Betty's Battles Part 5

Betty hurries upstairs with her treasures. "A book--Grannie has sent me a book--that's just like Grannie; she knows I like reading better than anything."

She strips off the brown paper with eager fingers. The book looks quite delightful; it is prettily bound, and nicely ill.u.s.trated. Betty turns over the leaves rapidly, and her eyes fall on a picture that attracts her attention directly.

By the open door of a rose-clad cottage stands a little maiden. She wears the quaint close cap and quilted petticoat of the olden time, and is eagerly looking at something which the dear old dame in front of her holds tightly clasped beneath the fingers of her right hand.

Somehow, the cottage reminds Betty of Grannie's cottage. The old dame is certainly rather like Grannie, and the girl is, Oh, just about her own age!

Did Grannie send the book because she also saw the resemblance?

"I must find out," thinks Betty. "Mother doesn't want me--she said so--and my head still aches."

So she lies down again, and begins to read, "The Talking-Bird: A Wonder-Tale."

"It's a real lovely story; I can see that. I was rather afraid that a book from Grannie might be rather dry--she's so _very_ good."

Poor Betty! She has a great deal to learn yet, that is evident. Really good people are not dull; books that are good and true can certainly never be "dry." Betty wants to be good, she wants to walk in the Narrow Way, and follow her Saviour faithfully; but it all seems such uphill work; doing one's duty is such a tiresome, wearisome business; trying to be good is such a dull, uninteresting affair.

Her heart is still cold, you see; the fire of the Holy Spirit has not yet warmed it into loving life.

So Betty begins to read. The rose-clad cottage looks sweet enough, but Betty soon finds that there is very little sweetness in the maiden's life. Poor Gerda's lot is a hard one. She is always at work. She must spin, and bake, and milk cows; yet her stepmother never seems pleased with her.

Gerda's two brothers are out all day cutting wood in the great pine forests, but though she knits them warm stockings, and tries her best to cook them nice suppers, they never give her a smile, or a kiss, or a loving word. And Gerda says to herself:--

"It does not matter how I work, or what I do, I can never please anybody at all."

Betty pauses a moment. "How very like _my_ experience!" she thinks. "Of course, I have to do different work--mend horrid stockings for Bob instead of knitting them, and sweep and dust instead of spinning; but the effect of it all is just the same, and Bob is exactly like that. I do all I can to please him. I always make the porridge myself, because he says it's 'lumpy' when Clara does it, but never a word of thanks do I get. Why, he couldn't even trouble to remember that to-day is my birthday, and I saved up for weeks and weeks to buy _him_ a nice present on his birthday! It's too bad!"

"Before Gerda's father married again," Betty reads on, "she had been allowed to manage the house as she pleased" ("I wish I was"), "but now everything is changed. Gerda loved to rise with the sun, and scour the kitchen floor with white sand before breakfast, and polish all the bra.s.s pans until they shone like gold" ("I don't sand floors or polish pans, but that's just how I feel about getting my work done early"), "but her stepmother liked hot cakes for breakfast, and as she would not rise early enough to bake them herself, Gerda had to leave her work and cook cakes instead; and because no one seemed to care for her, or notice how hard she had to work, she grew more discontented, and fretful, and unhappy every day; and meantime all around her became more difficult and sad."

"Oh, dear, that's exactly like me!" sighs Betty.

Then she goes on to read how a strange little old woman, in a big red cloak, came to the cottage door one day. Her eyes were blue as the sky, and she carried a flat basket slung over one arm.

"Gerda thought she had come to sell ribbons and pins, and turned to shut the door; but the old dame stopped her smilingly. 'I have come to _give_, and not to sell,' she said.

"'You have been fretting, my child, and it's troubled you are, and sore and bitter you are feeling against those who fret you. Eh, my dear, I'll soon better that!' and her blue eyes seemed to dance with the knowledge of some happy secret.

"But Gerda stood quite dumb with amazement.

"Then the old dame raised her folded hand towards Gerda, and unclasped it a little.

"'Oh, how sweet!' she cried. There, in the old woman's hand, nestled a tiny bird. Its feathers were red as the heart of a rose, and its eyes shone like diamonds.

"'It is for you. My bird will stay with you as long as you need him, and smooth all the fret of your life away.'

"Gerda stretched out eager hands towards the beautiful bird. 'Oh,' she cried, 'if that could only come true!'

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Oh, how sweet!' she cried."]

"'It will come true, my child, if you do as I bid you. You must allow my bird to perch on your shoulder, and be with you wherever you go. He is a talking bird, and whenever you are tempted to give an angry answer, or speak a bitter word'--Gerda hung her head; alas! she knew that this would be very often--'you must let the bird speak for you. Only do this, and in a few months you will be the happiest girl in the world.'

"'But what will people say?' stammered Gerda, quite bewildered.

"'Directly my bird touches your shoulder he will become invisible; _you_ will feel him, but no one will see him; and when he speaks, his voice will be so like yours that no one can tell the difference. Your part is to keep down the angry words that rise to your lips. My sweet bird will do the rest,' and she kissed the bird's bright eyes, and placed him gently on Gerda's shoulder, and, behold! though she could feel the light fluttering of feathers against her cheek, she could see nothing."

"What can be the meaning of this--what is the bird going to do?" thinks Betty, as she hastily turns the page.

Betty has quite forgotten her headache, and reads on:--

"Just at that moment, Gerda saw her little pet kid jump quite over the wall of the yard where her father's fiercest watch-dog was chained. 'Oh, it will be killed!' she cried, and ran swiftly to the rescue. But when she returned with the kid in her arms, the old woman had gone. 'And I never thanked her! You tiresome creature--it was all your fault!'

"That is what she began to say as she lifted her hand to beat the poor little kid, but at the same instant she felt the invisible bird fluttering at her cheek again, and, lo and behold! a voice--a voice exactly like her own, only much sweeter--struck in ere she could finish the sentence: 'Poor little kid, you knew no better, and I am sure the old woman will understand I did not mean to be ungrateful--she had such kind, wise eyes.'

"Certainly the words were much wiser than those she meant to use herself."

That is only the beginning. The story goes on to tell how Gerda's life is altered altogether through the gentle, loving words spoken by the bird in her stead; how her brothers grow to love her, and are never so happy as when they can give her pleasure, bringing her home all sorts of treasures at the end of their day's work. Lilies from the valley, wild strawberries from the hill, honey from the woodbee's nest; how her stepmother becomes kind and thoughtful, and her father calls her the suns.h.i.+ne of the home--and all this because the old dame gave her that wonderful speaking-bird!

Betty reads to the end, and closes the book with a sigh.

"What a pity such things can't be true! Now, if _I_ had a lovely rose-coloured bird who would perch on my shoulder, and always say exactly the right thing in my place when I felt cross, or stupid, how different everything would be!

"Dear me, what nonsense I am talking! It's just a pretty child's story--that is all--and I can't imagine why Grannie sent it to me. I haven't read her letter yet. Dear old Grannie--_she_ didn't forget my birthday. It was unkind of the others; just too bad, after all I've done. Well, I'll see how they like it themselves. I certainly shan't worry much about presents for other people's birthdays, if they won't even take the trouble to remember mine!"

Betty rises, and, taking Grannie's letter to the window, begins to read.

What love there is in the very first words--what a warm birthday greeting! Betty's eyes grow misty as she reads, and she holds the page to her lips for a moment.

"Grannie _really_ loves me," she murmurs.

"It is a long letter. Ah, here is something about the book! Dear me, what can Grannie mean?"

"'Has my Betty guessed the _name_ of Gerda's speaking-bird yet? Has she discovered the secret of the happiness that came to the little maiden of the story?' ("No, indeed; how could I?") 'Does Gerda's story fit my dear Betty's own case?' ("Part of it does, of course.") 'Yes, for my Betty has troubles and trials; my Betty is tempted to think her own life is very hard and dull; is tempted to give up trying; is perhaps thinking of getting rid of the worry and fret by turning away from it all, and going out to work for herself?' ("Now, how could Grannie have found that out?

I'm sure _I_ never said a word about being a typist while I was with her!")

"'The bird's name was _Love_, Betty. The wonderful change in Gerda's life was brought about by pure, unselfish love.

"'In all this world there is no force so strong as love, Betty--true love; the love that suffereth long and is kind; love that seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked; love that beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things; the love that our Lord Jesus Christ gives to all those who truly love and follow Him.'"

Love! Betty looks rather blank. Does Grannie mean that she isn't loving people enough?

"'The little maiden in the story had been troubled and discontented, but after she listened to the voice of the Spirit of Love, and let it speak for her, all her trials vanished away. The story of Gerda's Bird is only a pretty tale, but, Betty, you are one of G.o.d's soldiers now, and the Spirit of Love has come to abide with you; to dwell in your heart, and speak to your soul. The Holy Spirit, dear, the Heavenly Dove; the Lord's best gift to you.

"'Listen to it, Betty; let its voice speak for you. When sharp, unloving words rise to your lips, keep them fast closed until the Love within you can make itself heard.

"'You want a happy home, my child; you long for the love of all those around you, but it is only by bringing the Lord into all your thoughts about your home, that it can be really happy--only by loving others very much that you can win true love in return.'"

For a long time Betty stands by the window, thinking, thinking as she has never done before.