Early Spring and Late Fall
("Tidlig Vaar og Sen Høst")
When you are tired of playing, when your little feet need rest, your eyelids become heavy, and you climb upon my knee, and lean your weary little head against my shoulder--then I'll tell you wonderful stories.
For you are so little. You will not say: "I know all about this, but. . ." You will not think: "Well, this is all right, but. . ." You will fall into a slumber, and I'll tell you all of this while you are asleep. One day you will remember these dreams.
What possibilities are dawning behind your pure little forehead? Ah, it is pure yet. Behind it are the white, unwritten leaves. In a short while so many will be there to dabble and scribble, and turn and soil them.
A little shoot, that's what you are. The small sprouts break the mold and yearn for rain and sunshine. But on one there grows and ear of wheat, and on another an empty husk. On one there grows a rich, fragrant flower, on another a red, ragged thistle-head. Some are harvested, some are trampled down.
You may play on the soft greensward. You may join the chorus of the earliest spring birds, and vie with them in rejoicing.
You may play and play a long time. The lilacs shall wrap you in the wealth of their fragrance. The warm sun shall shine upon you and upon them, and the gentle spring breezes shall coll your innocent, warm cheeks. You shall live only a few days, and be full of trouble. You shall wither and be cut down like the grass upon which you walk. There fore you may play a long time, and rejoice and gambol on the green grass while it is spring. The world lies before you, this big, broad world with all its mad chase for power.
If God has given you one pound--or ten pounds--he has hidden it well, for no one knows it.
And happy are you because no one knows it. And so you must play now, while the apple trees are standing in bloom, and your feet touch the ground lightly.
You must bask in the sunshine, for soon enough the frost nights will be upon you. In your thoughts you may flee over the housetops and mountain peaks with the returning wild geese, for soon enough you will feel that you are chained. You must shout for joy and laugh, for soon enough you will have something to weep for. But above everything you must believe that you are in God's world.
Dream about the charms of the fairy-castles, for soon enough you will discover the huts and hovels of the common man. Dream that you are a king or a prince--soon enough you will find out that you are a poor traveler among highwaymen; dream about the angels, whose heads are concealed behind the drifting cloud-banks--soon enough you will run across the devils, whose cloven hooves cannot always be hidden in this world.
But one thing you must believe: namely, that in spite of all this you are living in God's world.
And that in the black, dirty soil there are possibilities for white lilies and white bread, and, far down, pure water.
And therefore you must work as confidently in summer as you played cheerfully in spring.
For this is God's world to you, if you want it to be so.
"What a cheerless task!" is the thought of some wise people who pass by: the figure of an old, stooping little man is raking up leaves in a rich man's garden. Slowly and laboriously the rake is dragged by the stiff, worn-out arms.
No spirit, no enthusiasm. The strong furrows in his face seem to have become rigid, his eye has lost its luster, in his arm there is no vigor. Mechanically he moves his rake back and forth. He has no eye for the pitying smile of those who pass by, no ear for the mocking laughter of the gay children. He has quit calculating on commodities which have a value in the summer and in the early fall. His soul is worn out, like his clothing and his muscles. The world, this big, broad world with all its chase for power, has lost sight of him--or he of it. Life, as it swarms and struggles in motley myriads of forms, no longer concerns him. The only world he is in touch with is this patch of ground, which, however, belongs to another; the only thing that he can rely upon is this rake; his only aim is to gather these withered, yellow leaves.
But in the innermost recesses, at the bottom of this narrow, shrunken soul, is a hale and hearty consciousness: the assurance that the master whom he serves has said:
"Go and do this!"
He has a calling. The rich master has called him to do something for him. This is his calling. the rich master himself has called him.
But the North Wind plays with the leaves, and they are light, and willing to play. He steals around the corner, and in a moment scatters what the old man has taken so much trouble to gather. He shakes his thin locks, creeps along the ground, carries the leaves away from under the teeth of the rake, and tittering and mocking he spreads them around where they lay before, while he also shakes the branches of the trees and sprinkles more yellow leaves upon the old man's world.
Useless endeavor, old man! Go home and rest your weary limbs. In vain are you plying your powerless rake and trying to remove all this rubbish from your master's garden. The fruit has been harvested amidst rejoicing by others even where they did not sow. It is hard to get rubbish out of the way. The autumn wind is against you. You are cold. He is playing with your miserable tatters and foiling your work and throwing dust in your face. Go home and take a rest. Give up your hopeless task. Nothing, nothing at all can you accomplish in your master's garden.
But no, keep on anyway! Your day's work will soon be finished. You are serving a rich master. He has called you himself to this work. He is a good master. He knows your hardships. He will not ask you how much you have done. You are in his service and he will pay you at the close of your day.
At the close of your day.
 
|