summit is gained?”
“Oh! good man, the mountain view was so grand, I fain would have lingered to gaze; but, longing to lay the blossom in thy hand, I hastened back.”
“Thou shalt behold all the grandeur thy toil has earned thee. Unto those who climb to the mountain summit, who mind not the sharp rocks and loose, rough grass beneath their tread,–unto such shall all the views be given; for they shall some day be lifted in vision, without aid of feet, to grander heights than their weary limbs have reached.”
The old man lay back and died.
They buried him, with the flower on his breast, one day just as the sun was setting. Ere the winter snows fell, many of the laborers, both men and women, went up the mountain to its very top, and brought back the white blossoms to deck his grave.
* * * * *
The summit only has the view, and the white flower of purity grows upon it. Shall we ascend and gather it? or, like the youth, climb but half the distance, and cheat our eyes and souls of the view from the height?