Gibran Stories Omnibus

was between the two with
my own troubled heart. We were three people, gathered and crushed by
the hands of destiny; an old man like a dwelling ruined by flood, a
young woman whose symbol was a lily beheaded by the sharp edge of a
sickle, and a young man who was a weak sapling, bent by a snowfall; and
all of us were toys in the hands of fate.
      Farris Effandi moved slowly and stretched his weak hand toward
Selma, and in a loving and tender voice said, “Hold my hand, my
beloved.” Selma held his hand; then he said, “I have lived long enough,
and I have enjoyed the fruits of life's seasons. I have experienced all
its phases with equanimity. I lost your mother when you were three
years of age, and she left you as a precious treasure in my lap. I
watched you grow, and your face reproduced your mother's features as
stars reflected in a calm pool of water. Your character, intelligence,
and beauty are your mother's, even your manner of speaking and
gestures. You have been my only consolation in this life because you
were the image of your mother in every deed and word. Now, I grow old,
and my only resting place is between the soft wings of death. Be
comforted, my beloved daughter, because I have lived long enough to see
you as a woman. Be happy because I shall live in you after my death. My
departure today would be no different from my going tomorrow or the day
after, for our days are perishing like the leaves of autumn. The hour
of my days are perishing like the leaves of autumn. The hour of my
death approaches rapidly, and my soul is desirous of being united with
your mother's.”
      As he uttered these words sweetly and lovingly, his face was
radiant. Then he put his hand under his pillow and pulled out a small
picture in a gold frame. With his eyes on the little photograph, he
said, “Come, Selma, come and see your mother in this picture.”
      Selma wiped away her tears, and after gazing long at the picture,
she kissed it repeatedly and cried, “Oh, my beloved mother! Oh,
mother!” Then she placed her trembling lips on the picture as if she
wished to pour her soul into that image.
      The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word “Mother,”
and the most beautiful call is the call of “My mother.” it is a word
full of hope and love, a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of
the heart. The mother is every thing —she is our consolation in
sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in weakness. She is the
source of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness. He who loses his
mother loses a pure soul who blesses and guards him constantly.
      Every thing in nature bespeaks the mother. The sun is the mother of
earth and gives it its nourishment of hear; it never leaves the
universe at night until it has put the earth to sleep to the song of
the sea and the hymn of birds and brooks. And this earth is the mother
of trees and flowers. It produces them, nurses them, and weans them.
The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and
seeds. And the mother, the prototype of all existence, is the eternal
spirit, full of beauty and love.
      Selma Karamy never knew her mother because she had died when Selma
was an infant, but Selma wept when she saw the picture and cried, “Oh,
mother!” The word mother is hidden in our hearts, and it comes upon our
lips in hours of sorrow and happiness as the perfume comes from the
heart of the rose and mingles with clear and cloudy air.
      Selma stared at her mother's picture, kissing it repeatedly, until
she collapsed by her father's bed.
      The old man placed both hands on her head and said, “I have shown
you, my dear child, a picture of your mother on paper. Now listen to me
and I shall let you hear her words.”
      She lifted her head like a little bird in the nest that hears its
mother's wing, and looked at him attentively.
      Farris Effandi opened his mouth and said, 'Your mother was nursing
you when she lost her father; she cried and wept at his going, but she
was wise and patient. She sat by me in this room as soon as the funeral
was over and held my hand and said, 'Farris, my father is dead now and
you are my only consolation in this world. The heart's affections are
divided like the branches of the cedar tree; if the tree loses one
strong branch, it will suffer but it does not die. It will pour all its