Excerpt
PIPPA.
All the year in the little village of Asola the great wheels of the mills went round and round. It seemed to the very little children that they never, never stopped, but went on turning and singing, turning and singing. No matter where you went in the village, the hum of the wheels could always be heard; and though no one could really say what the wheels sang, everyone turned gladly to his work or went swiftly on his errand when he heard the busy song.
Everyone was proud of the mills in Asola, and the children most of all. The very little ones would go to the lowest windows and look into the great dim room where the wheels were, and they wondered, as they looked, if ever they would grow wise enough to help make silk.
Those children who were older wound thread on the bobbins, or helped at the looms. And whenever they saw the bright stuff in shop windows, or a beautiful woman passed in silken robes, they looked with shining eyes. "See how beautiful!" they would say. "We helped. She needs us; the world needs us!" and their hearts were so full of gladness at the thought.
The poet tells us there was a child there whose name was Pippa, and she worked all day in this mill, winding silk on the little whirling, whirling spools.
Now in the year there was one day they gave her for her own—one perfect day when she could walk in the sweet, sweet meadows, or wander toward the far, strange hills. And this one precious day was so shining and full of joy to Pippa that its light shone all about her until the next, making itself into dreams and little songs that she sang to her whirring spools.
One night, when the blessed time would be next morning, she said to the day:
"Sweet Day, I am Pippa, and have only you for the joy of my whole long year; come to me gentle and shining, and I will do whatever loving deed you bring me."
And the blessed day broke golden and perfect!
She sprang up singing; she sang to the sunbeams, and to her lily, and to the joy in the world; she ran out, and leaped as she went; the grass blew in the wind, and the long yellow road rolled away like unwound silk.
She sang on and on, hardly knowing. And it was a sweet song no one had ever heard. It was what birds sing, only this had words; and this song was so full of joy that when a sad poet heard it he stopped the lonely tune he piped, and listened till his heart thrilled. And when he could no longer hear, he took up the sweet strain and played it so strong and clear that it set the whole air a-singing. The children in the street began dancing and laughing as he played; the old looked up; a lame man felt that he might leap, and the blind who begged at corners forgot they did not see, the song was so full of the morning wonder.
But little Pippa did not know this; she had passed on singing.
Out beyond the village there were men who worked, building a lordly castle. And there was a youth among them who was a stair-builder, and he had a deep sorrow. The dream of the perfect and beautiful work was in his life, but it was given to him to build only the stairs men trod on....