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The Paradise of Children
A WONDER-BOOK FOR GIRLS AND BOYS
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN
CONTENTS:
TANGLEWOOD PLAY-ROOM--Introductory to “The Paradise of Children”
THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN
TANGLEWOOD PLAY-ROOM--After the Story
TANGLEWOOD PLAY-ROOM.
The golden days of October passed away, as so many other Octobers have,
and brown November likewise, and the greater part of chill December,
too. At last came merry Christmas, and Eustace Bright along with it,
making it all the merrier by his presence. And, the day after his
arrival from college, there came a mighty snow-storm. Up to this time,
the winter had held back, and had given us a good many mild days, which
were like smiles upon its wrinkled visage. The grass had kept itself
green, in sheltered places, such as the nooks of southern hill-slopes,
and along the lee of the stone fences. It was but a week or two ago,
and since the beginning of the month, that the children had found a
dandelion in bloom, on the margin of Shadow Brook, where it glides out
of the dell.
But no more green grass and dandelions now. This was such a snow-storm!
Twenty miles of it might have been visible at once, between the windows
of Tanglewood and the dome of Taconic, had it been possible to see so
far, among the eddying drifts that whitened all the atmosphere. It
seemed as if the hills were giants, and were flinging monstrous handfuls
of snow at one another, in their enormous sport. So thick were the
fluttering snow-flakes, that even the trees, midway down the valley,
were hidden by them the greater part of the time. Sometimes, it is
true, the little prisoners of Tanglewood could discern a dim outline of
Monument Mountain, and the smooth whiteness of the frozen lake at its
base, and the black or gray tracts of woodland in the nearer landscape.
But these were merely peeps through the tempest.
Nevertheless, the children rejoiced greatly in the snowstorm. They had
already made acquaintance with it, by tumbling heels over head into its
highest drifts, and flinging snow at one another, as we have just
fancied the Berkshire mountains to be doing. And now they had come back
to their spacious play-room, which was as big as the great drawing-room,
and was lumbered with all sorts of playthings, large and small. The
biggest was a rocking-horse, that looked like a real pony; and there was
a whole family of wooden, waxen, plaster, and china dolls, besides
rag-babies; and blocks enough to build Bunker Hill Monument, and nine-pins,
and balls, and humming-tops, and battledores, and grace-sticks, and
skipping-ropes, and more of such valuable property than I could tell of
in a printed page. But the children liked the snow-storm better than
them all. It suggested so many brisk enjoyments for to-morrow, and all
the remainder of the winter. The sleigh-ride; the slides down hill into
the valley; the snow-images that were to be shaped out; the snow-fortresses
that were to be built; and the snow-balling to be carried on!
So the little folks blessed the snow-storm, and were glad to see it come
thicker and thicker, and watched hopefully the long drift that was
piling itself up in the avenue, and was already higher than any of their
heads.
“Why, we shall be blocked up till spring!” cried they, with the hugest
delight. “What a pity that the house is too high to be quite covered
up! The little red house, down yonder, will be buried up to its eaves.”
“You silly children, what do you want of more snow?” asked Eustace, who,
tired of some novel that he was skimming through, had strolled into the
play-room. “It has done mischief enough already, by spoiling the only
skating that I could hope for through the winter. We shall see nothing
more of the lake till April; and this was to have been my first day upon
it! Don’t you pity me, Primrose?”
“O, to be sure!” answered Primrose, laughing. “But, for your comfort,
we will listen to another of your old stories, such as you told us
under the porch, and down in the hollow, by Shadow Brook. Perhaps I
shall like them better now, when there is nothing to do, than while
there were nuts to be gathered, and beautiful weather to enjoy.”
Hereupon, Periwinkle, Clover, Sweet Fern, and as many others of the
little fraternity and cousinhood as were still at Tanglewood, gathered
about Eustace, and earnestly besought him for a story. The student
yawned, stretched himself, and then, to the vast admiration of the
small people, skipped three times hack and forth over the top of a
chair, in order, as he explained to them, to set his wits in motion.
“Well, well, children,” said he, after these preliminaries, “since you
insist, and Primrose has set her heart upon it, I will see what can be
done for you. And, that you may know what happy days there were before
snowstorms came into fashion, I will tell you a story of the oldest of
all old times, when the world was as new as Sweet Fern’s bran-new
humming-top. There was then but one season in the year, and that was
the delightful summer; and but one age for mortals, and that was
childhood.”
“I never heard of that before,” said Primrose.
“Of course, you never did,” answered Eustace. “It shall be a story of
what nobody but myself ever dreamed of,--a Paradise of children,--and
how, by the naughtiness of just such a little imp as Primrose here, it
all came to nothing.”
So Eustace Bright sat down in the chair which he had just been skipping
over, took Cowslip upon his knee, ordered silence throughout the
auditory, and began a story about a sad naughty child, whose name was
Pandora, and about her playfellow Epimetheus. You may read it, word for
word, in the pages that come next.
THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN.
Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was
a child, named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and,
that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless
like himself, was sent from a far country, to live with him, and be his
playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where
Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which
she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this,--
“Epimetheus, what have you in that box?”
“My dear little Pandora,” answered Epimetheus, “that is a secret, and
you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was
left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it contains.”
“But, who gave it to you?” asked Pandora. “And where did it come
from?”
“That is a secret, too,” replied Epimetheus.
“How provoking!” exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. “I wish the great
ugly box were out of the way!”
“O come, don’t think of it, any more,” cried Epimetheus. “Let us run
out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children.”
It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and
the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was
in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no fathers
and mothers to take care of the children; because there was no danger,
nor trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was
always plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner, he
found it growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the
morning, he could see the expanding blossom of that night’s supper; or,
at eventide, he saw the tender bud of to-morrow’s breakfast. It was a
very pleasant life indeed. No labor to be done, no tasks to be studied;
nothing but sports and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or
carolling like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the
livelong day.
What was most wonderful of all, the children never quarrelled among
themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first
began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a
corner, and sulked. O, what a good time was that to be alive in! The
truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called Troubles, which are
now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the
earth. It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child
had ever experienced was Pandora’s vexation at not being able to
discover the secret of the mysterious box.
This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but, every day, it
grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage
of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other
children.
“Whence can the box have come?” Pandora continually kept saying to
herself and to Epimetheus. “And what in the world can be inside of it?”
“Always talking about this box!” said Epimetheus, at last; for he had
grown extremely tired of the subject. “I wish, dear Pandora, you would
try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather some ripe
figs, and eat them under the trees, for our supper. And I know a vine
that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted.”
“Always talking about grapes and figs!” cried Pandora, pettishly.
“Well, then,” said Epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like a
multitude of children in those days, “let us run out and have a merry
time with our playmates.”
“I am tired of merry times, and don’t care if I never have any more!”
answered our pettish little Pandora. “And, besides, I never do have
any. This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the
time. I insist upon your telling me what is inside of it.”
“As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!” replied
Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. “How, then, can I tell you what is
inside?”
“You might open it,” said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus, “and
then we could see for ourselves.”
“Pandora, what are you thinking of?” exclaimed Epimetheus.
And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box,
which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it,
that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more. Still,
however, she could not help thinking and talking about the box.
“At least,” said she, “you can tell me how it came here.”
“It was left at the door,” replied Epimetheus, “just before you came, by
a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly
forbear laughing as he put it down. He was dressed in an-odd kind of a
cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so
that it looked almost as if it had wings.”
“What sort of a staff had he?” asked Pandora.
“O, the most curious staff you ever saw!” cried Epimetheus. “It was
like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally
that I, at first, bought the serpents were alive.”
“I know him,” said Pandora, thoughtfully. “Nobody else has such a
staff. It was Quicksilver; and he brought one hither, as well as the
box. No doubt he intended it for me; and, most probably, it contains
pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or
something very nice for us both to eat!”
“Perhaps so,” answered Epimetheus, turning away.
“But until Quicksilver comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us
any right to lift the lid of the box.”
“What a dull boy he is!” muttered Pandora, as Epimetheus left the
cottage. “I do wish he had a little more enterprise!”
For the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus had gone out without
asking Pandora to accompany him. He went to gather figs and grapes by
himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society
than his little playfellow’s. He was tired to death of hearing about
the box, and heartily wished that Quicksilver, or whatever was the
messenger’s name, had left it at some other child’s door, where Pandora
would never have set eyes on it. So perseveringly as she did babble
about this one thing! The box, the box, and nothing but the box! It
seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big
enough to hold it, without Pandora’s continually stumbling over it, and
making Epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and bruising all four of
their shins.
Well, it was really hard that poor Epimetheus should have a box in his
ears from morning till night; especially as the little people of the
earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that they
knew not how to deal with them. Thus, a small vexation made as much
disturbance, then, as a far bigger one would, in our own times.
After Epimetheus was gone, Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had
called it ugly, above a hundred times; but, in spite of all that she had
said against it, it was positively a very handsome article of furniture,
and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be
placed. It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich
veins spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that
little Pandora could see her face in it. As the child had no other
looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on this
account.
The edges and corners of the box were carved with most wonderful skill.
Around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and the
prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a profusion of
flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely
represented, and were wrought together in such harmony, that flowers,
foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a wreath of mingled
beauty. But here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved
foliage, Pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so
lovely, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the
beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking more closely, and
touching the spot with her finger, she could discover nothing of the
kind. Some face, that was really beautiful, had been made to look ugly
by her catching a sideway glimpse at it.
The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief,
in the centre of the lid. There was nothing else, save the dark, smooth
richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the centre, with a
garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had looked at this face a
great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked,
or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth. The features,
indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which
looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips, and
utter itself in words.
Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this:
“Do not be afraid, Pandora! What harm can there be in opening the box?
Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus! You are wiser than he, and
have ten times as much spirit. Open the box, and see if you do not find
something very pretty!”
The box, I had almost forgotten to say, was fastened; not by a lock, nor
by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold
cord. There appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning.
Never was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs,
which roguishly defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them. And
yet, by the very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more
tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made. Two or three
times, already, she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between
her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.
“I really believe,” said she to herself, “that I begin to see how it was
done. Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again, after undoing it. There
would be no harm in that, surely. Even Epimetheus would not blame me
for that. I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without
the foolish boy’s consent, even if the knot were untied.”
It might have been better for Pandora if she had had a little work to
do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly
thinking of this one subject. But children led so easy a life, before
any Troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too
much leisure. They could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among
the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man’s-buff with garlands over their eyes,
or at whatever other games had been found out, while Mother Earth was in
her babyhood. When life is all sport, toil is the real play. There was
absolutely nothing to do. A little sweeping and dusting about the
cottage, I suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only
too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases,--and poor little
Pandora’s day’s work was over. And then, for the rest of the day, there
was the box!
After all, I am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in
its way. It supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and
to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! When she was in good
humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich
border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it. Or, if
she chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it
with her naughty little foot. And many a kick did the box--(but it was
a mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got)--many a
kick did it receive. But, certain it is, if it had not been for the
box, our active-minded little Pandora would not have known half so well
how to spend her time as she now did.
For it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. What
could it be, indeed? Just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your
wits would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you
might have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for
your Christmas or New-Year’s gifts. Do you think that you should be
less curious than Pandora? If you were left alone with the box, might
you not feel a little tempted to lift the lid? But you would not do it.
O, fie! No, no! Only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would
be so very hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep! I
know not whether Pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be
made, probably, in those days, when the world itself was one great
plaything for the children that dwelt upon it. But Pandora was
convinced that there was something very beautiful and valuable in the
box; and therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any of
these little girls, here around me, would have felt. And, possibly, a
little more so; but of that I am not quite so certain.
On this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking
about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at
last, she approached the box. She was more than half determined to open
it, if she could. Ah, naughty Pandora!
First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy; quite too heavy for
the slender strength of a child, like Pandora. She raised one end of
the box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again, with a
pretty loud thump. A moment afterwards, she almost fancied that she
heard something stir, inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely
as possible, and listened. Positively, there did seem to be a kind of
stifled murmur, within! Or was it merely the singing in Pandora’s ears?
Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite
satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all
events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.
As she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.
“It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot,” said
Pandora to herself. “But I think I could untie it, nevertheless. I am
resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord.”
So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its
intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or
quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in
attempting to undo it. Meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the
open window; as did likewise the merry voices of the children, playing
at a distance, and perhaps the voice of Epimetheus among then. Pandora
stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not be wiser,
if she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about
the box, but run and join her little playfellows, and be happy?
All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with
the knot; and happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the lid
of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her.
“That face looks very mischievous,” thought Pandora. “I wonder whether
it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the
world to run away!”
But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a
twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined
itself, as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.
“This is the strangest thing I ever knew!” said Pandora. “What will
Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?”
She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it
quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that she
could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into
one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of
the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was
to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was, until
Epimetheus should come in.
“But,” said Pandora, “when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I
have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into
the box?”
And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she
would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well
do so, at once. O, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You should
have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what
was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus would have said or
believed. And so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of
the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had
not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small
voices within. She could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there
was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear,--or else it was her
curiosity that whispered,
“Let us out, dear Pandora,--pray let us out! We will be such nice
pretty playfellows for you! Only let us out!”
“What can it be?” thought Pandora. “Is there something alive in the
box? Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep;
and then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot
possibly be any harm in just one little peep!”
But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.
This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell
with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did
not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on
other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if
Epimetheus had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or,
if ripe at all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying.
There was no mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush
out, of its own accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. In
short, he grew so uneasy and discontented, that the other children could
not imagine what was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself
know what ailed him, any better than they did. For you must recollect,
that at the time we are speaking of, it was everybody’s nature, and
constant habit, to be happy. The world had not yet learned to be
otherwise. Not a single soul or body, since these children were first
sent to enjoy themselves on the beautiful earth, had ever been sick, or
out of sorts.
At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the
play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a
humor better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her
pleasure, he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which
he meant to put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely,--roses,
and lilies, and orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a
trail of fragrance behind, as Epimetheus carried them along; and the
wreath was put together with as much skill as could reasonably be
expected of a boy. The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared
to me, are the fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it, in
those days, rather better than they can now.
And here I must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in
the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.
But, just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to
intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.
He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora,
and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be
aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his
treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he
pleased,--as heavily as a grown man,--as heavily, I was going to say, as
an elephant,--without much probability of Pandora’s hearing his footsteps.
She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his entering the
cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and was on the
point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld her. If he had
cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and the fatal
mystery of the box might never have been known.
But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his
own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora
was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow
should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if there were
anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to
himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora about restraining
her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly
as much in fault, as she. So, whenever we blame Pandora for what
happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at Epimetheus likewise.
As Pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for
the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have
buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low
growling and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of
thunder. But Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid
nearly upright, and looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of
winged creatures brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while,
at the same instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a
lamentable tone, as if he were in pain.
“O, I am stung!” cried he. “I am stung! Naughty Pandora! why have you
opened this wicked box?”
Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see
what had befallen Epimetheus. The thundercloud had so darkened the room
that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she heard a
disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic
mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dorbugs and pinching-dogs,
were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the
imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats’
wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings
in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was
it a great while before Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain
and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub
about it. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and
would have stung her I know not how deeply, if Epimetheus had not run
and brushed it away.
Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made
their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole
family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were a
great many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty
Sorrows; there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful
shapes; there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any use
to talk about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls
and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given
to Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy
children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been
faithful to their trust, all would have gone well. No grown person
would ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single
tear, from that hour until this moment.
But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a
calamity to the whole world--by Pandora’s lifting the lid of that
miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing
her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem
very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as you
will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in
their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing that they
did was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of
them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all abroad, and so
pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none of
them so much as smiled for many days afterwards. And, what was very
singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which
had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a
day or two. The children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their
childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and
maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they
dreamed of such a thing.
Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus,
remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung, and
were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them,
because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the
world began. Of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and
could have no idea what it meant. Besides all this, they were in
exceedingly bad humor, both with themselves and with one another. In
order to indulge it to the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a
corner with his back towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon
the floor and rested her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was
crying bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Suddenly there was a gentle little tap, on the inside of the lid.
“What can that be?” cried Pandora, lifting her head.
But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of
humor to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer.
“You are very unkind,” said Pandora, sobbing anew, “not to speak to me!”
Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy’s hand,
knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.
“Who are you?” asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.
“Who are you, inside of this naughty box?”
A sweet little voice spoke from within,--
“Only lift the lid, and you shall see.”
“No, no,” answered Pandora, again beginning to sob, “I have had enough
of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and
there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and
sisters already flying about the world. You need never think that I
shall be so foolish as to let you out!”
She looked towards Epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he
would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered that
she was wise a little too late.
“Ah,” said the sweet little voice again, “you had much better let me
out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their
tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at
once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty
Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!”
And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone, that
made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice
asked. Pandora’s heart had insensibly grown lighter, at every word that
came from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner,
had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than
before.
“My dear Epimetheus,” cried Pandora, “have you heard this little voice?”
“Yes, to be sure I have,” answered he, but in no very good-humor as yet.
“And what of it?”
“Shall I lift the lid again?” asked Pandora.
“Just as you please,” said Epimetheus. “You have done so much mischief
already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other
Trouble, in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world, can
make no very great difference.”
“You might speak a little more kindly!” murmured Pandora, wiping her
eyes.
“Ah, naughty boy!” cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and
laughing tone. “He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear
Pandora, lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only
let me have some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not
quite so dismal as you think them!”
“Epimetheus,” exclaimed Pandora, “come what may, I am resolved to open
the box!”
“And, as the lid seems very heavy,” cried Epimetheus, running across the
room, “I will help you!”
So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a
sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing
a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance into
dark corners, by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass? Well, so
looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairylike stranger, amid the
gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the least touch
of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him, and
immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the
forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.
After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered
sportively over the children’s heads, and looked so sweetly at them,
that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened
the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a
prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.
“Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?” inquired Pandora.
“I am to be called Hope!” answered the sunshiny figure. “And because I
am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box, to make amends
to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles, which was destined to
be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well, in spite
of them all.”
“Your wings are colored like the rainbow!” exclaimed Pandora. “How
very beautiful!”
“Yes, they are like the rainbow,” said Hope, “because glad as my nature
is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles.”
“And will you stay with us,” asked Epimetheus, “for ever and ever?”
“As long as you need me,” said Hope, with her pleasant smile,--“and that
will be as long as you live in the world,--I promise never to desert
you. There may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will
think that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and again,
when perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my
wings on the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and I know
something very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!”
“O tell us,” they exclaimed,--“tell us what it is!”
“Do not ask me,” replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.
“But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on
this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true.”
“We do trust you!” cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath.
And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope,
that has since been alive. And, to tell you the truth, I cannot help
being glad--(though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for
her to do)-but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora peeped
into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying about
the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and
are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their
tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel them more, as I
grow older. But then that lovely and lightsome little figure of Hope!
What in the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualizes the
earth; Hope makes it always new; and, even in the earth’s best and
brightest aspect, Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite
bliss hereafter!
TANGLEWOOD PLAY-ROOM.
AFTER THE STORY.
“Primrose,” asked Eustace, pinching her ear, “how do you like my little
Pandora? Don’t you think her the exact picture of yourself? But you
would not have hesitated half so long about opening the box.”
“Then I should have been well punished for my naughtiness,” retorted
Primrose, smartly; “for the first thing to pop out, after the lid was
lifted, would have been Mr. Eustace Bright, in the shape of a Trouble.”
“Cousin Eustace,” said Sweet Fern, “did the box hold all the trouble
that has ever come into the world?”
“Every mite of it!” answered Eustace. “This very snow-storm, which has
spoiled my skating, was packed up there.”
“And how big was the box?” asked Sweet Fern. “Why, perhaps three feet
long,” said Eustace, “two feet wide, and two feet and a half high.”
“Ah,” said the child, “you are making fun of me, Cousin Eustace! I know
there is not trouble enough in the world to fill such a great box as
that. As for the snow-storm, it is no trouble at all, but a pleasure;
so it could not have been in the box.”
“Hear the child!” cried Primrose, with an air of superiority. “How
little he knows about the troubles of this world! Poor fellow! He will
be wiser when he has seen as much of life as I have.”
So saying, she began to skip the rope.
Meantime, the day was drawing towards its close. Out of doors the scene
certainly looked dreary. There was a gray drift, far and wide, through
the gathering twilight; the earth was as pathless as the air; and the
bank of snow over the steps of the porch proved that nobody had entered
or gone out for a good many hours past. Had there been only one child
at the window of Tanglewood, gazing at this wintry prospect, it would
perhaps have made him sad. But half a dozen children together, though
they cannot quite turn the world into a paradise, may defy old Winter
and all his storms to put them out of spirits. Eustace Bright,
moreover, on the spur of the moment, invented several new kinds of play,
which kept them all in a roar of merriment till bedtime, and served for
the next stormy day besides.
***
