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[Illustration: THE CANADIAN FLAG]




                         THE ALEXANDRA READERS

                             THIRD READER

                                  BY

                      W. A. McINTYRE, B.A., LL.D.

                  PRINCIPAL, NORMAL SCHOOL, WINNIPEG

                          JOHN DEARNESS, M.A.

                 VICE-PRINCIPAL, NORMAL SCHOOL, LONDON

                                  AND

                          JOHN C. SAUL, M.A.

              AUTHORIZED BY THE DEPARTMENTS OF EDUCATION
                   FOR USE IN THE SCHOOLS OF ALBERTA
                           AND SASKATCHEWAN

                            PRICE 45 CENTS


                                TORONTO
                  MORANG EDUCATIONAL COMPANY LIMITED
                                 1908


                             COPYRIGHT BY
                  MORANG EDUCATIONAL COMPANY LIMITED
                                 1908

                      COPYRIGHT IN GREAT BRITAIN




CONTENTS


                                                            PAGE

_Canada! Maple Land!_                                         9

The Shoemaker and the Elves    _Jacob Grimm_                 10

_Song of the Golden Sea_    _Jean Blewett_                   13

_Work_    _Mary N. Prescott_                                 14

Fortune and the Beggar    _Ivan Kriloff_                     15

_The Sprite_    Frederick George Scott                       17

A Crust of Bread    _Selected_                               19

_Two Surprises_    _Anonymous_                               23

The Rich Man and the Cobbler    _Jean de la Fontaine_        25

_The Drought_    _R. K. Kernighan_                           30

_The Eagle_    _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_                       31

The Golden Windows    _Laura E. Richards_                    32

_A Song of Seasons_    _Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald_         36

A Miser’s Treasure    _Grace H. Kupfer_                      38

_Drifted out to Sea_    _Rosa Hartwick Thorpe_               42

The Daisy and the Lark    _Hans Christian Andersen_          44

_The Splendor of the Days_    _Jean Blewett_                 48

_Before the Rain_    _Thomas Bailey Aldrich_                 49

Webster and the Woodchuck    _Selected_                      50

_The Fairies of Caldon Low_    _Mary Howitt_                 53

The Last Lesson in French    _Alphonse Daudet_               57

_The Brook Song_    _James Whitcomb Riley_                   62

_The Better Land_    _Felicia Dorothea Hemans_               63

Cædmon    _Grace H. Kupfer_                                  65

_The Bluebell_    _Anonymous_                                67

_Lullaby of an Infant Chief_    _Sir Walter Scott_           69

The Minstrel’s Song    _Maude Lindsay_                       69

_The Use of Flowers_    _Mary Howitt_                        74

_The Miller of the Dee_    _Charles Mackay_                  76

The Story of Moween    _Selected_                            77

_A Hindu Fable_    _John Godfrey Saxe_                       81

The Boy Musician    _Bertha Leary Saunders_                  83

_The Sparrows_    _Celia Thaxter_                            87

_The Time and the Deed_    _Jean Blewett_                    90

The Flax    _Hans Christian Andersen_                        91

_Jeannette and Jo_    _Mary Mapes Dodge_                     96

The Maid of Orleans    _Maude Barrow Dutton_                 98

_Birds_    _Eliza Cook_                                     102

_The Owl_    _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_                        103

Iktomi and the Coyote    _Zitkala-S̈a_                      104

_Golden Rod_    _Frank Dempster Sherman_                    108

_November_    _Helen Hunt Jackson_                          109

Sir Edwin Landseer    _Selected_                            110

_The Two Church Builders_    _John Godfrey Saxe_            115

How Siegfried made the Sword    _Selected_                  118

_Grass and Roses_    _James Freeman Clarke_                 123

_The Wounded Curlew_    _Celia Thaxter_                     124

The Gold and Silver Shield    _Selected_                    125

_The White-throat Sparrow_    _Sir James D. Edgar_          128

_The Sandpiper_    _Celia Thaxter_                          129

Crœsus    _James Baldwin_                                   131

_The Frost Spirit_    _John Greenleaf Whittier_             135

_A Song of the Sleigh_    _James T. Fields_                 137

The Christmas Dinner    _Charles Dickens_                   138

_Christmas Song_    _Phillips Brooks_                       144

Bergetta’s Misfortune    _Celia Thaxter_                    146

_Storm Song_    _Bayard Taylor_                             150

_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_    _Allan Cunningham_       152

The Indians    _Selected_                                   153

_Speak Gently_    _David Bates_                             157

_Daybreak_    _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_                  158

The Choice of Hercules    _James Baldwin_                   159

_The Walker of the Snow_    _Charles Dawson Shanly_         162

The Frog Travellers    _William Elliot Griffis_             165

_The Three Bells_    _John Greenleaf Whittier_              169

How the Indian Knew    _Selected_                           171

_Hohenlinden_    _Thomas Campbell_                          172

_The Clouds_    _Archibald Lampman_                         174

Shoeing    _Estelle M. Hurll_                               175

_The Village Blacksmith_    _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_    179

The Search for a Western Sea    _Helen Palk_                181

_The Moss Rose_    _F. A. Krummacher_                       185

_Woodman, Spare that Tree!_    _George P. Morris_           186

Dick Whittington    _Selected_                              187

_Somebody’s Mother_    _Anonymous_                          195

_The Lord is my Shepherd_    _The Book of Psalms_           197

Black Beauty’s Breaking In    _Anna Sewell_                 198

_The Door of Spring_    _Ethelwyn Wetherald_                204

_The Crocus’s Song_    _Hannah Flagg Gould_                 206

A Sound Opinion    _Selected_                               207

_The Soldier’s Dream_    _Thomas Campbell_                  211

_March of the Men of Harlech_    _William Duthie_           212

Hugh John Smith becomes a Soldier    _Samuel R. Crockett_   213

_England’s Dead_    _Felicia Dorothea Hemans_               219

A Child’s Dream of a Star    _Charles Dickens_              221

_Excelsior_    _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_                 226

The Sentinel’s Pouch    _Selected_                          228

_The Milkmaid_    _Jeffreys Taylor_                         232

Tom, the Water-baby    _Charles Kingsley_                   234

_An April Day_    _Caroline Bowles Southey_                 241

_Pussy Willow_    _Anonymous_                               243

Laura Secord    _Helen Palk_                                244

_The Maple Leaf Forever_    _Alexander Muir_                249

_The Colors of the Flag_    _Frederick George Scott_        250

How the Mountain was Clad    _Björnstjerne Björnson_        252

_Lucy Gray_    _William Wordsworth_                         256

Beautiful Joe    _Marshall Saunders_                        259

_Somebody’s Darling_    _Marie Lacoste_                     267

_Home, Sweet Home_    _John Howard Payne_                   269

The Beavers    _Julia Augusta Schwartz_                     270

_The Brook_    _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_                      276

The Little Postboy    _Bayard Taylor_                       278

_Hiawatha’s Friends_    _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_        288

The White Ship    _Charles Dickens_                         295

_The Arab and his Steed_    _Caroline Norton_               299

A Bridge of Monkeys    _Mayne Reid_                         303

_We are Seven_    _William Wordsworth_                      306

The Mirror    _From the Japanese_                           309

_The Wreck of the Hesperus_    _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 314

The Black Douglas    _Sir Walter Scott_                     318

_Bruce and the Spider_    _Eliza Cook_                      322

The Old Man of the Meadow    _Julia MacNair Wright_         325

_John Gilpin_    _William Cowper_                           329

A Forest Fire    _Susannah Moodie_                          340

_The Horses of Gravelotte_    _Gerok_                       344

_Four-leaf Clovers_    _Ella Higginson_                     346

Aladdin    _Arabian Nights’ Entertainment_                  347

_The Rapid_    _Charles Sangster_                           357

_Long Life_    _Horatio Bonar_                              358

Little Daffydowndilly    _Nathaniel Hawthorne_              359

_The Earth is the Lord’s_    _The Book of Psalms_           369

_The Singing Leaves_    _James Russell Lowell_              370

The Clocks of Rondaine    _Frank R. Stockton_               374

_The Camel’s Nose_    _Lydia Huntley Sigourney_             384

_Lord Ullin’s Daughter_    _Thomas Campbell_                385

_God Save the King_                                         388




THIRD READER




CANADA! MAPLE LAND!


    Canada! Maple land! Land of great mountains!
      Lake-land and River-land! Land ’twixt the seas!
    Grant us, God, hearts that are large as our heritage,
      Spirits as free as the breeze!

    Grant us Thy fear that we walk in humility--
      Fear that is reverent--not fear that is base;
    Grant to us righteousness, wisdom, prosperity,
      Peace--if unstained by disgrace.

    Grant us Thy love and the love of our country;
      Grant us Thy strength, for our strength’s in Thy name;
    Shield us from danger, from every adversity,
      Shield us, O Father, from shame!

    Last born of Nations! the offspring of freedom!
      Heir to wide prairies, thick forests, red gold!
    God grant us wisdom to value our birthright,
      Courage to guard what we hold!




THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVES


There was once an honest shoemaker who worked very hard at his trade;
yet through no fault of his own he grew poorer and poorer. At last he
had only just enough leather left to make one pair of shoes. In the
evening he cut out the leather so as to be ready to make the shoes the
next day.

He rose early in the morning, and went to his bench. But what did he
see? There stood the pair of shoes, already made. The poor man could
hardly believe his eyes, and he did not know what to think. He took
the shoes in his hand to look at them closely. Every stitch was in its
right place. A finer piece of work was never seen.

Very soon a customer came, and the shoes pleased him so well that he
willingly paid a higher price than usual for them. The shoemaker now
had enough money to buy leather for two pairs of shoes. In the evening
he cut them out with great care, and went to bed early so that he might
be up in good time the next day. But he was saved all trouble; for when
he rose in the morning, two pairs of well-made shoes stood in a row
upon his bench.

Presently in came customers, who paid him a high price for the shoes,
and with the money that he received, he bought enough leather to make
four pairs of shoes. Again he cut the work out overnight and again
he found it finished in the morning. The shoemaker’s good fortune
continued. All the shoes he cut out in the day were finished at night.
The good man rose early, and he was busy every moment of the day. Every
pair found ready sale. “Never did shoes wear so long,” said the buyers.

[Illustration]

One evening, about Christmas time, the shoemaker said to his wife,
“Let us watch to-night and see who it is that does this work for us.”
So they left a light burning and hid themselves behind a curtain which
hung in the corner of the room. As soon as it was midnight there came
two little dwarfs. They sat down upon the shoemaker’s bench, and began
to work with their tiny fingers, stitching and rapping and tapping
away. Never had the good shoemaker and his wife seen such rapid work.
The elves did not stop till the task was quite finished, and the shoes
stood ready for use upon the table. This was long before daybreak, and
then they bustled away as quick as lightning.

The next day the shoemaker’s wife said to her husband: “These little
folks have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them and do
them a service in return. They must be cold, for they have nothing on
their backs to keep them warm. I shall make each of them a suit of
clothes, and you shall make some shoes for them.”

This the shoemaker was very glad to do. When the little suits and the
new shoes were finished, they were laid on the bench instead of the
usual work. Again the good people hid themselves in the corner of the
room to watch. About midnight the elves appeared. When they found
the neat little garments waiting for them, they showed the greatest
delight. They dressed in a moment, and jumped and capered and sprang
about until they danced out of the door and over the green.

Never were they seen again, but everything went well with the shoemaker
and his wife from that time forward as long as they lived.--JACOB GRIMM.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I am only one;
    But still I am one.
    I cannot do everything;
    But still I can do something.
    And because I cannot do everything,
    I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.




SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA


    Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
      Sing to the breezes passing by,
    Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
      Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!

    Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
      Morning and noon and night for long,
    Sun and rain and dew and mist,
      All that has made you glad and strong!

    The harvest fields of the far, far west
      Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
    Every ripple upon its breast
      Sings peace, and plenty and wealth untold!

    Far as the eye can reach it goes,
      Farther yet, ’till there seems no end,
    Under a sky where blue and rose
      With the gold and turquoise softly blend.

    Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
      Broad and beautiful in God’s eyes,
    Here in this young land, all our own,
      The garner-house of the old world lies.

    --JEAN BLEWETT.

 _From “The Cornflower and Other Poems,” by permission._




WORK


    Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been?
    “I’ve been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky;
    I’ve been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;
    I’ve been laughing at work while others sigh;
            Let those laugh who win!”

    Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?
    “I’m urging the corn to fill out its cells;
    I’m helping the lily to fashion its bells;
    I’m swelling the torrent and brimming the wells;
            Is that worth pursuing?”

    Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?
    “I’ve been watching the nest where my fledglings lie;
    I’ve sung them to sleep with a lullaby;
    By and by I shall teach them to fly,
            Up and away, every one!”

    Honeybee, honeybee, where are you going?
    “To fill my basket with precious pelf;
    To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;
    To find out the sweetest flower that grows,
    Be it a thistle or be it a rose,--
            A secret worth the knowing!”

    --MARY N. PRESCOTT.




FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR


One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from house to house. He
carried an old wallet in his hand, and was asking at every door for a
few cents to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at his lot, he
kept wondering why it was that people who had so much money were never
satisfied, but were always wanting more.

“Here,” said he, “is the master of this house--I know him well. He was
always a good business man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long
time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped then. He would have
turned over his business to some one else, and then he could have spent
the rest of his life in ease. But what did he do instead? He began
building ships and sending them to sea to trade with foreign lands. He
thought he would get mountains of gold.

“But there were great storms on the water; his ships were wrecked, and
his riches were swallowed up by the waves. Now his hopes all lie at the
bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished like the dreams
of a night. There are many such cases. Men seem never to be satisfied
unless they can gain the whole world. As for me, if I had only enough
to eat and to wear I would not wish anything more.”

Just at that moment Fortune came down the street. She saw the beggar
and stopped. She said to him: “Listen! I have long desired to help you.
Hold your wallet and I shall pour this gold into it. But I shall pour
only on this condition: All that falls into the wallet shall be pure
gold, but every piece that falls upon the ground shall become dust. Do
you understand?”

“Oh, yes, I understand,” said the beggar.

[Illustration]

“Then have a care,” said Fortune. “Your wallet is old; so do not load
it too heavily.”

The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. He quickly opened his
wallet, and a stream of yellow dollars was poured into it. The wallet
soon began to grow heavy.

“Is that enough?” asked Fortune.

“Not yet.”

“Isn’t it cracking?”

“Never fear.”

The beggar’s hands began to tremble. Ah, if the golden stream would
only pour forever!

“You are the richest man in the world now!”

“Just a little more,” said the beggar; “add just a handful or two.”

“There, it’s full. The wallet will burst.”

“But it will hold a little more, just a little more!”

Another piece was added and the wallet split. The treasure fell upon
the ground and was turned to dust. Fortune had vanished.

The beggar had now nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from
top to bottom. He was as poor as before.

    --_From the Russian of_ IVAN KRILOFF.




THE SPRITE


    A little sprite sat on a moonbeam
      When the night was waning away,
    And over the world to the eastwards
      Had spread the first flush of the day.
    The moonbeam was cold and slippery,
      And a fat little fairy was he;
    Around him the white clouds were sleeping,
      And under him slumbered the sea.

    Then the old moon looked out of her left eye,
      And laughed when she thought of the fun,
    For she knew that the moonbeam he sat on
      Would soon melt away in the sun;
    So she gave a slight shrug of her shoulder,
      And winked at a bright little star--
    The moon was remarkably knowing,
      As old people always are.

    “Great madam,” then answered the fairy,
      “No doubt you are mightily wise,
    And know possibly more than another
      Of the ins and the outs of the skies.
    But to think that we don’t in our own way
      An interest in sky-things take
    Is a common and fatal blunder
      That sometimes you great ones make.

    “For I’ve looked up from under the heather,
      And watched you night after night,
    And marked your silent motion
      And the fall of your silvery light.
    I have seen you grow larger and larger,
      I have watched you fade away;
    I have seen you turn pale as a snowdrop
      At the sudden approach of day.

    “So don’t think for a moment, great madam,
      Though a poor little body I be,
    That I haven’t my senses about me,
      Or am going to drop into the sea.
    I have had what you only could give me--
      A pleasant night ride in the sky;
    But a new power arises to eastwards,
      So, useless old lady, good-by.”

    He whistled a low, sweet whistle,
      And up from the earth so dark,
    With its wings bespangled with dewdrops,
      There bounded a merry lark.
    He’s mounted the tiny singer
      And soared through the heavens away,
    With his face all aglow in the morning,
      And a song for the rising day.

    --FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.




A CRUST OF BREAD


The boy was lying under a big shady tree eating a large crust of bread.
He had been romping with his dog in the garden, enjoying the sweet
flowers and the bright sunshine. Now he rested in the cool shade of the
apple-tree with the dog curled up at his feet. The birds were warbling
their gayest songs in the topmost branches, and the leaves cast their
dancing shadows on the soft carpet of green below.

As the dog was fast asleep, the boy had no one with whom to play. Just
then a lady, beautifully dressed and holding a wand in her hand, stood
before him. She smiled, and then placed her wand on the crust of bread,
after which she at once vanished. She had no sooner gone than the boy
rubbed his eyes in wonder, for the crust of bread was talking in a
gentle voice.

“Would you like to hear my story?” it said. The boy nodded his head, as
if to say yes, and the crust began:--

“Once upon a time I was a little baby seed. I lived in a large home
called a granary. In this home were many other baby seeds just like
me. No one could tell one from the other, as we all belonged to the
same family and looked so much alike. We lived there very quietly until
one day my sister cried, ‘Hark! do you hear that noise? The mice are
coming!’ Then she told us the mice were fond of little grains of wheat,
and that if they were to eat us we would never grow to be like our
mother. We heard them many times after that, but we never saw them.

“One day a farmer came and put us into a large sack. It was so dark in
the sack, and we lay so very near together that I thought we should
smother. Soon I felt myself sliding. I tried to cling to the sack,
but the other grains in their rush to the sunlight took me along with
them. In our wild race we ran into a tube, and, going faster and
faster, we soon fell into the seed-drill.

“Then I felt myself sliding again, for the seed-drill was moving
forward. I could hear the driver call out in loud tones to the horses,
‘Get up!’ and round and round went the big wheels of the drill. All at
once I went under cover in the rich ground. At first I did not like to
be shut in from the sunlight. But one day when I heard the crows, I was
glad that I was under the coverlet of the ground. I heard their cry of
‘Caw, caw,’ and how frightened I was! I knew that the crows were near,
and that they liked the little baby wheat grains. This made me thank
the farmer and Mother Nature for giving me such a good home. The crows
could not find me, and by and by they flew away.

“Mother Nature now warmed me, and the rains fed me. I went to sleep,
but one bright morning I awoke. The rain had been tapping on our great
brown house, telling us to awake from our nap. I had grown so large
while sleeping that my brown coat burst open. The sun had warmed my
bed. I put a little white rootlet out and sent it down into the ground.
The gentle spring breeze and the warm days brought my first blade
into the sunlight above the ground, and peeping out I was glad to see
everything growing fresh and green. I could see the tender sprouting
grass and the opening buds. I could hear the bluebird’s song and the
robin’s warble. I could smell the balmy air of spring.

“Mother Nature sent her children every day to help me. The rain came
through the soil, and brought me food and drink. The sun fairies warmed
my sprouting leaves, and the wind brought me fresh air. In June I wore
a dainty green dress of slender, graceful leaves. As my sisters and I
stood in the great field on the plain, and were wafted to and fro by
the winds, we looked like the waves of the rolling deep.

“So I grew and grew, and one morning after the dew had given me my cool
bath, and the sun fairies had dried my leaves, the south wind whispered
her song to me, and I found myself a full-grown plant. I was proud of
my spikelets of flowers, and now could wave with my sisters in the
rolling seas of wheat. Down at the base of our little spikelets were
seed cups in which slept the little baby seeds. The wind rocked them to
sleep, and, sleeping, they grew to the full-sized wheat grain.

“By and by we became tall stalks of golden wheat, and the farmer was
glad to look at us. When we were fully ripe, the great reaping-machine
drawn by a number of horses came along and cut us down. Then we were
picked up and sent whirling through the buzzing jaws of the thrasher.
Our grains of wheat were screened from the chaff and straw, and fell
into sacks. Then we were put on trains and transported to the mammoth
granaries to be stored away until the flour-mills wanted us.

“At last we reached the mills. There we were turned into beautiful
white flour and shipped to the market. So in time we, as flour, reached
the housewife’s or baker’s well-stocked kitchen, where we were put into
trays, and, being mixed with a little salt, yeast, and some water, were
kneaded into loaves of bread and baked. This is the story of my life
from a little grain of wheat until I became the crust of bread that you
are eating.”

The sun was sinking in the west, the birds were winging their flight
homewards, and night was fast coming on. The dog yawned, and,
stretching himself out, was ready for another romp with his master.
The boy awoke from his dream and hurried home to help with the evening
meal, and to do his share of the world’s work.--SELECTED.

 _From “The New Education Readers,” by permission of the American Book
 Company._




TWO SURPRISES


    A workman plied his clumsy spade
      As the sun was going down;
    The German king with his cavalcade
      Was coming into town.

    The king stopped short when he saw the man--
      “My worthy friend,” said he,
    “Why not cease work at eventide,
      When the laborer should be free?”

    “I do not slave,” the old man said,
      “And I am always free;
    Though I work from the time I leave my bed
      Till I can hardly see.”

    “How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?”
      “Eight groschen,” the man replied.
    “And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”--
      “Like a king,” he said with pride.

    “Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,
      And two for a debt I owe;
    Two groschen to lend and two to spend
      For those who can’t labor, you know.”

    “Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea,
      To my mother with age oppressed,
    Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,
      And now hath need of rest.”

    “To whom dost lend of thy daily store?”
      “To my three boys at school. You see,
    When I am too feeble to toil any more,
      They will care for their mother and me.”

    “And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said.
       “My sisters are old and lame;
    I give them two groschen for raiment and bread,
      All in the Father’s name.”

    Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes--
      “Thou knowest me not,” said he;
    “As thou hast given me one surprise,
      Here is another for thee.

    “I am thy king; give me thy hand”--
      And he heaped it high with gold--
    “When more thou needest, I command
      That I at once be told.

    “For I would bless with rich reward
      The man who can proudly say,
    That eight souls he doth keep and guard
      On eight poor groschen a day.”

    --ANONYMOUS.




THE RICH MAN AND THE COBBLER


In old Paris, very rich people and quite poor people used to live close
by each other. Up one stair might be found a very rich man; up two
stairs a man not quite so rich; up three stairs a man who had not very
much money. On the very lowest floor, a little below the street, were
to be found the poorest folks of all. It was on this low floor that a
cobbler used to live and mend shoes and sing songs. For he was a very
happy cobbler, and went on singing all day, and keeping time with his
hammer or his needle.

[Illustration: THE RICH MAN AND HIS FRIEND]

Up one stair, or on what is called the first floor, lived a very rich
man, so rich that he did not know how rich he was--so rich that he
could not sleep at nights for trying to find out how much money he had,
and if it were quite safe.

Everybody knows that it is easier to sleep in the morning than at
night. So nobody will wonder when I say that this rich man lay awake
all night and always fell asleep in the morning. But no sooner did
he fall asleep than he was wakened again. It was not his money that
wakened him this time--it was the cobbler. Every morning, just as the
rich man fell asleep the cobbler awoke, and in almost no time was
sitting at his door, sewing away and singing like a lark.

The rich man went to a friend and said, ”I can’t sleep at night for
thinking of my money, and I can’t sleep in the morning for listening to
that cobbler’s singing. What am I to do?” This friend was a wise man,
and told him of a plan.

Next forenoon, while the cobbler was singing away as usual, the
rich man came down the four steps that led from the pavement to the
cobbler’s door.

“Now here’s a fine job,” thought the happy cobbler. “He’s going to get
me to make a grand pair of boots, and won’t he pay me well!”

But the rich man did not want boots or anything. He had come to give,
not to get. In his hand he had a leather bag filled with something
that jingled. “Here, cobbler,” said the rich man, “I have brought you a
present of a hundred crowns.”

“A hundred crowns!” cried the cobbler; “but I’ve done nothing. Why do
you give me this money?”

“Oh, it’s because you’re always so happy.”

“And you’ll never ask it back?”

“Never.”

“Nor bring lawyers about it and put me in prison?”

“No, no. Why should I?”

“Well, then, I’ll take the money, and I thank you very, very much.”

When the rich man had gone the cobbler opened the bag, and was just
about to pour out the money into his leather apron to count how much
it was, when he saw a man in the street looking at him. This would
never do, so he went into the darkest part of his house and counted the
hundred crowns. He had never seen so much money in his life before, but
somehow he did not feel so happy as he felt he should.

[Illustration]

Just then his wife came in quietly, and gave the poor cobbler such a
fright that he lost his temper and scolded her, a thing he had never
done in his life.

Next he hid the bag below the pillow of the bed, because he could see
that place from the door where he worked. But by and by he began to
think that if he could see it from the door so could other people. So
he went in and changed the bag to the bottom of the bed. Two or three
times every hour he went in to see that the bag was all right. His wife
wanted to know what was the matter with the bed, but he told her to
mind her own business. The next time she was not looking he slipped the
bag into the bottom of an old box, and from that time he kept changing
it about from place to place whenever he got a chance. If he had told
his wife it would not have been so bad, but he was afraid even of her.

Next morning the rich man fell asleep as usual, and was not disturbed
by the cobbler’s song. The next morning was the same, and the next, and
the next. Everybody noticed what a change had come over the cobbler. He
no longer sang. He did little work, for he was always running out and
in to see if his money was all right; and he was very unhappy.

On the sixth day he made up his mind what to do. I think he talked it
over with his wife at last, but I am not sure. Anyway, he went up his
four steps, and then up the one stair that led to the rich man’s room.
When he had entered, he went up to the table and laid down the bag,
and said, “Sir, here are your hundred crowns; give me back my song.”

Next morning things were as bad as ever for the poor rich man, who had
to remove, they say, to another part of Paris where the cobblers are
not so happy.

    --_From the French of_ JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.




THE DROUGHT


    Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away?
      The sky’s sweet smile quite gone?
    There is no sacred rain by day,
      No beaded dew at dawn.
    How can Thy helpless creatures live
      When drought destroys the sod?
    Upon our knees we pray Thee give
      Thy creatures food, O God!

    The little stream hath ceased to run,
      The clover-bloom is dead,
    The meadows redden in the sun,
      The very weeds are fled.
    Their heads the mournful cattle shake
      Beside the thirsting wood.
    Lord, hear the humble prayer we make,
      To give Thy creatures food.

    The panting sheep gasp in the shade,
      Their matted wool is wet,
    And where the cruel share is laid
      The striving horses sweat;
    They welcome death--’tis pain to live--
      Restore Thy blessed sod;
    Oh, hear our humble prayer and give
      Thy creatures food, O God!

    R. K. KERNIGHAN.

 _By special permission._




THE EAGLE


    He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;
    Close to the sun in lonely lands,
    Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

    The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
    He watches from his mountain walls,
    And like a thunderbolt he falls.

    --ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Men must reap the things they sow,
    Force from force must ever flow.




THE GOLDEN WINDOWS


[Illustration]

All day long the little boy worked hard, in field and barn and shed,
for his people were poor farmers, and could not pay a workman; but at
sunset there came an hour that was all his own, for his father had
given it to him. Then the boy would go up to the top of a hill and
look across at another hill that rose some miles away. On this far
hill stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamonds. They shone
and blazed so that it made the boy wink to look at them; but after a
while the people in the house put up shutters, as it seemed, and then
it looked like any common farm-house. The boy supposed they did this
because it was supper-time; and then he would go into the house and
have his supper of bread and milk and so to bed.

One day the boy’s father called him and said: “You have been a good
boy, and have earned a holiday. Take this day for your own; but
remember that God gave it, and try to learn some good thing.”

The boy thanked his father and kissed his mother; then he put a piece
of bread in his pocket, and set out to find the house with the golden
windows.

It was pleasant walking. His bare feet made marks in the white dust,
and when he looked back, the footprints seemed to be following him, and
making company for him. His shadow, too, kept beside him, and would
dance or run with him as he pleased; so it was very cheerful. By and
by he felt hungry; and he sat down by a brown brook that ran through
the alder hedge by the roadside, and ate his bread, and drank the clear
water. Then he scattered the crumbs for the birds, as his mother had
taught him to do, and went on his way.

After a long time he came to a high green hill; and when he had climbed
the hill, there was the house on the top; but it seemed that the
shutters were up, for he could not see the golden windows. He came up
to the house, and then he could well have wept, for the windows were of
clear glass, like any others, and there was no gold anywhere about them.

A woman came to the door, and looked kindly at the boy, and asked him
what he wanted.

“I saw the golden windows from our hilltop,” he said, “and I came to
see them, but now they are only glass.”

The woman shook her head and laughed.

“We are poor farming people,” she said, “and are not likely to have
gold about our windows; but glass is better to see through.”

She told the boy to sit down on the broad stone step at the door, and
brought him a cup of milk and a cake, and bade him rest; then she
called her daughter, a child of his own age, and nodded kindly at the
two, and went back to her work.

The little girl was barefooted like himself, and wore a brown cotton
gown, but her hair was golden like the windows he had seen, and her
eyes were blue like the sky at noon. She led the boy about the farm,
and showed him her black calf with the white star on its forehead, and
he told her about his own at home, which was red like a chestnut, with
four white feet. Then when they had eaten an apple together, and so had
become friends, the boy asked her about the golden windows. The little
girl nodded, and said she knew all about them, only he had mistaken the
house.

“You have come quite the wrong way!” she said. “Come with me, and I
shall show you the house with the golden windows, and then you will see
for yourself.”

They went to a knoll that rose behind the farm-house, and as they went
the little girl told him that the golden windows could be seen only at
a certain hour, about sunset.

“Yes, I know that!” said the boy.

When they reached the top of the knoll, the girl turned and pointed;
and there on a hill far away stood a house with windows of clear gold
and diamond, just as he had seen them. And when they looked again, the
boy saw that it was his own home.

Then he told the little girl that he must go. He promised to come
again, but he did not tell her what he had learned; and so he went
back down the hill, and the little girl stood in the sunset light and
watched him.

The way home was long, and it was dark before the boy reached his
father’s house; but the lamplight and firelight shone through the
windows, making them almost as bright as he had seen them from the
hilltop; and when he opened the door, his mother came to kiss him, and
his little sister ran to throw her arms about his neck, and his father
looked up and smiled from his seat by the fire.

“Have you had a good day?” asked his mother.

Yes, the boy had had a very good day.

“And have you learned anything?” asked his father.

“Yes,” said the boy. “I have learned that our house has windows of gold
and diamond.”

    --LAURA E. RICHARDS.

 _From “The Golden Windows,” by permission of Little, Brown & Company._




A SONG OF SEASONS


    Sing a song of Spring-time!
      Catkins by the brook,
    Adder’s-tongues uncounted,
      Ferns in every nook;
    The cataract on the hillside
      Leaping like a fawn;
    Sing a song of Spring-time,--
      Ah, but Spring-time’s gone!

    Sing a song of Summer!
      Flowers among the grass,
    Clouds like fairy frigates,
      Pools like looking-glass,
    Moonlight through the branches,
      Voices on the lawn;
    Sing a song of Summer,--
      Ah, but Summer’s gone!

    Sing a song of Autumn!
      Grain in golden sheaves,
    Woodbine’s crimson clusters
      Round the cottage eaves,
    Days of crystal clearness,
      Frosted fields at dawn;
    Sing a song of Autumn,--
      Ah, but Autumn’s gone!

    Sing a song of Winter!
      North-wind’s bitter chill,
    Home and ruddy firelight,
      Kindness and good-will,
    Hemlock in the churches,
      Daytime soon withdrawn;
    Sing a song of Winter,--
      Ah, but Winter’s gone!

    Sing a song of loving!
      Let the seasons go;
    Hearts can make their gardens
      Under sun or snow;
    Fear no fading blossom,
      Nor the dying day;
    Sing a song of loving,--
      That will last for aye!

    --ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD.

 _By permission of the publishers, L. C. Page & Co., Boston._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Striving not to be rich or great,
    Never questioning fortune or fate,
    Contented slowly to earn, and wait.




A MISER’S TREASURE


There once lived, in a little English town, a skilful linen weaver
named Silas Marner. He was of a simple, trusting nature. He thought no
wrong of anybody, and had never harmed any one in word or deed. Among
his friends in the town there was one man whom he loved so dearly that
he would gladly have given his life for him.

This man, however, far from being a true friend, acted most dishonestly
and unfaithfully. Having committed a robbery himself, he cast the blame
on Silas; and the weaver, who was too simple to see through the trick
that had been played upon him, was forced to leave his native town,
not only a disgraced, but a broken-hearted, man. The wickedness of the
man whom he had thought his true friend, and the readiness of all his
fellow-townsmen to believe evil of him, changed his whole nature and
made him suspicious of and bitter against all men.

He wandered forth and settled at last in the village of Raveloe,
far away from his old home. There he took up his abode in a little
weather-beaten cottage at the outskirts of the town, and would have
nothing to do with his neighbors beyond furnishing them with the fine
linen he wove so well, and taking his pay in gold.

All day long he sat spinning at his loom, seeing no one and thinking
only of his wrongs; and at night he had nothing to do but count his
gold and watch with delight how the pile grew larger and larger every
week. At last the gold, taking the place of his former interests,
became the one thing in life he cared for. He hoarded it and gloated
over it like a miser; and before long, though he still worked steadily
at his loom, he thought no more of his work, but only of the gold it
would bring him to add to his store. Thus passed his life for a long
time.

But one evening when Silas had gone out to carry a bundle to a
neighboring house, and had left his door ajar because he meant to be
back in a short time, a thief, attracted by the light and the open
door, entered the weaver’s hut and stole the bags of gold. When he
returned, and, as usual, lifted the stone under which his treasure was
hidden, he found nothing but the empty hole.

At first he could not believe that the money was gone. He hunted
everywhere through his little cottage, turning again and again to the
empty hole in the ground, to make sure that his eyes had not deceived
him. When at last the truth forced itself upon him that his gold was
really gone, he uttered a cry of anger and dismay, and rushed forth
into the night, weeping and wailing and searching in vain for his lost
treasure.

His neighbors, who soon heard what had happened, felt very sorry for
him, and tried to show, by many little kind acts, their friendliness
for the now desolate man. But he would have nothing to do with any of
them. He shut himself up in his cheerless cottage, and though, from
force of habit, he still worked at his loom, he had no longer any
interest in life.

One bitterly cold night, Silas again had occasion to go out after dark.
This time he left his door wide open, for now he had nothing left to
lose. But while he was gone, a little golden-haired child, whose poor
mother lay frozen to death in the snow on the roadside, had spied the
light in Marner’s cottage and had crept to it for safety. Once inside
the warm room, the child had fallen asleep, her golden head resting
upon the very spot from which the miser’s treasure had been stolen.

When Silas entered the cottage and saw the glitter of gold on the
floor, he was so startled that for a moment he stood stock-still. His
first thought was that his treasure had been restored to him, and with
a cry of joy he rushed forward to seize it. But instead of the cold,
hard gold, he felt soft, warm curls; and the next minute the little
child, who was awakened by his touch, began to cry.

Silas Marner, dazed as he was by the strange, living thing he had
found in the place of his lost gold, did all he could to comfort the
frightened little stranger; and soon, warm and no longer hungry, she
was nestling her golden head against his arm, and laughing and babbling
as contentedly as though she had always known her protector.

That was the beginning of a new happiness for Silas, much more
satisfying than the miser’s love he had formerly felt for his gold. The
lonely, helpless child aroused his pity and affection. As the mother
was dead and no relatives came to claim the little girl, he decided
to take care of her himself, and soon found himself loving her with a
deep, fatherly tenderness.

He knew so little about children, however, that he needed the advice of
a woman to help him bring up Eppie, as he had called the little girl;
and so, gradually, he began to mingle more and more with the people
of the village. As for the simple Raveloe folk, when they saw Silas
Marner’s tenderness for the child, they felt that they had not really
understood the lonely man. Before long all the villagers were on the
best of terms with Silas and Eppie, and he had cast behind him all the
hatred and bitterness that had led him to shun his fellow-men.

Eppie grew up strong and beautiful, and by the most tender love
repaid Silas Marner for all his care of her through the years of her
childhood. She had led him back to love and faith in human nature; and
he never again regretted his lost treasure, which had been so richly
replaced by the golden-haired child.

    --GRACE H. KUPFER.

 _From “Lives and Stories Worth Remembering,” by permission of the
 American Book Company._




DRIFTED OUT TO SEA


    Two little ones, grown tired of play,
    Roamed by the sea, one summer day,
    Watching the great waves come and go,
    Prattling, as children will, you know,
    Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings;
    Sometimes hinting at graver things.

    At last they spied within their reach
    An old boat cast upon the beach;
    Helter-skelter, with merry din,
    Over its sides they scrambled in,--
    Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair,
    Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.

    Rolling in from the briny deep,
    Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep,
    Higher, higher, upon the sands,
    Reaching out with their giant hands,
    Grasping the boat in boisterous glee,
    Tossing it up and out to sea.

    The sun went down, ’mid clouds of gold;
    Night came, with footsteps damp and cold;
    Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by;
    And now across the sunny sky
    A black cloud stretches far away,
    And shuts the golden gates of day.

    A storm comes on, with flash and roar,
    While all the sky is shrouded o’er;
    The great waves rolling from the west,
    Bring night and darkness on their breast.
    Still floats the boat through driving storm,
    Protected by God’s powerful arm.

    The home-bound vessel, _Sea-bird_, lies
    In ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies:
    Her captain paces, restless now,
    A troubled look upon his brow,
    While all his nerves with terror thrill,--
    The shadow of some coming ill.

    The mate comes up to where he stands,
    And grasps his arm with eager hands.
    “A boat has just swept past,” says he,
    “Bearing two children out to sea;
    ’Tis dangerous now to put about,
    Yet they cannot be saved without.”

    “Nought but their safety will suffice!
    They must be saved!” the captain cries.
    “By every thought that’s just and right,
    By lips I hoped to kiss to-night,
    I’ll peril vessel, life, and men,
    And God will not forsake us then.”

    With anxious faces, one and all,
    Each man responded to the call;
    And when at last, through driving storm,
    They lifted up each little form,
    The captain started with a groan:
    “My God is good, they are my own!”

    --ROSA HARTWICK THORPE.

 _By permission of the publishers._




THE DAISY AND THE LARK


In the country, close by the roadside, stood a pleasant house. In
front lay a little garden, enclosed by a fence, and full of blossoming
flowers. Near the hedge, in the soft green grass, grew a little daisy.
The sun shone as brightly and warmly upon her as it shone upon the
large and beautiful garden flowers.

The daisy grew from day to day. Every morning she unfolded her white
rays, and lifted up a little golden sun in the centre of her blossom.
She never remembered how little she was. She never thought that she was
hidden down in the grass, while the tall beautiful flowers grew in the
garden. She was too happy to care for such things. She lifted her face
towards the warm sun, she looked up to the blue sky, and she listened
to the lark singing high in the air.

[Illustration]

One day the little daisy was as joyful as if it were a great holiday,
and yet it was only Monday. The little children were at school. They
sat at their desks learning their lessons. The daisy, on her tiny stem,
was learning from the warm sun and the soft wind how good God is. Then
the lark sang his sweet song. “How beautiful, how sweet the song is!”
said the daisy. “What a happy bird to sing so sweetly and fly so high!”
But she never dreamed of being sorry because she could not fly or sing.

The tall garden flowers by the fence were very proud and conceited. The
peonies thought it very grand to be so large, and puffed themselves
out to be larger than the roses. “See how bright my colors are!” said
the tulips. And they stood bolt upright to be seen more plainly. They
did not notice the little daisy. She said to herself, “How rich and
beautiful they are! No wonder the pretty bird likes them. I am glad I
can live near them.”

Just then the lark flew down. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” he cried, but he
did not go near the peonies and tulips. He hopped into the grass near
the lowly daisy. She trembled for joy. The little bird sang beside her:
“Oh, what sweet, soft grass, and what a beautiful little flower, with
gold in its heart and silver on its dress!” How happy the little daisy
felt! And the bird kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew
up into the blue air above.

The daisy looked up at the peonies and the tulips, but they were quite
vexed, and turned their backs upon her. She did not care, she was so
happy. When the sun was set, she folded up her leaves and went to
sleep. All night long she dreamed of the warm sun and the pretty little
bird. The next morning, when she stretched out her white leaves to the
warm air and the light, she heard the voice of the lark, but his song
was sad. Poor little lark! He might well be sad: he had been made a
prisoner in a cage that hung by the open window. He sang of the happy
time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free.

Just then two boys came into the garden. They came straight to the
daisy. One of them carried a sharp knife in his hand. “We can cut a
nice piece of turf for the lark, here,” he said. And he cut a square
piece of turf around the daisy, so that the little flower stood in the
centre. He carried the piece of turf with the daisy growing in it, and
placed it in the lark’s cage.

“There is no water here,” said the captive lark. “All have gone, and
forgotten to give me a drop of water to drink. My throat is hot and
dry. I feel as if I were burning.” And he thrust his beak into the cool
turf to refresh himself a little with the green grass. Within it was
the daisy. He nodded to her, and kissed her with his beak.

“Poor little flower! Have you come here, too?”

“How I wish I could comfort him,” said the daisy. And she tried to fill
the air with perfume.

The poor bird lay faint and weak on the floor of the cage. His heart
was broken. In the morning the boys came, and when they found the bird
was dead, they wept many bitter tears. They dug a little grave for him,
and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf was thrown on the ground.

The daisy had given her little life to make the captive bird glad.

    --HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.




THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS


    Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean
    Pipe their gladness--sweeter, shriller--one would think the world
      was green.
    O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!
    See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!
            Mark the warm October haze!
            Mark the splendor of the days!
    And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

    See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
    If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low--
    “We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”
    “Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less.
            Share my beauty and my cheer
            While we rest together here,
    In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”

    All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace,
    All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face;
    And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,
    While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass,
            O the warm October haze!
            O the splendor of the days!
    O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

    --JEAN BLEWETT.




BEFORE THE RAIN


    We knew it would rain, for all the morn
      A spirit, on slender ropes of mist,
    Was lowering its golden buckets down
      Into the vapory amethyst

    Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens--
      Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,
    Dipping the jewels out of the sea,
      To scatter them over the land in showers.

    We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
      The white of their leaves; the amber grain
    Shrunk in the wind--and the lightning now
      Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.

    --THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.




WEBSTER AND THE WOODCHUCK


On a farm among the hills of New Hampshire, in the United States, there
once lived a boy whose name was Daniel Webster. He was a tiny fellow
for one of his age. His hair was jet black, and his eyes were so dark
and wonderful that nobody who once saw them could ever forget them. He
was not strong enough to help much on the farm; and so he spent much
of his time in playing in the woods and fields. He loved the trees and
flowers and the harmless wild creatures that made their homes among
them.

But he did not play all the time. Long before he was old enough to go
to school, he learned to read; and he read so well that everybody liked
to hear him. The neighbors, when driving past his father’s house, would
stop their horses and call for the boy to come out and read to them.

It happened one summer that a woodchuck made its burrow in the side of
a hill near Mr. Webster’s house. On warm, dark nights it would come
down into the garden and eat the tender leaves of the cabbages and
other plants that were growing there. Nobody knew how much harm it
might do in the end. Daniel and his elder brother Ezekiel made up their
minds to catch the little thief. They tried this thing and that, but
for a long time he was too cunning for them. Then they built a strong
trap where the woodchuck would be sure to walk into it; and the next
morning, there he was.

“We have him at last!” cried Ezekiel. “Now, Mr. Woodchuck, you’ve done
mischief enough, and I’m going to kill you.” But Daniel pitied the
little animal. “No, don’t hurt him,” he said. “Let us carry him over
the hills, far into the woods, and let him go.” Ezekiel, however, would
not agree to this. His heart was not so tender as his little brother’s.
He was bent on killing the woodchuck, and laughed at the thought of
letting it go.

“Let us ask father about it,” said Daniel.

“All right,” said Ezekiel; “I know what he will decide.”

They carried the trap, with the woodchuck in it, to their father, and
asked what they should do.

“Well, boys,” said Mr. Webster, “we shall settle the question in this
way. We shall hold a court here. I shall be the judge, and you shall
be the lawyers. You shall each plead your case, for or against the
prisoner, and I shall decide what his punishment shall be.”

Ezekiel, as the prosecutor, made the first speech. He told about the
mischief that had been done. He showed that all woodchucks are bad and
cannot be trusted. He spoke of the time and labor that had been spent
in trying to catch the thief, and declared that if they should now set
him free he would be a worse thief than before.

“A woodchuck’s skin,” he said, “may perhaps be sold for ten cents.
Small as that sum is, it will go a little way towards paying for the
cabbages he has eaten. But, if we set him free, how shall we ever
recover even a penny of what we have lost? Clearly, he is of more value
dead than alive, and therefore he ought to be put out of the way at
once.”

Ezekiel’s speech was a good one, and it pleased Mr. Webster very much.
What he said was true and to the point, and it would be hard for Daniel
to make any answer to it.

Daniel began by pleading for the poor animal’s life. He looked up into
his father’s face, and said:--

“God made the woodchuck. He made him to live in the bright sunlight and
the pure air. He made him to enjoy the free fields and the green woods.
The woodchuck has a right to his life, for God gave it to him.

“God gives us our food. He gives us all that we have. And shall we
refuse to share a little of it with this poor dumb creature who has as
much right to God’s gifts as we have?

“The woodchuck is not a fierce animal like the wolf or the fox. He
lives in quiet and peace. A hole in the side of a hill, and a little
food, is all he wants. He has harmed nothing but a few plants, which he
ate to keep himself alive. He has a right to life, to food, to liberty;
and we have no right to say he shall not have them.

“Look at his soft, pleading eyes. See him tremble with fear. He cannot
speak for himself, and this is the only way in which he can plead for
the life that is so sweet to him. Shall we be so cruel as to kill him?
Shall we be so selfish as to take from him the life that God gave him?”

The father’s eyes were filled with tears as he listened. His heart was
stirred. He did not wait for Daniel to finish his speech, but sprang
to his feet, and as he wiped the tears from his eyes, he cried out,
“Ezekiel, let the woodchuck go!”

    --SELECTED.




THE FAIRIES OF CALDON LOW


    “And where have you been, my Mary,
      And where have you been from me?”
    “I’ve been to the top of Caldon Low
      The midsummer night to see!”

    “And what did you see, my Mary,
      All up on the Caldon Low?”
    “I saw the glad sunshine come down,
      And I saw the merry winds blow.”

    “And what did you hear, my Mary,
      All up on the Caldon hill?”
    “I heard the drops the water made,
      And the oars of the green corn fill.”

    “Oh! tell me all, my Mary--
      All, all that ever you know;
    For you must have seen the fairies
      Last night on the Caldon Low.”

    “Then take me on your knee, mother;
      And listen, mother of mine;
    A hundred fairies danced last night,
      And the harpers they were nine;

    “And their harp-strings rang so merrily
      To their dancing feet so small;
    But oh! the words of their talking
      Were merrier far than all.”

    “And what were the words, my Mary,
      That then you heard them say?”--
    “I’ll tell you all, my mother;
      But let me have my way.

    “Some of them played with the water,
      And rolled it down the hill;
    ‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turn
      The poor old miller’s mill;

    “‘For there has been no water
      Ever since the first of May;
    And a busy man will the miller be
      At the dawning of the day.

    “‘Oh! the miller, how he will laugh
      When he sees the mill-dam rise!
    The jolly old miller, how he will laugh
      Till the tears fill both his eyes!’

    “And some they seized the little winds
      That sounded over the hill;
    And each put a horn unto his mouth,
      And blew both loud and shrill;

    “‘And there,’ they said, ‘the merry winds go
      Away from every horn;
    And they shall clear the mildew dank
      From the blind old widow’s corn.

    “‘Oh! the poor blind widow,
      Though she has been blind so long,
    She’ll be blithe enough when the mildew’s gone,
      And the corn stands tall and strong.’

    “And some they brought the brown lint-seed,
      And flung it down from the Low;
    ‘And this,’ they said, ‘by the sunrise,
      In the weaver’s croft shall grow.

    “‘Oh! the poor, lame weaver,
      How he will laugh outright
    When he sees his dwindling flax-field
      All full of flowers by night!’

    “And then outspoke a brownie,
      With a long beard on his chin;
    ‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he,
      ‘And I want some more to spin.

    “‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth,
      And I want to spin another;
    A little sheet for Mary’s bed,
      And an apron for her mother.’

    “With that I could not help but laugh,
      And I laughed out loud and free;
    And then on the top of the Caldon Low
      There was no one left but me.

    “And all on the top of the Caldon Low
      The mists were cold and gray,
    And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
      That round about me lay.

    “But, coming down from the hilltop,
      I heard afar below,
    How busy the jolly miller was,
      And how the wheel did go.

    “And I peeped into the widow’s field,
      And, sure enough, were seen
    The yellow ears of the mildewed corn,
      All standing stout and green.

    “And down by the weaver’s croft I stole,
      To see if the flax were sprung;
    And I met the weaver at his gate,
      With the good news on his tongue.

    “Now this is all I heard, mother,
      And all that I did see;
    So, prithee, make my bed, mother,
      For I’m tired as I can be.”

    --MARY HOWITT.




THE LAST LESSON IN FRENCH


I was very late that morning on my way to school, and was afraid of
being scolded, as the master had told us he should question us on the
verbs, and I did not know the first word, for I had not studied my
lesson. For a moment I thought of playing truant. The air was so warm
and bright, and I could hear the blackbirds whistling in the edge of
the woods, and the Prussians who were drilling in the meadow behind the
sawmill. I liked this much better than learning the rules for verbs,
but I did not dare to stop, so I ran quickly towards school.

As I passed the mayor’s office, I saw people standing before the
little bulletin-board. For two years it was there that we received
all the news of battles, of victories, and defeats. “What is it now?”
I thought, without stopping to look at the bulletin. Then, as I ran
along, the blacksmith, who was there reading the bill, cried out to me,
“Not so fast, little one, you shall reach your school soon enough.” I
thought he was laughing at me and ran faster than ever, reaching the
school yard quite out of breath.

Usually, at the beginning of school, a loud noise could be heard from
the street. Desks were being opened and closed, and lessons repeated at
the top of the voice. Occasionally the heavy ruler of the master beat
the table, as he cried, “Silence, please, silence!” I hoped to be able
to take my seat in all this noise without being seen; but that morning
the room was quiet and orderly. Through the open window I saw my
schoolmates already in their places. The master was walking up and down
the room with the iron ruler under his arm and a book in his hand. As I
entered he looked at me kindly, and said, without scolding, “Go quickly
to your place, little Franz; we were just going to begin without you.
You should have been here five minutes ago.”

I climbed over my bench and sat down at once at my desk. Just then
I noticed, for the first time, that our master wore his fine green
coat with the ruffled frills, and his black silk embroidered cap. But
what surprised me more was to see some of the village people seated
on the benches at the end of the room. One of them was holding an old
spelling-book on his knee; and they all looked sadly at the master.

While I was wondering at this, our schoolmaster took his place, and in
the same kind tone in which he had received me, he said: “My children,
this is the last time that I shall give you a lesson. An order has come
from Berlin that no language but German may be taught in the schools of
Alsace and Lorraine. A new master will come to-morrow who shall teach
you in German. To-day is your last lesson in French. I beg of you to
pay good attention.”

These words frightened me. This is what they had posted on the
bulletin-board, then! This is what the blacksmith was reading. My last
lesson in French! I hardly knew how to write, and I never should learn
now. How I longed for lost time, for hours wasted in the woods and
fields, for days when I had played and should have studied. My books
that a short time ago had seemed so tiresome, so heavy to carry, now
seemed to me like old friends. I was thinking of this when I heard my
name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to
be able to say the rules without a mistake? But I could not say a word
and stood at my bench without daring to lift my head. Then I heard the
master speaking to me.

“I shall not scold you, little Franz. You are punished enough now.
Every day you have said to yourself: ‘I have plenty of time. I shall
learn my lesson to-morrow.’ Now you see what has happened.”

Then he began to talk to us about the French language, saying that it
was the most beautiful tongue in the world, and that we must keep it
among us and never forget it. Finally he took the grammar and read us
the lesson. I was surprised to see how I understood. Everything seemed
easy. I believe, too, that I never listened so well; and it seemed
almost as if the good man were trying to teach us all he knew in this
last lesson.

[Illustration]

The lesson in grammar ended, we began our writing. For that day the
master had prepared some new copies, on which were written, “Alsace,
France; Alsace, France.” They seemed like so many little flags floating
about the schoolroom. How we worked! Nothing was heard but the voice
of the master and the scratching of pens on the paper. There was no
time for play now. On the roof of the schoolhouse some pigeons were
softly cooing, and I said to myself, “Shall they, too, be obliged to
sing in German?”

From time to time, when I looked up from my page, I saw the master
looking about him as if he wished to impress upon his mind everything
in the room.

After writing, we had a history lesson, and then the little ones
recited. Oh, I shall remember that last lesson!

Suddenly, the church clock struck the hour of noon. The master rose
from his chair. “My friends,” said he, “my friends,--I--I--” But
something choked him; he could not finish the sentence. He turned to
the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and wrote in large letters,
“VIVE LA FRANCE!” Then he stood leaning against the wall, unable to
speak. He signed to us with his hand: “It is ended. You are dismissed.”

    --_From the French of_ ALPHONSE DAUDET.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Do not look for wrong and evil--
      You will find them if you do:
    As you measure for your neighbor,
      He will measure back to you.




THE BROOK SONG


                Little Brook! Little Brook!
                You have such a happy look--
    Such a very merry manner as you swerve and curve and crook--
                And your ripples, one and one,
                Reach each other’s hands and run,
    Like laughing little children in the sun.

                Little Brook, sing to me,
                Sing about a bumble bee,
    That tumbled from a lily-bell, and grumbled mumblingly,
                Because he wet the film
                Of his wings and had to swim,
    While the water-bugs raced round and laughed at him!

                Little Brook--sing a song
                Of a leaf that sailed along,
    Down the golden braided centre of your current swift and strong,
                And a dragon-fly that lit
                On the tilting rim of it,
    And rode away and wasn’t scared a bit.

                And sing how--oft in glee
                Came a truant boy like me,
    Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting melody,
                Till the gurgle and refrain,
                Of your music in his brain,
    Wrought a happiness as keen to him as pain.

                Little Brook--laugh and leap!
                Do not let the dreamer weep:
    Sing him all the songs of summer till he sinks in softest sleep;
                And then sing soft and low
                Through his dreams of long ago--
    Sing back to him the rest he used to know!

    --JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

 _By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.
 Copyright, 1901._




THE BETTER LAND


    “I hear thee speak of the better land;
    Thou call’st its children a happy band:
    Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
    Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
    Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
    And the fireflies glance through the myrtle boughs?”
        “Not there, not there, my child!”

    “Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
    And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
    Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
    Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze;
    And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
    Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?”
        “Not there, not there, my child!”

    “Is it far away, in some region old,
    Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold?
    Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
    And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
    And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,--
    Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?”
        “Not there, not there, my child!

    “Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy,
    Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy--
    Dreams cannot picture a world so fair--
    Sorrow and death may not enter there:
    Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
    For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb--
        It is there, it is there, my child!”

    --FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Whoever you are, be noble;
    Whatever you do, do well;
    Whenever you speak, speak kindly,
    Give joy wherever you dwell.




CÆDMON


On one of the dark, rugged cliffs that jut out into the sea from the
eastern part of England, stood, many centuries ago, the monastery of
Whitby. At this time the people of England were still very ignorant.
Only the monks and nuns knew how to read or write. The rest of the
people were either warriors, or else simple-minded shepherds and
farmers.

In this monastery lived a servant whose duty it was to attend to the
sheep and cattle. In the evenings, very often, his companions were in
the habit of gathering together in the common hall or banquet room.
There it was the custom, while the feast was going on, for each one
in turn to take the harp as it was passed around the table, and make
up some simple song to entertain his friends. Although these people
knew nothing about reading or writing, they were wonderfully clever at
singing songs and accompanying themselves on the harp.

Only the herdsman who attended to the sheep and cattle, and whose name
was Cædmon, could never sing. So whenever the feasting time came, and
his comrades began to pass the harp from one to another, he, being
ashamed of his lack of skill, would leave the banquet hall to go alone
to the little house where he slept.

One night, after he had left his comrades, and had attended to all
the wants of the cattle under his care, he, as usual, went to sleep,
and in his sleep he had a wonderful dream. He dreamed that to his door
came a beautiful youth, with a light shining about his head, who said
to him, “Cædmon, sing for me.” Cædmon answered: “But thou knowest I
cannot sing. That is why I left my companions in the banquet hall, and
came here to my lonely hut.” “Try,” said the beautiful youth, “and thou
shalt find that thou canst sing.” Then Cædmon in wonder asked, “What
shall I sing about?”--”Sing of the beauty of the world, and the glory
of the stars and the skies, and of all that is on the earth,” was the
answer.

Then in his sleep Cædmon sang a beautiful song, just as the youth
had commanded him. But the strangest thing was that when he awoke he
remembered every word of the song, and not only that, but he found he
could sing a song about any thought that came into his mind; whereas,
formerly, he had never been able to sing at all.

Wonderful, indeed, all this seemed to the humble shepherd. He told his
companions about his dream, and they led him to the abbess, who was
chief in the monastery, and bade him sing his songs for her.

So he sang. All the wise monks came to hear him, and tears came into
their eyes at the beauty of his song; for when he sang, the sky and the
earth and the sea these men had known all their lives seemed suddenly
to be filled with a new glory. They all said that Cædmon had received
a wonderful gift from God, and that he must use it in a holy way.

From that day on some one else guarded the sheep and the cattle in
the monastery of Whitby; and the former shepherd learned to read and
write, and became one of the monks of the abbey. Many and beautiful
and holy were the songs he wrote. They were written in Anglo-Saxon,
the language spoken by the ancestors of the English people, and this
simple shepherd, Cædmon, who was the first of the Anglo-Saxon poets,
was therefore really the father of all English poetry.

    --GRACE H. KUPFER.




THE BLUEBELL


    There is a story I have heard--
    A poet learned it from a bird,
    And kept its music, every word--

    A story of a dim ravine,
    O’er which the towering tree-tops lean,
    With one blue rift of sky between;

    And there, two thousand years ago,
    A little flower, as white as snow,
    Swayed in the silence to and fro.

    Day after day with longing eye,
    The floweret watched the narrow sky,
    And fleecy clouds that floated by.

    And through the darkness, night by night,
    One gleaming star would climb the height,
    And cheer the lonely floweret’s sight.

    Thus, watching the blue heavens afar,
    And the rising of its favorite star,
    A slow change came--but not to mar;

    For softly o’er its petals white
    There crept a blueness like the light
    Of skies upon a summer night;

    And in its chalice, I am told,
    The bonny bell was found to hold
    A tiny star that gleamed like gold.

    And bluebells of the Scottish land
    Are loved on every foreign strand
    Where stirs a Scottish heart or hand.

    Now, little people, sweet and true,
    I find a lesson here for you,
    Writ in the floweret’s bell of blue:

    The patient child whose watchful eye
    Strives after all things pure and high,
    Shall take their image by and by.

    --ANONYMOUS.




LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF


    O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
    Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright;
    The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
    They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

    O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows
    It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
    Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
    Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

    O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,
    When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
    Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
    For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

    --SIR WALTER SCOTT.




THE MINSTREL’S SONG


Once in the olden time a king called his heralds together to hear his
bidding. And all the swift runners gathered before the king, each with
a trumpet in his hand. And the king sent them forth into every part of
the kingdom to sound their trumpets and to call aloud:--

“Hear, O ye minstrels! Our gracious king bids ye come to his court and
play before the queen.”




The minstrels were men who went about from castle to castle and from
palace to cot, singing beautiful songs and playing on harps. Wherever
they roamed they were always sure of a welcome. They sang of the brave
deeds that the knights had done, and of wars and battles. They sang
of the mighty hunters that hunted in the great forests. They sang of
fairies and goblins, of giants and elves. And because there were no
storybooks in those days, everybody, from little children to the king,
was glad to see them come.

When the minstrels heard the king’s message, they made haste to the
palace; and it so happened that three of them met on the way and
decided to travel together.

One of these minstrels was a young man named Harmonious; and while the
others talked of the songs that they would sing, he gathered the wild
flowers that grew by the roadside.

“I can sing of drums and battles,” said the oldest minstrel, whose hair
was white, and whose step was slow.

“I can sing of ladies and their fair faces,” said the youngest
minstrel. But Harmonious whispered, “Listen! listen!”

“Oh! we hear nothing but the wind in the tree-tops,” said the others.
“We have not time to stop and listen.”

Then they hurried on and left Harmonious; and he stood under the trees
and listened, for he heard the wind singing of its travels through the
wide world. It was telling how it raced over the blue sea, tossing the
waves and rocking the white ships. It sang of the hill where the trees
made harps of their branches, and of the valleys where all the flowers
danced gayly to its music. And this was the chorus of the song:--

    “Nobody follows me where I go,
    Over the mountains or valley below;
    Nobody sees where the wild winds blow,--
    Only the Father in Heaven can know.”

Harmonious listened until he knew the whole song. Then he ran on, and
soon reached his friends, who were still talking of the grand sights
that they were to see. “We shall behold the king, and we shall speak to
him,” said the oldest minstrel. “And we shall see his golden crown and
the queen’s jewels,” added the youngest.

[Illustration]

Now their path led them through the wood, and as they talked,
Harmonious said, “Hush! listen!” But the others answered: “Oh! that is
only the sound of the brook, trickling over the stones. Let us make
haste to the king’s court.”

But Harmonious stayed to hear the song that the brook was singing, of
journeying through mosses and ferns and shady ways, and of tumbling
over the rocks in shining waterfalls, on its way to the sea.

    “Rippling and bubbling through shade and sun
    On to the beautiful sea I run;
    Singing forever, though none be near,--
    For God in Heaven can always hear.”

Thus sang the little brook. Harmonious listened until he knew every
word of the song, and then he hurried on.

When he reached the others, he found them still talking of the king
and the queen, so he could not tell them of the brook. As they talked,
he heard something again that was wonderfully sweet, and he cried,
“Listen! listen!”

“Oh! that is only a bird,” the others replied. “Let us make haste to
the king’s court.”

But Harmonious would not go, for the bird sang so joyfully that
Harmonious laughed aloud when he heard the song. It was singing a song
of green trees; and in every tree there was a nest, and in every nest
there were eggs.

    “Merrily, merrily, listen to me
    Flitting and flying from tree to tree;
    Nothing fear I, by land or sea,--
    For God in Heaven is watching me.”

“Thank you, little bird,” said Harmonious; “you have taught me a song.”
And he made haste to join his comrades.

When they had come into the palace, they received a hearty welcome, and
were feasted in the great hall before they came into the throne room.
The king and queen sat on their thrones side by side. The king thought
of the queen and the minstrels; but the queen thought of her old home
in a far-off country, and of the butterflies she had chased when she
was a little child.

One by one the minstrels played before them. The oldest minstrel sang
of battles and drums, and the soldiers of the king shouted with joy.
The youngest minstrel sang of ladies and their fair faces, and all the
ladies of the court clapped their hands.

Then came Harmonious. And when he touched his harp and sang, the song
sounded like the wind blowing, the sea roaring, and the trees creaking.
Then it grew very soft, and sounded like a trickling brook, dripping on
stones and running over little pebbles. And while the king and queen
and all the court listened in surprise, Harmonious’s song grew sweeter,
sweeter, sweeter. It was as if you heard all the birds in spring. And
then the song was ended.

The queen clapped her hands, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs,
and the king came down from his throne to ask Harmonious if he came
from fairy-land with such a wonderful song. But Harmonious answered:--

    “Three singers sang along our way,
    And I learned the song from them to-day.”

Now all the minstrels looked up in surprise when they heard these words
from Harmonious; and the oldest minstrel said to the king: “Harmonious
is surely mad! We met no singers on our way to-day.” But the queen
said: “That is an old, old song. I heard it when I was a little child,
and I can name the singers three.” And so she did. Can you?

    --MAUDE LINDSAY.

 _From “Mother Stories,” by permission of Milton Bradley Company._




THE USE OF FLOWERS


    God might have bade the earth bring forth
      Enough for great and small,
    The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
      Without a flower at all.

    We might have had enough, enough
      For every want of ours,
    For luxury, medicine, and toil,
      And yet have had no flowers.

    The ore within the mountain mine
      Requireth none to grow;
    Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
      To make the river flow.

    The clouds might give abundant rain,
      The nightly dews might fall,
    And the herb that keepeth life in man
      Might yet have drunk them all.

    Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
      All dyed with rainbow light,
    All fashioned with supremest grace,
      Upspringing day and night,--

    Springing in valleys green and low,
      And on the mountain high,
    And in the silent wilderness,
      Where no man passes by?

    Our outward life requires them not,
      Then wherefore had they birth?--
    To minister delight to man,
      To beautify the earth:

    To comfort man, to whisper hope
      Whene’er his faith is dim;
    For Whoso careth for the flowers
      Will much more care for him.

    --MARY HOWITT.




THE MILLER OF THE DEE


    There dwelt a miller, hale and bold,
      Beside the river Dee;
    He worked and sang from morn till night--
      No lark more blithe than he;
    And this the burden of his song
      Forever used to be:
    “I envy nobody--no, not I--
      And nobody envies me!”

    “Thou’rt wrong, my friend,” said good King Hal,
      “As wrong as wrong can be;
    For could my heart be light as thine,
      I’d gladly change with thee.
    And tell me now, what makes thee sing,
      With voice so loud and free,
    While I am sad, though I’m a king,
      Beside the river Dee?”

    The miller smiled and doffed his cap,
      “I earn my bread,” quoth he;
    “I love my wife, I love my friend,
      I love my children three;
    I owe no penny I cannot pay;
      I thank the river Dee
    That turns the mill that grinds the corn
      That feeds my babes and me.”

    “Good friend,” said Hal, and sighed the while,
      “Farewell, and happy be;
    But say no more, if thou’dst be true,
      That no one envies thee;
    Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,
      Thy mill my kingdom’s fee;
    Such men as thou are England’s boast,
      O miller of the Dee!”

    --CHARLES MACKAY.




THE STORY OF MOWEEN


This is a story a hunter told me as we sat by the camp-fire on the top
of the mountain, after a day’s climb through the woods:--

“When I was a child, my home was on the edge of a great forest. There
were but few people near us, and not a town for miles and miles. Many
wild animals lived in the woods, which were so wide and deep that most
of the animals had never seen a human being.

“One day my father and a neighbor were out hunting. There was no
breeze, and the woods were very still. They were walking down a
hillside, stepping quietly over the fallen trunks and dry leaves, when
suddenly, ‘Look! look!’ my father whispered to his companion.

[Illustration]

“A strip of water gleamed through the trees, and a mother bear and
three cubs were walking along the shore. The bear caught the sound or
the scent of some one near, for she stopped, rose on her hind legs, and
snuffed the air, and all the little bears did exactly what she did. ‘We
have surprised Bruin giving her children a lesson,’ said my father. But
as he turned to speak, and before he could say a word to prevent, his
companion had shot the mother bear. She tumbled down on the sand, and
the little bears began to whimper and cry.

“Father never spoke to that man again, though he was a neighbor; and a
neighbor means a good deal when the nearest one lives two miles away.

“The cubs were brave fellows; they did not run away even when the men
went up to them, but stayed by their mother, whimpering a little. ‘It
was pitiful to see them,’ father said. He was not willing to go away
and leave the little fellows, for they were too small to take care of
themselves; and now they had no mother to teach them bear language and
bear ways. He picked up one and carried it, and the others followed. So
he brought the three bears home to be my playmates, and glad I was to
see them. They cried at first and missed their mother; but they soon
became accustomed to living with people. What frolics we had! Every
morning we would scamper up and down the road. When some one called in
to the house and I ran in, they would come running and tumbling after
me. We played house and school and soldier together, and though I often
wished they could talk with me, in every other way they were good
comrades.

“They were always good-natured. You have heard a dog growl over a bone;
the bears preferred lumps of sugar, which they took without growling.
How they liked sweet things! They would come into the pantry and beg
for cake; and when my mother wanted to give us all a treat, she would
make molasses candy.

“Did we sell them? No, sir! Father said their mother had been so
cruelly treated that they deserved extra kindness, and they were free
to come and go as they would.

“One morning I woke up to find that two of them had gone off to the
woods,--their natural home. Only Moween had chosen to stay with us
rather than to go with his brothers. He lived with us until he was a
big bear. Sometimes he would roam into the woods to find honey, but he
always came back. I used to like to go nutting with him, for he would
climb up the tree and shake the branches until the nuts came pattering
down.

“One afternoon a German, leading a bear by a chain, stopped at the
house. He had lost his way, and we asked him to rest and spend the
night with us. He explained in broken English that he had been
travelling about the country with his dancing bear. The bear danced for
us, but Moween seemed frightened and ran away when he saw the newcomer.
The dancing bear, on his part, seemed afraid of Moween. However, at
supper-time, Moween returned, and the bears seemed to make friends.
What they said to each other I do not know, but when morning came both
bears were gone. The dancing bear had slipped his chain. Their trail
led into the forest, and we followed it a mile or two, but did not find
them.

“This time my pet bear did not come back. Every spring I used to expect
him, for when the maple trees were tapped, we had ‘sugarings off’ which
were always feasts for Moween. But I have not seen him since, though I
never see a bear without wishing that he were my old playmate, Moween.”

 _By permission of the Outlook Magazine._

    --SELECTED.




A HINDU FABLE


    It was six men of Hindustan,
      To learning much inclined,
    Who went to see the elephant
      (Though all of them were blind),
    That each by observation
      Might satisfy his mind.

    The _First_ approached the elephant,
      And happening to fall
    Against his broad and sturdy side,
      At once began to bawl:
    “I clearly see the elephant
      Is very like a wall!”

    The _Second_, feeling round the tusk,
      Cried: “Ho! what have we here,
    So very round, and smooth, and sharp!
      To me it is quite clear,
    This wonder of an elephant
      Is very like a spear!”

    The _Third_ approached the animal,
      And happening to take
    The squirming trunk within his hands,
      Thus boldly up and spake:
    “I see,” quoth he, “the elephant
      Is very like a snake!”

    The _Fourth_ reached out his eager hand,
      And felt about the knee:
    “What most this wondrous beast is like
      To me is plain,” said he;
    “’Tis clear enough the elephant
      Is very like a tree!”

    The _Fifth_, who chanced to touch the ear,
      Said: “Even the blindest man
    Can tell what this resembles most;
      Deny the fact who can,
    This marvel of an elephant
      Is very like a fan!”

    The _Sixth_ no sooner had begun
      About the beast to grope,
    Than, seizing on the swinging tail,
      That fell within his scope:
    “I see,” quoth he, “the elephant
      Is very like a rope!”

    And so these men of Hindustan
      Disputed loud and long,
    Each in his own opinion
      Exceeding stiff and strong;
    Though each was partly in the right
      And all were in the wrong.

    --JOHN GODFREY SAXE.




THE BOY MUSICIAN


There was a time, long ago, when people believed that fairies hovered
over a sleeping babe, and gave to the little one the charm of beauty,
or the joy of strength, or the power of genius.

[Illustration: MOZART]

If this were true, then fairies must have visited the cradle of little
Wolfgang Mozart. We might easily believe that one of them said, “I
shall give thee a loving heart;” and that another whispered, “Thou
shalt delight in sweet sounds; music shall be thy language.”

The little Mozart lived in Germany more than a hundred years ago. His
father was a musician, and his sister, Anna, had already made rapid
progress in music. At all of her lessons the baby brother was an
interested listener, and he often amused himself in trying to repeat
the exercises he had heard. Before he was four years old, he began to
compose music. His little pieces were written for him by his father, in
a book which was kept for that purpose.

One Sunday the father came home from church and found Wolfgang at a
table busy over a piece of paper. His fat little hand grasped the pen
with much firmness, and at every visit to the ink-bottle he plunged it
to the very bottom. The paper was very badly blotted with ink, but the
baby composer calmly wiped away the blots with his finger and wrote
over them.

[Illustration: MOZART PLAYING BEFORE THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA]

“What are you doing there?” asked his father.

“Writing a piece of music for the piano,” replied Wolfgang.

“Let me see it.”

“No, no, it is not ready!”

The father took up the paper, and laughed at the big blots and the
notes which were scarcely readable. But upon looking over the work more
carefully, he saw that it was written according to rule, and that it
was a wonderful composition for so young a child.

The father now devoted all his time to the education of his two
children. They progressed so rapidly that they were a marvel to their
native town. When Anna was ten years old and Wolfgang six, they were
taken by their father and mother to Vienna, and there the Emperor
listened to their music. The courtiers and the royal family praised the
gifted children and filled their hands with costly presents.

Soon after their return home, a noted violinist called to ask Herr
Mozart’s opinion of some new music. As they were about to practise the
different parts, little Wolfgang begged to play second violin.

“You cannot join our rehearsal,” said his father. “You have had no
instruction on the violin.”

“I do not need any lessons to play second violin,” the boy persisted.

“Run away and do not disturb us,” was the father’s reply, and the
little boy walked out of the room, crying bitterly. The visitor begged
that the child be permitted to play with him, and Wolfgang was called
back.

“Play then,” said the father; “but play very softly.”

The child was comforted. He brushed away his tears and began playing,
softly at first, as he had been commanded; then he forgot everything
but the notes before him, and the music swelled higher and higher. All
were amazed, and tears of gladness stood in the father’s eyes.

Another concert tour was planned, and Wolfgang and his sister travelled
with their parents from city to city, giving concerts at the courts of
kings. Great crowds went to hear them, and everywhere they were greeted
with enthusiasm and delight.

When Wolfgang was eleven years old, he went to Italy to study music.
The fair, slender lad was looked upon as a marvel by the Italian
musicians. The father and son reached Rome at the time of the great
Easter festival. A beautiful piece of music had been set apart as
sacred to this yearly service. For two hundred years it had been
carefully guarded, and all musicians were forbidden to copy it.
Wolfgang listened intently; and when he came again the next day to the
church, he brought with him a folded paper on which he had written from
memory the whole of the sacred music.

“Truly such wonderful gifts come from Heaven!” said the priests, in awe
and admiration.

Mozart remained for nearly two years in Italy, studying with the finest
musicians and hearing the best music. After his return to his native
land, he continued his musical studies and gave his whole life to his
art.

It seems impossible that the boy, who in his early years received
such honors, should in his manhood meet poverty and neglect. Such
was Mozart’s sad fortune, but in spite of his discouragements he
struggled on, and became one of the greatest of musical composers.
He has given to the world a wealth of beauty that has made his name
immortal.--BERTHA LEARY SAUNDERS.




THE SPARROWS


    In the far-off land of Norway,
      Where the winter lingers late
    And long for the singing-birds and flowers,
      The little children wait;

    When at last the summer ripens
      And the harvest is gathered in,
    And food for the bleak, drear days to come
      The toiling people win;

    Through all the land the children
      In the golden fields remain
    Till their busy little hands have gleaned
      A generous sheaf of grain;

    All the stalks by the reapers forgotten
      They glean to the very least,
    To save till the cold December,
      For the sparrows’ Christmas feast.

    And then through the frost-locked country
      There happens a wonderful thing:
    The sparrows flock north, south, east, west,
      For the children’s offering.

    Of a sudden, the day before Christmas,
      The twittering crowds arrive,
    And the bitter, wintry air at once
      With their chirping is all alive.

    They perch upon roof and gable,
      On porch and fence and tree,

    They flutter about the windows
      And peer in curiously.

    And meet the eyes of the children,
      Who eagerly look out
    With cheeks that bloom like roses red,
      And greet them with welcoming shout.

    On the joyous Christmas morning,
      In front of every door
    A tall pole, crowned with clustering grain,
      Is set the birds before.

    And which are the happiest, truly
      It would be hard to tell:
    The sparrows who share in the Christmas cheer,
      Or the children who love them well!

    How sweet that they should remember,
      With faith so full and sure,
    That the children’s bounty awaited them
      The whole wide country o’er!

    When this pretty story was told me
      By one who had helped to rear
    The rustling grain for the merry birds
      In Norway, many a year,

    I thought that our little children
      Would like to know it, too,
    It seems to me so beautiful,
      So blessed a thing to do,

    To make God’s innocent creatures see
      In every child a friend,
    And on our faithful kindness
      So fearlessly depend.

    --CELIA THAXTER.




THE TIME AND THE DEED


    Art going to do a kindly deed?
      ’Tis never too soon to begin;
    Make haste, make haste, for the moments speed,
    The world, my dear one, has pressing need
    Of your tender thought and kindly deed.
      ’Tis never too soon to begin.

    But if the deed be a selfish one,
      ’Tis ever too soon to begin;
    If some heart will be sorer when all is done,
    Put it off! put it off from sun to sun,
    Remembering always, my own dear one,
      ’Tis ever too soon to begin.

    --JEAN BLEWETT.




THE FLAX


The flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers as
delicate as the wings of a moth, or even more so. The sun shone, and
the showers watered it, so that it became very beautiful.

“People say that I look exceedingly well,” said the flax, “and that I
am so fine and long, that I shall make an excellent piece of linen.
How fortunate I am! it makes me so happy; it is such a pleasant thing
to know that something can be made of me. How the sunshine cheers me,
and how sweet and refreshing is the rain! no one in the world can feel
happier than I do.”

[Illustration: HANS ANDERSEN]

One day some people came, who took hold of the flax and pulled it up
by the roots; this was painful. Then it was laid in water as if they
intended to drown it, and, after that, placed near a fire as if it were
to be roasted; all this was very shocking.

“I cannot expect to be happy always,” said the flax; “I must have my
trials, and so learn what life really is.” And certainly there were
plenty of trials in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted,
and broken, and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it.

At last it was put on the spinning-wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the
wheel, so quickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts.

“Well, I have been very happy,” he thought in the midst of his pain,
“and must be contented with the past;” and contented he remained till
he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful piece of white linen.
All the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making this one
piece. “How wonderful it is that, after all I have suffered, I am made
something of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world--so strong
and fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something different
from being a mere plant and bearing flowers. I cannot be happier than I
am now.”

After some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed under the
scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked with needles.
This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made into garments.

“See now, then,” said the flax, “I have become something of importance.
This was my destiny; it is quite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use
in the world, as every one ought to be; it is the only way to be happy.”

Years passed away; and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely
hold together. “It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other.
“We would gladly have held together a little longer, but we must not
forget that there is an end to all things.” And at length they fell
into rags and tatters, and thought it was all over with them, for they
were torn to shreds, and steeped in water and made into a pulp, and
dried, and they knew not what besides, till all at once they found
themselves beautiful white paper.

“Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious surprise, too,” said the
paper. “I am now finer than ever, and I shall be written upon, and who
can tell what fine things I may have written upon me? This is wonderful
luck!” And sure enough, the most beautiful stories and poetry were
written upon it. Then people heard the stories and poetry read, and it
made them wiser and better; for all that was written was sensible and
good, and a great blessing was contained in the words on the paper.

“I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper, “when I was only
a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I imagine that I
should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to men? I cannot
understand it myself, and yet it is really so. I suppose now I shall
be sent on my travels about the world, so that people may read me. It
cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is more than probable, for I have more
splendid thoughts written upon me than I had pretty flowers in olden
times. I am happier than ever.”

But the paper did not go on its travels. It was sent to the printer,
and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to make a book,
or rather hundreds of books; for so many more persons could gain
pleasure from a printed book than from the written paper; and if the
paper had been sent about the world, it would have been worn out before
it had got half through its journey.

“This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written paper; “I really
did not think of that. I shall remain at home and be held in honor,
like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new books. They
shall do some good. I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he
who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen
upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.”

Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into
a tub that stood in the wash-house. “After work, it is well to rest,”
said the paper. “Now I am able for the first time to think of my life
and all the good that I have done. What shall be done with me now, I
wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward.”

Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out,
and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold
at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written
upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for they
wished to see the paper burn, because it flamed up so prettily, and
afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running
one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind.

The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon
alight. “Oh, oh!” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame.
It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole
was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the air, higher
than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower; and
they gleamed as the white linen had never been able to gleam. All the
written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and
thoughts turned into fire.

“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the
flames, and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the
flames darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Nothing
remained of the paper but black ashes with the red sparks dancing over
them. The children thought that this was the end, but the sparks sang,
“The most beautiful is yet to come.”

    --HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;
      Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright;
    Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,
      And find a harvest-home of light.




JEANNETTE AND JO


    Two girls I know--Jeannette and Jo,
      And one is always moping;
    The other lassie, come what may,
      Is ever bravely hoping.

    Beauty of face and girlish grace
      Are theirs, for joy or sorrow;
    Jeannette takes brightly every day,
      And Jo dreads each to-morrow.

    One early morn they watched the dawn--
      I saw them stand together;
    Their whole day’s sport, ’twas very plain,
      Depended on the weather.

    “‘Twill storm!” cried Jo. Jeannette spoke low:
      “Yes, but ’twill soon be over.”
    And, as she spoke, the sudden shower
      Came, beating down the clover.

    “I told you so!” cried angry Jo:
      “It always is a-raining!”
    Then hid her face in dire despair,
      Lamenting and complaining.

    But sweet Jeannette, quite hopeful yet,--
      I tell it to her honor,--
    Looked up and waited till the sun
      Came streaming in upon her.

    The broken clouds sailed off in crowds,
      Across a sea of glory.
    Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in--
      Which ends my simple story.

    Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine,
      The hopeful are the gladdest;
    And doubt and dread, children, believe
      Of all things are the saddest.

    In morning’s light, let youth be bright;
      Take in the sunshine tender;
    Then, at the close, shall life’s decline
      Be full of sunset splendor.

    And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette,
      To shun all weak complaining;
    And not, like Jo, cry out too soon--
      “It always is a-raining!”

    --MARY MAPES DODGE.

       *       *       *       *       *

    A kindly act is a kernel sown,
    That will grow to a goodly tree,
    Shedding its fruit when time has flown,
    Down the gulf of eternity.




THE MAID OF ORLEANS


In the midst of those terrible times, during which for one hundred
years England and France were at war, there was born in the little
village of Domrémy a peasant girl, named Jeanne d’Arc. When she was
old enough she used to tend her father’s sheep, and as she sat on the
hillside, watching them day by day, she often looked out over the
ruined houses and blackened fields and wondered if the English would
ever come again to frighten her people and burn their peaceful homes.
Her father, too, feared the same, and so taught his little daughter to
ride a horse and to use simple weapons.

Later she heard that the dreaded English were back in France, not in
her own village, but besieging the brave town of Orleans. News came
that the Dauphin, who was now governing France, dared not go to Rheims
to be crowned, because the English troops held the place. One day as
Jeanne sat musing over all these rumors, wishing that she were a man
so that she might go and fight for her country, she saw a vision and
heard voices bidding her leave her home and deliver the Dauphin from
his enemies, so that he might be crowned king. So loudly and so plainly
did she hear these voices that she felt she must go to the French court
at once. She was so poor that she thought at first that she must go
afoot, but some kind neighbors gave her a horse. Then she put on men’s
clothing, instead of her coarse red dress, cut off her long black
hair, and rode bravely off alone.

[Illustration: Ingres  JEANNE D’ARC]

The journey was long and perilous, for the country was
still full of robbers and free lances, but when it was over she found
that her troubles had only begun. The nobles met her strange story with
laughter and scorn, and refused to let her see the king. But finally
her sweetness and gentle manner prevailed, and she was led into the
presence of her sovereign. The story runs that the king, to test her,
had put on the simple robe of a courtier, and stood among the rest
of the nobles when Jeanne entered. But Jeanne went to him, without
hesitation, saluted, and said:--

“In God’s name, it is you, sire, and none other.”

There she stood, a simple shepherd lass, who could neither read nor
write, before a roomful of men of noble birth; but she was not afraid,
for she brought with her the faith that she was to save France.
Gradually, her soft voice, ringing with enthusiasm and loyalty, aroused
the king and his lords, and he granted Jeanne her request--she was to
go and relieve Orleans.

He gave her a big horse and pure white armor, and she herself sent for
a sword having five crosses on the blade, that she had seen in a dream
lying behind an altar in a certain church.

But at Orleans the people who were defending the city mistrusted her.
They tried to hide their plans from her, and made a secret attack in
the night on the enemy. But the shouts of war woke her from her sleep.
She hastily called for her horse and galloped into the midst of the
fight. The soldiers cheered her wildly, and now even the unwilling
captains were forced to listen to her. In the days that followed,
Jeanne, though twice wounded, was always at the front, urging on the
French and terrifying the English, who took her for a witch. She
entered Orleans on Friday, and a week from the following Sunday the
English had turned their backs forever on the city.

Jeanne did not linger to enjoy her triumph. Amid the tears of joy and
the cheering of the people, she rode out of the city the next day to
perform the rest of her task,--to crown the Dauphin king of France.
From far and near people came to see her, and a large army sprang up
around her and the king, eager to march towards Rheims. Still the court
delayed, for the nobles were jealous of Jeanne’s glory, but she was
firm in her faith and the people were with her.

The French first attacked the English who were holding Troyes. After
a six days’ siege the king was discouraged, for the food was growing
very scarce, but Jeanne begged him to hold out two days longer. When
he agreed, she mounted her horse and led the attack against the town.
The English, in terror, opened their gates before the assault began.
Thus the last difficulty was surmounted and the army marched safely to
Rheims. Here the king was crowned in the big cathedral, the brave young
peasant girl standing by his side.

Jeanne was now ready to go back to her father and mother, and the
tending of her sheep, but the voices still called her to drive the
English from the land. She stayed with the king and army, trying to
hasten an attack on the English. But the indolent king, listening to
idle tales from his jealous nobles, forgot all Jeanne had done for him
and France, and began to believe that she was a witch. At last Jeanne
was captured by the enemy. The English believed her to be a witch and
tried her for sorcery. The French king made no effort to ransom her,
and she was condemned to be burned at the stake. The sentence was
carried out, and thus the poor peasant girl gave up her life for the
ungrateful country she had saved from ruin.

    --MAUDE BARROW DUTTON.

 _From “Little Stories of France,” by permission of the American Book
 Company._




BIRDS


    Birds--birds, ye are beautiful things,
    With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;
    Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell,
    Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

    Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark;
    Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;
    Ye build and ye brood ’neath the cottager’s eaves,
    And ye sleep on the sod ’mid the bonny green leaves.

    Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;
    Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;
    Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;
    Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.

    Beautiful birds, ye come thickly around
    When the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;
    Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,
    And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.

    --ELIZA COOK.




THE OWL


    When cats run home and light is come,
      And dew is cold upon the ground,
    And the far-off stream is dumb,
      And the whirring sail goes round;
      And the whirring sail goes round;
        Alone and warming his five wits,
        The white owl in the belfry sits.

    When merry milkmaids click the latch,
      And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
    And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
      Twice or thrice his roundelay;
      Twice or thrice his roundelay;
        Alone and warming his five wits,
        The white owl in the belfry sits.

    --ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.




IKTOMI AND THE COYOTE


Afar off upon a large level land, a summer sun was shining bright.
Here and there over the rolling green were tall bunches of coarse gray
weeds. Iktomi in his fringed buckskins walked alone across the prairie
with a black bare head glossy in the sunlight. He walked through the
grass without following any well-worn footpath.

From one large bunch of coarse weeds to another he wound his way about
the great plain. He lifted his foot lightly and placed it gently
forward like a wildcat prowling noiselessly through the thick grass.
He stopped a few steps away from a very large bunch of wild sage. From
shoulder to shoulder he tilted his head. Still farther he bent from
side to side. Far forward he stooped, stretching his long thin neck
like a duck, to see what lay under a fur coat beyond the bunch of
coarse grass.

A sleek gray-faced prairie wolf! his pointed black nose tucked in
between his four feet drawn snugly together; his handsome bushy tail
wound over his nose and feet; a coyote fast asleep in the shadow of
a bunch of grass!--this is what Iktomi spied. Carefully he raised one
foot and cautiously reached out with his toes. Gently, gently he lifted
the foot behind and placed it before the other. Thus he came nearer and
nearer to the round fur ball lying motionless under the sage grass.

Now Iktomi stood beside it, looking at the closed eyelids that did not
quiver the least bit. Pressing his lips into straight lines and nodding
his head slowly, he bent over the wolf. He held his ear close to the
coyote’s nose, but not a breath of air stirred from it.

“Dead!” said he at last. “Dead, but not long since he ran over these
plains! See! there in his paw is caught a fresh feather. He is nice
fat meat!” Taking hold of the paw with the bird feather fast on it,
he exclaimed, “Why, he is still warm! I’ll carry him to my dwelling
and have a roast for my evening meal. Ah-ha!” he laughed, as he seized
the coyote by its two fore paws and its two hind feet and swung him
overhead across his shoulders. The wolf was large and the teepee was
far across the prairie. Iktomi trudged along with his burden, smacking
his hungry lips together. He blinked his eyes hard to keep out the
salty perspiration streaming down his face.

All the while the coyote on his back lay gazing into the sky with
wide-open eyes. His long white teeth fairly gleamed as he smiled and
smiled.

“To ride on one’s own feet is tiresome, but to be carried like a
warrior from a brave fight is great fun!” said the coyote in his heart.
He had never been borne on any one’s back before and the new experience
delighted him. He lay there lazily on Iktomi’s shoulders, now and then
blinking blue winks. Did you never see a bird blink a blue wink? This
is how it first became a saying among the plains people. When a bird
stands aloof watching your strange ways, a thin bluish white tissue
slips quickly over his eyes and as quickly off again; so quick that you
think it was only a mysterious blue wink. Sometimes when children grow
drowsy they blink blue winks, while others who are too proud to look
with friendly eyes upon people blink in this cold bird-manner.

The coyote was affected by both sleepiness and pride. His winks were
almost as blue as the sky. In the midst of his new pleasure the swaying
motion ceased. Iktomi had reached his dwelling-place. The coyote felt
drowsy no longer, for in the next instant he was slipping out of
Iktomi’s hands. He was falling, falling through space, and then he
struck the ground with such a bump he did not wish to breathe for a
while. He wondered what Iktomi would do, so he lay still where he fell.
Humming a dance-song, Iktomi hopped and darted about at an imaginary
dance and feast. He gathered dry willow sticks and broke them in two
against his knee. He built a large fire out-of-doors.

The flames leaped up high in red and yellow streaks. Now Iktomi
returned to the coyote, who had been looking on through his eyelashes.

Taking him again by his paws and hind feet, he swung him to and fro.
Then as the wolf swung towards the red flames, Iktomi let him go. Once
again the coyote fell through space. Hot air smote his nostrils. He saw
red dancing fire, and now he struck a bed of crackling embers. With a
quick turn he leaped out of the flames. From his heels were scattered a
shower of red coals upon Iktomi’s bare arms and shoulders. Dumfounded,
Iktomi thought he saw a spirit walk out of his fire. His jaws fell
apart. He thrust a palm to his face, hard over his mouth! He could
scarce keep from shrieking.

Rolling over and over on the grass and rubbing the sides of his head
against the ground, the coyote soon put out the fire on his fur.
Iktomi’s eyes were almost ready to jump out of his head as he stood
cooling a burn on his brown arm with his breath.

Sitting on his haunches, on the opposite side of the fire from where
Iktomi stood, the coyote began to laugh at him. “Another day, my
friend, do not take too much for granted. Make sure the enemy is stone
dead before you make a fire!”

Then off he ran so swiftly that his long bushy tail hung out in a
straight line with his back.

    --ZITKALA-S̈A.

 _From “Old Indian Legends,” by permission of Ginn and Company._




GOLDEN-ROD


[Illustration]

    Spring is the morning of the year,
    And summer is the noontide bright;
    The autumn is the evening clear
    That comes before the winter’s night,

    And in the evening, everywhere
      Along the roadside, up and down,
    I see the golden torches flare
      Like lighted street lamps in the town.

    I think the butterfly and bee,
      From distant meadows coming back,
    Are quite contented when they see
      These lamps along the homeward track.

    But those who stay too late get lost;
      For when the darkness falls about,
    Down every lighted street the Frost
      Will go and put the torches out!

    --FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

 _By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company._




NOVEMBER


    November woods are bare and still;
      November days are clear and bright;
    Each noon burns up the morning’s chill;
      The morning’s snow is gone by night;
    Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
      As through the woods I reverent creep,
      Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”

    I never knew before what beds,
      Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
    The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
      I never knew before how much
    Of human sound there is in such
      Low tones as through the forest sweep
      When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”

    Each day I find new coverlids
      Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
    Sometimes the viewless mother bids
      Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight;
    I hear their chorus of “good-night”;
      And half I smile, and half I weep,
      Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”

    November woods are bare and still;
      November days are bright and good;
    Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill;
      Life’s night rests feet which long have stood;
    Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood,
      The mother will not fail to keep,
      Where we can lay us “down to sleep.”

    --HELEN HUNT JACKSON.




SIR EDWIN LANDSEER


In the great South Kensington Museum in England there are many
beautiful pictures, painted by famous artists. In one corner there is
a little lead-pencil sketch of a donkey’s head, and visitors to the
gallery used to ask the guide how it came there. The old man would
point to the name below the sketch and say, “Why, that is Sir Edwin
Landseer’s, and done when he was only five years old.” This is true,
for the little drawing is marked, “E. Landseer, five years old.”

The little boy who did such wonderful work lived in a happy home in
the great city of London. Not far from his home was a beautiful field
called Hampstead Heath, and it was on this delightful playground that
Edwin and his older brothers spent some of the happiest hours of their
lives. While the others were burying each other in the grass, riding
the old horse, or romping with the dogs, little curly-headed Edwin
would be sitting under a tree, trying to make pictures. Sometimes his
sister would sit by his side and watch the pencil as his baby fingers
guided it. Very soon she would see a horse’s head on the paper and
would recognize their own old Dobbin. “How good it is!” she would
exclaim, “What a famous little artist you are!”

[Illustration: SIR EDWIN LANDSEER]

Edwin learned some wonderful lessons on Hampstead Heath. When he would
beg to be taught to draw, his father would say: “Study things as God
has made them, my boy. Your own eyes must be your first teachers.”

Of course the little boy was sent to school. He loved to read, but did
not like to study. Sometimes his teacher would see him with his eyes
shut and his hand moving on the desk. He was thinking of a picture.
Drawing was not taught in the schools in those days and boys were
punished if they were caught drawing pictures during school hours; so
Edwin often ran away from his teachers, and they would find him in a
quiet corner, with his slate, drawing the picture of some animal.

Wherever animals were to be seen in London, there Edwin was to be
found. He generally carried his sketch book with him, and pictured the
animals eating, walking about, asleep, or at play. Sometimes he would
go to the London Zoölogical Gardens, and after he had watched the wild
beasts for hours he would come away with many sketches. There was
also a great market in London where wild animals were to be seen, and
the boy, who was generally followed by two or more dogs, became very
familiar to the people who came to the market.

[Illustration: Landseer  THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD’S CHIEF MOURNER]

When he was old enough Edwin was sent to the Artists’ Academy in
London. He was a great favorite in the school, and one famous artist
always called him the “Dog-boy.” He was very happy here and for the
next few years devoted his time to the study of animals and how to
paint them.

After a time Landseer had so many pictures, and wished to keep so many
dogs, sheep, and deer, that it seemed necessary that he should have a
home of his own where he could receive his friends. A pretty little
cottage in St. John’s Wood near London was found to be just the place
he desired. There was an old-fashioned garden filled with large trees
and beautiful flowers. The new home was named “Maida Vale,” in honor of
Sir Walter Scott’s favorite dog.

An old barn was fitted up for a studio, which was soon made beautiful
with pictures of all kinds of animals. There were graceful greyhounds,
kind-faced sheep dogs, faithful terriers, soft rabbits, cunning
kittens, spirited race horses, and fleet-footed deer. The pictures
looked so real that a witty friend of the artist used to call out
before he entered the studio, “Landseer, keep your dogs off me; I want
to come in.” On another occasion this same friend said, “O, give me
a pin to take the thorn out of that dog’s foot! See what pain he is
suffering!”

Everybody wished to visit this delightful studio, and meet the great
painter who was so kind and witty, who loved flowers and children so
well, and who had so many interesting friends around him. His visitors
were astonished at his great power in training dogs, and gaining their
love. When asked the secret, he would smile and say, “I just peep into
their hearts.” One day he was entertaining some friends at Maida Vale
when the door was pushed open and four great dogs bounded in. One
lady was frightened, and as a fierce-looking dog ran past her and put
his nose in Landseer’s hand, she said, “How fond of you that dog is!”
“Yes,” said the artist, quietly, “but I never saw this dog before in my
life.”

Landseer was a great friend of Sir Walter Scott, whom he often visited
at his home. How he loved the wild scenery and the tender-hearted
fearless people of that North Country! How he loved to climb the
mountains and watch the shy, beautiful deer as they bounded over the
crags! No artist ever painted deer like Landseer.

One day when he was at work in his studio, Landseer was told that
Queen Victoria was riding up the garden path. He went to meet her, and
she told him she wished him to see her mounted on her horse, so that
he might paint her picture. She invited him to be her guest, and he
painted a great many pictures of her children and their pets. In 1850,
the Queen decided to confer on him the honor of knighthood; so the
artist, who was now known all over the world, became Sir Edwin Landseer.

After this he received many great honors. He spent the last years of a
happy, busy life in the pretty Maida Vale cottage. As he grew old he
talked about his “worn-out, old pencil,” and complained that drawing
tired him. It was a trial for him to give up his work, and his eyes
were often sad as he looked at his beautiful pictures.

Landseer died in 1873, and was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral, in
London. Copies of his pictures are in every land and in almost every
home. He will always be remembered as a lover of animals as well as a
great artist.

    --SELECTED.




THE TWO CHURCH BUILDERS


    A famous king would build a church,
      A temple vast and grand;
    And, that the praise might be his own,
      He gave a strict command
    That none should add the smallest gift
      To aid the work he planned.

    And when the mighty dome was done,
      Within the noble frame,
    Upon a tablet broad and fair,
      In letters all aflame
    With burnished gold, the people read
      The royal builder’s name.

    Now when the king, elate with pride,
      That night had sought his bed,
    He dreamed he saw an angel come
      (A halo round his head),
    Erase the royal name, and write
      Another in its stead.

    What could it mean? Three times that night
      That wondrous vision came;
    Three times he saw that angel hand
      Erase the royal name,
    And write a woman’s in its stead,
      In letters all aflame.

    Whose could it be? He gave command
      To all about his throne
    To seek the owner of the name
      That on the tablet shone;
    And so it was the courtiers found
      A widow poor and lone.

    The king, enraged at what he heard,
      Cried, “Bring the culprit here!”
    And to the woman, trembling sore,
      He said, “’Tis very clear
    That you have broken my command;
      Now, let the truth appear!”

    “Your Majesty,” the widow said,
      “I can’t deny the truth;
    I love the Lord--my Lord and yours--
      And so, in simple sooth,
    I broke Your Majesty’s command
      (I crave your royal ruth),

    “And since I had no money, sire,
      Why, I could only pray
    That God would bless Your Majesty;
      And when along the way
    The horses drew the stones, I gave
      To one a wisp of hay.”

    “Ah! now I see,” the king exclaimed:
      “Self-glory was my aim;
    The woman gave for love of God,
      And not for worldly fame.
    ’Tis my command the tablet bear
      The pious widow’s name.”

    --JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Teach me to feel another’s woe,
    To hide the fault I see;
    That mercy I to others show,
    That mercy show to me.




HOW SIEGFRIED MADE THE SWORD


In Saxon land there once lived a young prince named Siegfried. His
father, who was renowned for his wisdom and good deeds, was king of a
rich and happy country that reached to the great North Sea. His mother,
the gentle queen, was beloved by all, both high and low, for her
goodness of heart and her kindly charity to all who were in distress.
Both the king and the queen left nothing undone to fit the young prince
for a happy and useful life. They chose for him the best and wisest
teachers; every day they saw that something was added to his store of
knowledge and his stock of happiness. As he grew in stature it was
their concern that he should grow in skill and strength also. No other
youth of his age could run more swiftly or ride more easily; no other
youth could shoot the arrow with surer aim or throw the spear with
greater force.

But the wise old king knew that a good man’s life consisted of more
than learning lessons and playing games. “All work is noble,” said
he to Siegfried; “he who yearns to win fame must not shun toil. Even
princes should learn how to earn their bread by the labor of their
hands.” So the king sent his son to live with a smith called Mimer,
that he might learn the smith’s trade and hear his words of wisdom.

This Mimer had built his smithy among the hills by the edge of a great
forest. On the side of one of the hills overlooking the forest there
was a fountain in which skill and wisdom lay hidden. By drinking daily
at this fountain as the sun was rising, Mimer had become the most
skilful of smiths and the wisest of men.

Siegfried had now to lay aside his courtly garments and put on a coarse
blouse and leathern apron; for the dainties of a king’s table he had
to exchange the humble fare of a smith’s apprentice. But he did not
complain. His days were mirthful and happy; the sound of his hammer
echoed musically among the hills, and the sparks from his forge flew
like showers of stars from morn till night. He took such delight in his
work that he soon became the cleverest workman in the smithy except
Mimer himself. He could twist the links of the heaviest chains and
fashion the most delicate ornaments of steel.

One morning the apprentices saw that their master wore a troubled look.
He told them that Amilias, the chief smith in another land, had made
a coat of armor which he boasted that neither sword could pierce, nor
spear could scratch, and he had sent a challenge to the chief smiths of
all other lands to equal his workmanship, or acknowledge him as their
master. He had been toiling all the day and night to forge a sword that
would pierce the armor, but he had failed. He asked, “Is there any one
here skilful enough to forge such a sword?”

All the apprentices shook their heads. But Siegfried spoke up: “Give
me leave; I shall try to forge the sword that shall cut the armor of
Amilias.” All the others laughed at him in scorn, but Mimer said to
them, “Let us see what he can do; if he fail, I shall make him repent
his pride.”

Siegfried went to his task. For seven days the sparks flew from his
anvil. On the eighth day the sword was tempered and he brought it to
Mimer. “This seems, indeed,” said Mimer, “a fair edge. Let us try
its keenness.” Then he threw a thread upon the water, and as it lay
there he struck it with the sword. The blade passed through the thread
without disturbing the ends or the surface of the water. “Well done,
lad!” exclaimed the smith; “never have I seen a keener edge.”

But Siegfried said to himself, “I can make a better sword than that,
and there yet is time.” So for three days more he welded it in a white
hot fire and tempered it in buttermilk and oatmeal. Then in sight of
Mimer and the apprentices he threw a ball of wool upon the water, and
whirling the blade in air brought it down upon the ball and parted it
clean in two without moving a thread out of place.

Still there was time, and back to his corner of the smithy went
Siegfried again. His hammer rang with a cheerier sound than ever. For
seven weeks he worked at the forge, and at last, pale but smiling, he
stood before Mimer with the finished gleaming sword. Mimer looked at
the edge which gleamed like a ray of light, but he said nothing, and
seemed lost in thought. Then Siegfried, taking the weapon in his own
hand, swung the blade high over his head, and brought it down upon the
anvil. The huge iron block was divided in two. Then to the brook they
went, and throwing a fleece of wool upon the water the sword stroke
separated it as easily as the ball had been cut before. “With that
sword,” cried Mimer, “I shall not fear to meet Amilias.”

Heralds were sent abroad through the two kingdoms to proclaim the day
when the test would be made. Other kings heard of the contest and came
with their retinues of warriors to witness the trial. There were four
kings with their queens and many fair ladies and courtly knights in
armor. Multitudes gathered to the height of land that separated the
kingdoms.

When everything was ready, Amilias clad in the coat of armor went to
the top of the hill and sat upon a great rock, where he was in full
sight of all the people. He smiled to see Mimer toiling up the steep
hill with that slight sword by his side; the countrymen of Amilias gave
a shout of triumph, so sure were they of their champion’s success.
But Mimer’s countrymen waited in breathless silence. They had faith
in Mimer, but they greatly feared. Only Siegfried’s father seemed
confident. He whispered to his queen, “Wisdom and skill are stronger
than steel.”

When Mimer reached the top of the hill, he paused a moment to take
breath and to cast a glance on the crowds below.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready,” answered Amilias, with a composed smile, so little did he
fear; “strike your strongest!”

Mimer swung the gleaming blade,--for a moment the lightning seemed to
play around his head, and then descending, it made a sweep through the
air from right to left. The spectators thought to hear the clash of
steel, but no sound came to their ears save a hiss like that which a
hot poker would make in a bucket of water.

“Stand!” cried Mimer.

Amilias began to obey when, lo! he fell in halves, for the sword had
cut through the war coat and the body incased within. One half rolled
down the steep hill and fell into the river, fathoms deep, where for
many a day, when the water was clear, it could be seen lying among the
gravel and rocks.

The king was right: wisdom and skill had proved themselves stronger
than steel.

    --SELECTED.

       *       *       *       *       *

    He who has a thousand friends,
    Has not a friend to spare;
    But he who has one enemy,
    Will meet him everywhere.




GRASS AND ROSES


    I looked where the roses were blooming,
      They stood among grasses and weeds:
    I said, “Where such beauties are growing,
      Why suffer these paltry weeds?”

    Weeping, the poor things faltered:
      “We have neither beauty nor bloom,
    We are grass in the roses’ garden,
      But the Master gives us room.

    “Slaves of a generous master,
      Born from a world above,
    We came to this place in His wisdom,
      We stay to this hour from His love.

    “We have fed His humblest creatures,
      We have served Him truly and long;
    He gave no grace to our features,
      We have neither color nor song.

    “Yet He who has made the flowers
      Placed _us_ on the selfsame sod;
    _He_ knows our reason for being,--
      We are grass in the garden of God.”

    --JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.




THE WOUNDED CURLEW


    By yonder sandy cove where, every day,
      The tide flows in and out,
    A lonely bird in sober brown and gray
      Limps patiently about;

    And round the basin’s edge, o’er stones and sand,
      And many a fringing weed,
    He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,
      Crying, with none to heed.

    But sometimes from the distance he can hear
      His comrades’ swift reply;
    Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,
      Sounding from sea and sky.

    And then, oh, then, his tender voice, so sweet,
      Is shaken with his pain,
    For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,
      Never to soar again.

    Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,
      Once glad and blithe and free,
    And in prison limits frets and strives
      His ancient self to be.

    The little sandpipers about him play,
      The shining waves they skim,
    Or round his feet they seek their food and stay
      As if to comfort him.

    My pity cannot help him, though his plaint
      Brings tears of wistfulness;
    Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,
      None may his wrong redress.

    Oh, bright-eyed boy! was there no better way
      A moment’s joy to gain
    Than to make sorrow that must mar the day
      With such despairing pain?

    Oh, children! drop the gun, the cruel stone!
      Oh, listen to my words,
    And hear with me the wounded curlew moan--
      Have mercy on the birds!

    --CELIA THAXTER.




THE GOLD AND SILVER SHIELD


In the olden times a British prince set up a statue to the goddess
of Victory, at a point where four roads met. In her right hand she
held a spear, and her left rested upon a shield. The outside of this
shield was of gold, and the inside of silver, and on each side was an
inscription.

[Illustration: THE GOLD AND SILVER SHIELD]

It happened one day that two knights--one in black armor, the other in
white--arrived at the same time, but from opposite directions, at the
statue. As neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to examine
the beautiful workmanship and read the inscription.

“This golden shield,” said the Black Knight, after examining it for
some time,--”this golden shield--”

“Golden shield!” cried the White Knight, who was as closely observing
the other side; “why, if I have my eyes, it is silver.”

“Eyes you have, but they see not,” replied the Black Knight; “for if
ever I saw a golden shield in my life, this is one.”

“Oh, yes, it is so likely that any one would expose a golden shield on
the public road!” said the White Knight, with a sarcastic smile. “For
my part I wonder that even a silver one is not too strong a temptation
for some people who pass this way.”

The Black Knight could not bear the sarcastic smile with which this was
spoken, and the dispute grew so warm that it ended in a challenge.

The knights turned their horses, and rode back to have sufficient
space; then fixing their lances in their rests, they charged at each
other with the greatest fury. The shock was so violent, and the blows
on each side were so heavy, that they both fell to the ground, bleeding
and stunned.

In this condition a good Druid who was travelling that way found them.
He was a skilful physician, and had with him a balsam of wonderful
healing power. This he applied to their wounds, and when the knights
had recovered their senses, he began to inquire into the cause of their
quarrel.

“Why, this man,” cried the Black Knight, “will have it that yonder
shield is silver!”

“And he will have it that it is gold!” cried the White Knight.

“Ah,” said the Druid, with a sigh, “you are both in the right, and both
in the wrong. If either of you had taken time to look at both sides of
the shield, all this passion and bloodshed might have been avoided.

“However, there is a very good lesson to be learned from the evils that
have befallen you. In the future, never enter into any dispute till you
have fairly considered both sides of the question.”--SELECTED.




THE WHITE-THROAT SPARROW


    From the leafy maple ridges,
    From the thickets of the cedar,
    From the alders by the river,
    From the bending willow branches,
    From the hollows and the hillsides,
    Through the lone Canadian forest,
    Comes the melancholy music,
    Oft repeated,--never changing,--
      “All-is-vanity-vanity-vanity.”

    Where the farmer ploughs his furrow,
    Sowing seed with hope of harvest,
    In the orchard white with blossom,
    In the early field of clover,
    Comes the little brown-clad singer
    Flitting in and out of bushes,
    Hiding well behind the fences,
    Piping forth his song of sadness,--
      “Poor-hu-manity-manity-manity.”

    --SIR JAMES D. EDGAR.




THE SANDPIPER


    Across the narrow beach we flit,
      One little sandpiper and I,
    And fast I gather, bit by bit,
      The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
    The wild waves reach their hands for it,
      The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
    As up and down the beach we flit,--
      One little sandpiper and I.

    Above our heads the sullen clouds
      Scud black and swift across the sky;
    Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
      Stand out the white lighthouses high.
    Almost as far as eye can reach
      I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
    As fast we flit along the beach,--
      One little sandpiper and I.

    I watch him as he skims along,
      Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.
    He starts not at my fitful song,
      Or flash of fluttering drapery.
    He has no thought of any wrong;
      He scans me with a fearless eye.
    Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,
      The little sandpiper and I.

    Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
      When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
    My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
      To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
    I do not fear for thee, though wroth
      The tempest rushes through the sky:
    For are we not God’s children both,
      Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

    --CELIA THAXTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

    A kind face is a beautiful face.




CRŒSUS


Some thousands of years ago there lived in Asia a king whose name was
Crœsus. The country over which he ruled was not very large, but its
people were prosperous and famed for their wealth. Crœsus himself was
said to be the richest man in the world; and so well known is his name
that, to this day, it is not uncommon to say of a very wealthy person
that he is “as rich as Crœsus.”

King Crœsus had everything that could make him happy--lands and houses
and slaves, fine clothing to wear, and beautiful things to look at. He
could not think of anything that he needed to make him more comfortable
or contented. “I am the happiest man in the world,” he said.

It happened one summer that a great man from across the sea was
travelling in Asia. The name of this man was Solon, and he was the
lawmaker of Athens in Greece. He was noted for his wisdom; and,
centuries after his death, the highest praise that could be given to a
learned man was to say, “He is as wise as Solon.”

Solon had heard of Crœsus, and so one day he visited him in his
beautiful palace. Crœsus was now happier and prouder than ever before,
for the wisest man in the world was his guest. He led Solon through
his palace and showed him the grand rooms, the fine carpets, the soft
couches, the rich furniture, the pictures, the books. Then he invited
him out to see his gardens and his orchards and his stables; and he
showed him thousands of rare and beautiful things that he had collected
from all parts of the world.

In the evening as the wisest of men and the richest of men were dining
together, the king said to his guest, “Tell me now, O Solon, who do you
think is the happiest of all men?” He expected that Solon would say
“Crœsus.”

The wise man was silent for a minute, and then he said, “I have in mind
a poor man who once lived in Athens and whose name was Tellus. He, I
doubt not, is the happiest of all men.”

This was not the answer that Crœsus wished; but he hid his
disappointment and asked, “Why do you think so?”

“Because,” answered his guest, “Tellus was an honest man who labored
hard for many years to bring up his children and to give them a good
education; and when they were grown and able to do for themselves,
he joined the Athenian army and gave his life bravely in the defence
of his country. Can you think of any one who is more deserving of
happiness?”

“Perhaps not,” answered Crœsus, half choking with disappointment. “But
who do you think ranks next to Tellus in happiness?” He was quite sure
now that Solon would say “Crœsus.”

“I have in mind,” said Solon, “two young men whom I knew in Greece.
Their father died when they were mere children, and they were very
poor. But they worked manfully to keep the house together and to
support their mother, who was in feeble health. Year after year they
toiled, nor thought of anything but their mother’s comfort. When at
length she died, they gave all their love to Athens, their native city,
and nobly served her as long as they lived.”

Then Crœsus was angry. “Why is it,” he asked, “that you make me of
no account and think that my wealth and power are nothing? Why is it
that you place these poor working people above the richest king in the
world?”

“O king,” said Solon, “no man can say whether you are happy or not
until you die. For no man knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or
what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.”

Many years after this there arose in Asia a powerful king whose name
was Cyrus. At the head of a great army he marched from one country to
another, overthrowing many a kingdom and attaching it to his great
empire of Babylon. King Crœsus with all his wealth was not able to
stand against this mighty warrior. He resisted as long as he could.
Then his city was taken, his beautiful palace was burned, his orchards
and gardens were destroyed, his treasures were carried away, and he
himself was made prisoner.

“The stubbornness of this man Crœsus,” said King Cyrus, “has caused us
much trouble and the loss of many good soldiers. Take him and make an
example of him for other petty kings who may dare to stand in our way.”

Thereupon the soldiers seized Crœsus and dragged him to the
market-place, handling him roughly all the time. Then they built up a
great pile of dry sticks and timber taken from the ruins of his once
beautiful palace. When this was finished, they tied the unhappy king in
the midst of it, and one ran for a torch to set it on fire.

“Now we shall have a merry blaze,” said the savage fellows. “What good
can all his wealth do him now?”

As poor Crœsus, bruised and bleeding, lay upon the pyre without a
friend to soothe his misery, he thought of the words which Solon had
spoken to him years before: “No man can say whether you are happy or
not until you die,” and he moaned, “O Solon! O Solon! Solon!”

It so happened that Cyrus was riding by at that very moment and heard
his moans. “What does he say?” he asked of the soldiers.

“He says, ‘Solon, Solon, Solon!’” answered one.

Then the king rode nearer and asked Crœsus, “Why do you call on the
name of Solon?”

Crœsus was silent at first; but after Cyrus had repeated his question
kindly, he told all about Solon’s visit at his palace and what he had
said.

The story affected Cyrus deeply. He thought of the words, “No man
knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or what misery may be yours
in place of all this splendor.” And he wondered if some time he, too,
would lose all his power and be helpless in the hands of his enemies.

“After all,” said he, “ought not men to be merciful and kind to those
who are in distress? I shall do to Crœsus as I would have others do to
me.” And he caused Crœsus to be given his freedom; and ever afterwards
treated him as one of his most honored friends.

    --JAMES BALDWIN.

 _From “Thirty More Famous Stories,” by permission of the American Book
 Company._




THE FROST SPIRIT


    He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--You may trace his
      footsteps now
    On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s
      withered brow.
    He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant
      green came forth,
    And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down
      to earth.

    He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--from the frozen
      Labrador--
    From the icy bridge of the Northern Seas, which the white bear
      wanders o’er,
    Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless
      forms below
    In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues
      grow!

    He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--on the rushing Northern
      blast,
    And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went
      past.
    With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla
      glow
    On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

    He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--and the quiet lake
      shall feel
    The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s
      heel;
    And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the
      leaning grass,
    Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

    He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--let us meet him as we
      may,
    And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away;
    And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high,
    And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing
      goes by!

    --JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.




A SONG OF THE SLEIGH


    Oh, swift we go o’er the fleecy snow
      When moonbeams sparkle round;
    When hoofs keep time to music’s chime,
      As merrily on we bound.

    On a winter’s night, when hearts are light,
      And health is on the wind,
    We loose the rein and sweep the plain,
      And leave our cares behind.

    With a laugh and song we glide along
      Across the fleeting snow!
    With friends beside, how swift we ride
      On the beautiful track below!

    Oh, the raging sea has joys for me,
      When gale and tempests roar;
    But give me the speed of a foaming steed,
      And I’ll ask for the waves no more.

    --JAMES T. FIELDS.




THE CHRISTMAS DINNER


Up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a
twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a
goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda
Cratchit, the second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while
Master Peter Cratchit, who was wearing a monstrous shirt collar
belonging to his father, plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes,
and rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired.

And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming
that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for
their own. Then these young Cratchits danced about the table, while
Master Peter Cratchit, whose collar nearly choked him, blew the fire
until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid
to be let out and peeled.

“What has become of your father?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your
brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day by half
an hour.”

“Here’s Martha, Mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.

“Here’s Martha, Mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah!
There’s _such_ a goose, Martha!”

[Illustration: BOB CRATCHIT AND TINY TIM]

“Why, bless your heart, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs.
Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and
bonnet for her.

“We had a great deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the
girl, “and had to clear away this morning, Mother!”

“Well, never mind, as long as you are here,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit
down before the fire, my dear, and warm yourself.”

“No, no! There’s Father coming,” cried the two young Cratchits, who
were everywhere at once.

“Hide, Martha, hide!”

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with
at least three feet of comforter hanging down before him; and his
threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, and Tiny Tim upon his
shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his legs
supported by an iron frame!

“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.

“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.

“Not coming!” said Bob. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”

Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in
joke; so she came out from behind the closet door, and ran into his
arms, while the two young Cratchits caught up Tiny Tim and carried him
off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the
kettle.

“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when Bob had
hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.

“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful,
sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever
heard. He told me that he hoped the people saw him in the church,
because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember
upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”

Bob’s voice trembled when he told them this, and trembled more when he
said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny
Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister
to his stool before the fire. Then Master Peter and the two young
Cratchits went to bring the goose, with which they soon returned in
high glee.

Such excitement followed that you might have thought a goose the rarest
of all birds; and in truth it was something very like it in that house.
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy, ready beforehand in a little saucepan,
hissing hot. Master Peter mashed the potatoes; Miss Belinda sweetened
the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside
him in a tiny corner at the table.

The two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting
themselves. Then climbing into their chairs, they held their fingers
over their lips, lest they should call for goose before their turn came
to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It
was followed by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly
all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast. When
she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one
murmur of delight arose all round the board. Even Tiny Tim, excited
by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his
knife, and feebly cried, “Hurrah!”

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was
such a goose cooked. Its tenderness, flavor, and size were wonderful to
think of. With apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was enough dinner
for the whole family. Indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight,
looking at one small bone upon the dish, they hadn’t eaten all of it
yet. But every one had had enough, even the youngest Cratchits. But
now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the
room to take the pudding up and bring it in. Suppose it should not be
done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody
should have climbed over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it,
while they were merry with the goose! The two young Cratchits almost
went black in the face when they thought of what might have happened.

Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the kettle.
A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an
eating-house and a baker’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s
next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs.
Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding, like
a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, and decked with Christmas
holly. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said it was the best
pudding he had ever seen. Everybody had something to say about it, but
nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family.

At last the dinner was all done, the hearth swept, and the fire
made. All the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, and watched the
chestnuts on the fire as they sputtered and cracked. Then Bob said,
“Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”

Which all the family re-echoed.

“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

    --CHARLES DICKENS.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Darkness before, all joy behind!
    Yet keep thy courage, do not mind:
    He soonest reads the lesson right
    Who reads with back against the light.




CHRISTMAS SONG


    The earth has grown old with its burden of care,
      But at Christmas it always is young;
    The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair,
    And its soul full of music breaks forth on the air,
      When the song of the angels is sung.

    It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night:
      On the snowflakes which cover thy sod
    The feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white,
    And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delight
      That mankind are the children of God.

    On the sad and the lonely, the wretched, and poor,
      That voice of the Christ Child shall fall,
    And to every blind wanderer opens the door
    Of a hope that he dared not to dream of before,
      With a sunshine of welcome for all.

    The feet of the humblest may walk in the field
      Where the feet of the Holiest have trod.
    This, this is the marvel to mortals revealed
    When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed,
      That mankind are the children of God.

    --PHILLIPS BROOKS.

[Illustration: Blashfield  CHRISTMAS CHIMES]




BERGETTA’S MISFORTUNE


Old Bergetta lay asleep on the doorstep in the sun. Her two little
white fore paws were gathered in under her chin, and she had encircled
herself with her tail in the most compact and comfortable way. Her
three companion cats were all out of her way at that moment. She forgot
their existence. She was only conscious of the kindly rays that sank
into her soft fur and made her so very sleepy and comfortable.

Presently a sound broke the stillness, very slight and far off, but
she heard it, and pricked up her pretty pink-lined ears and listened
intently. Two men, bearing a large basket between them, came in sight,
approaching the house from the beach. The basket seemed heavy; the men
each held a handle of it, and very silently went with it round to the
back entrance of the house.

Bergetta settled her head once more upon her folded paws, and tried to
go to sleep again. But the thought of the basket prevented. She got up,
stretched herself, and lightly and noiselessly made her way round the
house to the back door and went in. The basket stood in the middle of
the floor, and the three other cats sat at a respectful distance from
it near each other, surveying it doubtfully.

Bergetta wasn’t afraid; she went slowly towards it to find out what
it contained, but when quite close to it she became aware of a
curious noise--a rustling, crunching, dull, clashing sound which was
as peculiar as alarming. She stopped and listened; all the other cats
listened. Suddenly a queer object thrust itself up over the edge, and
a most extraordinary shape began to rise gradually into sight. Two
long, dark, slender feelers waved about aimlessly in the air for a
moment; two clumsy claws grasped the rim of the basket, and by their
help a hideous dark bottle-green-colored body patched with vermilion,
bristling with points and knobs, and cased in hard, strong, jointed
armor, with eight legs flying in all directions, each fringed at the
foot with short yellowish hair, and with the inner edges of the huge
misshapen claws lined with a row of sharp, uneven teeth, opening and
shutting with the grasp of a vise,--this ugly body rose into view
before the eyes of the astonished cats. It was a living lobster.

As the hard and horny monster raised itself out of the basket, it fell
with a loud noise all in a heap on the floor before Bergetta. She drew
back in alarm, and then sat down at a safe distance to observe this
strange creature. The other cats also sat down to watch, farther off
than Bergetta, but quite as much interested.

For a long time all was still. The lobster, probably rather shocked
by its fall, lay just where it had dropped. Inside the basket a
faint stirring and wrestling and clashing was heard from the other
lobsters,--that was all. Very soon Bergetta felt herself becoming
extremely bored with this state of things. She crept a little nearer
the basket.

“I needn’t be afraid of that thing,” thought she; “it doesn’t move any
more.”

[Illustration]

Nearer and nearer she crept, the other cats watching her, but not
stirring. At last she reached the lobster, that in its wrath and
discomfort sat blowing a cloud of rainbow bubbles from its mouth, but
making no other movement. Bergetta ventured to put out her paw and
touch its hard shell. It took no notice of this, though it saw Bergetta
with its queer eyes on stilts, which it wheeled about on all sides to
see what she was doing.

She tried another little pat, whereat the lobster waved its long
feelers, that streamed away over its back in the air, far beyond its
tail. That was charming! Bergetta was delighted. The monster was
really playful! She gave him another little pat with her soft paw, and
then coquettishly boxed his ears, or the place where his ears ought
to be. There was a movement of the curious shelly machinery about his
mouth, but he was yet too indifferent to mind anything much.

Bergetta continued to tease him. This was fun! First with the right
and then with the left paw she gave him little cuffs and pushes and
pats which moved him no more than a rock. At last he seemed to become
aware that he was being treated with somewhat more familiarity than
was agreeable from an entire stranger, and began to move his ponderous
front claws uneasily.

Still Bergetta continued to frisk about him, till he thrust out his
eight smaller claws with a gesture of displeasure, and opened and shut
the clumsy teeth of the larger ones in a way that was quite dreadful
to behold. “This is very funny,” thought Bergetta. “I wonder what it
means!” and she pushed her little white paw directly between the teeth
of the larger claw which was opening and shutting slowly. Instantly the
two sides snapped together with a tremendous grip, and Bergetta uttered
a scream of pain,--her paw was caught as in a vise and cut nearly
through with the uneven toothed edge.

Alas, alas! Here was a situation. In vain she tried to get away; the
lobster’s claw clasped her delicate paw in a grasp altogether too
close for comfort. Crying with fear and distress, Bergetta danced about
all over the room; and everywhere Bergetta danced, the lobster was
sure to go, too, clinging for dear life; up and down, over and across,
they went in the wildest kind of a jig, while all the other cats made
themselves as small as they could in the remotest corners, and watched
the performance with mingled awe and consternation. Such a noise!
Bergetta crying and the lobster clattering, and the two cutting such
capers together! At last some one heard the noise, and coming to the
rescue thrust a stick between the clumsy teeth and loosened the grip of
the merciless claw; and poor Bergetta, set at liberty, limped off to
console herself as best she might.

    --CELIA THAXTER.




STORM SONG


    The clouds are scudding across the moon;
      A misty light is on the sea;
    The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune,
      And the foam is flying free.

    Brothers, a night of terror and gloom
      Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar:
    Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room,
      A thousand miles from shore.

    Down with the hatches on those who sleep!
      The wild and whistling deck have we;
    Good watch, my brothers, to-night we’ll keep,
      While the tempest is on the sea!

    Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip,
      And the naked spars be snapped away,
    Lashed to the helm, we’ll drive our ship
      In the teeth of the whelming spray!

    Hark! how the surges o’erleap the deck!
      Hark! how the pitiless tempest raves!
    Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck,
      Drifting over the desert waves.

    Yet, courage, brothers! we trust the wave,
      With God above us, our guiding chart:
    So, whether to harbor or ocean grave,
      Be it still with a cheery heart.

    --BAYARD TAYLOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I am glad a task to me is given,
      To labor at day by day;
    For it brings me health and strength and hope,
      And I cheerfully learn to say:
    “Head, you may think; Heart, you may feel;
      But Hand, you shall work alway.”

[Illustration: Ruysdael  MARINE VIEW]




A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA


    A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
      A wind that follows fast,
    And fills the white and rustling sail,
      And bends the gallant mast;
    And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
      While, like the eagle free,
    Away the good ship flies, and leaves
      Old England on the lee!

    “O for a soft and gentle wind!”
      I heard a fair one cry;
    But give to me the snoring breeze
      And white waves heaving high;
    And white waves heaving high, my boys,
      The good ship tight and free,--
    The world of waters is our home,
      And merry men are we.

    There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,
      And lightning in yon cloud;
    And hark the music, mariners,
      The wind is piping loud!
    The wind is piping loud, my boys,
      The lightning flashes free,--
    While the hollow oak our palace is,
      Our heritage the sea.

    --ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.




THE INDIANS


When the people from the Old World first settled in this country,
they found a race here whom they called Indians. This same race still
inhabit this country, but they are few in numbers as compared with the
whites, and they live mostly in the far West.

The Indians then did not dress like those you may see now, but their
faces and figures have not changed very much. They have a dark skin,
straight, black hair, black eyes, high cheek-bones, flat noses, white
teeth, and wear no beards. In stature they are tall and straight.

The houses in which the Indians lived were not at all like our homes,
and they were called huts or wigwams. These wigwams were sometimes
made of poles set in the ground in a circle. But when a large hut was
wanted, the poles were planted in two long rows. The poles were bent
over at the top, then fastened together and all covered with bark.
Sometimes the poles were driven into the ground in such a way that they
met at the top. A hole was left for smoke near the top, and the rest of
the pole frame was covered with bark on the outside and with skins on
the inside.

The Indians had no furniture, not even beds, and every one sat and
slept on skins or on mats made from rushes by the squaws. These mats
and skins were kept upon the ground, but each person had a place for
his own.

The food of the Indians consisted of fish and game, together with such
fruits and nuts as they were able to pick and gather, besides the corn
for cakes. Potatoes and corn are both natives of this country and were
first used by the Indians. For drinking purposes, water was commonly
used, but they made a great many drinks with berries, leaves, and roots.

The faces of the Indians were frequently painted in many colors, and
to make the paint last long, holes were sometimes pricked into the skin
by means of thorns. The painting then was much like the tattooing done
now in many islands of the sea. Sometimes they tattooed in this way
nearly the whole of their bodies.

In the warm parts of the country they wore little in the way of dress,
often no more than a kind of short skirt which did not reach to the
knees; but they took great delight in having large strings of beads
round their necks, besides birds’ claws, squirrels’ heads, and the
like. Where it was colder, bearskins were worn in winter, with the fur
left on the pelt. In summer lighter skins were chosen, and sometimes
the fur was taken off. Large garments were, in the main, made from the
skins of the otter, beaver, or raccoon. The men had a sort of leather
breeches which they used when hunting, and they wore moccasins for
shoes.

Feathers, sometimes in head-dresses, sometimes in garments, were used
by the Indians, to show degrees of honor won in war. Bows and arrows
were used by them for hunting, and likewise for weapons to defend
themselves. The work of making bows and arrows must have taken a great
deal of time, for the arrow shafts were whittled out of wood, and the
arrow-heads were chipped out of flint and other stones. They used
spears with which to fish, as well as hooks and lines.

The wood for their boats was obtained by burning down trees near the
ground, and then burning off the branches and tops. In this way they
managed to get logs the right length, and then they burned them out on
one side, after which they scraped out the charred parts with shells.
These made very strong boats. A lighter canoe was built of a frame
covered with bark.

In times of peace the Indians hunted and fished. Such a thing as a
store or market was not needed. Each family had to catch all the fish
or kill all the game that might be required for its wants. The boys
early learned the art of fishing and hunting, and in summer they fished
from the shore or from a canoe. In winter they bored holes through
the ice and used a hook and line or a long spear. This spear, at the
pointed end, was shaped like a fish.

Many stories are told how these hunters and fishermen by tricks took
their game. Sometimes they would drive a whole herd of deer or buffalo
out upon a narrow neck of land running far into the water, and then cut
off all escape by building a row of fires across the neck. In this way
they kept the herd together until they killed all they wanted.

The war-dance was a great thing among Indians, and they thought the
only way to get honor was by following the war-path. Therefore many
hours were spent in learning war-dances and in being able to hit a
small mark a great way off with the bow and arrow. By the time an
Indian lad reached sixteen and was able to do these things well, he
was old enough to go to war and to help fight the battles which so
often took place among the tribes.

Hunting and fishing and going to war were, however, not all the things
that the Indians did. They had many sports and games for children, and
also many for those who were grown up. They played ball on the grass,
a game like hockey with sticks on the ice, and lacrosse, which we have
now adopted as our national game.--SELECTED.




SPEAK GENTLY


    Speak gently; it is better far
      To rule by love than fear:
    Speak gently; let no harsh words mar
      The good we might do here.

    Speak gently to the little child;
      Its love be sure to gain;
    Teach it in accents soft and mild;
      It may not long remain.

    Speak gently to the aged one;
      Grieve not the care-worn heart:
    The sands of life are nearly run;
      Let such in peace depart.

    Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;
      Let no harsh tone be heard;
    They have enough they must endure,
      Without an unkind word.

    Speak gently to the erring; know
      They must have toiled in vain;
    Perhaps unkindness made them so;
      Oh, win them back again!

    Speak gently: ’tis a little thing
      Dropped in the heart’s deep well;
    The good, the joy, which it may bring,
      Eternity shall tell.

    --DAVID BATES.




DAYBREAK


    A wind came up out of the sea,
    And said, “O mists, make room for me.”

    It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,
    Ye mariners, the night is gone.”

    And hurried landwards, far away,
    Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”

    It said unto the forest, “Shout!
    Hang all your leafy banners out!”

    It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,
    And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”

    And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,
    Your clarion blow; the day is near.”

    It whispered to the fields of corn,
    “Bow down and hail the coming morn.”

    It shouted through the belfry-tower,
    “Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”

    It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
    And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”

    --HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.




THE CHOICE OF HERCULES


One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad of twelve years, he was
sent out to do an errand which he disliked very much. As he walked
slowly along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts; and he
murmured because others no better than himself were living in ease and
pleasure, while for him there was little but labor and pain. Thinking
upon these things, he came after a while to a place where two roads
met; and he stopped, not certain which one to take.

The road on his right was hilly and rough, and there was no beauty
in it or about it; but he saw that it led straight towards the blue
mountains in the far distance. The road on his left was broad and
smooth, with shade trees on either side, where sang thousands of
beautiful birds; and it went winding in and out, through groves and
green meadows, where bloomed countless flowers; but it ended in fog and
mist long before reaching the wonderful mountains of blue.

While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he should go, he saw two
women coming towards him, each by a different road. The one who came
down the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw that she was
beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, her
voice was like the music of morning.

“O noble youth,” she said, “this is the road which you should choose.
It will lead you into pleasant ways where there is neither toil,
nor hard study, nor drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be
delighted with sweet sounds, and your eyes with things beautiful and
gay; and you need do nothing but play and enjoy the hours as they pass.”

By this time the other fair woman had drawn near, and she now spoke to
the lad.

“If you take my road,” said she, “you will find that it is rocky and
rough, and that it climbs many a hill and descends into many a valley
and quagmire. The views which you will sometimes get from the hilltops
are grand and glorious, while the deep valleys are dark and the uphill
ways are toilsome; but the road leads to the blue mountains of endless
fame, of which you can see faint glimpses, far away. They cannot be
reached without labor; there is nothing worth having but must be won
through toil. If you would have fruits and flowers, you must plant and
care for them; if you would gain the love of your fellow-men, you must
love them and suffer for them; if you would be a man, you must make
yourself strong by the doing of manly deeds.”

Then the boy saw that this woman, although her face seemed at first
very plain, was as beautiful as the dawn, or as the flowery fields
after a summer rain.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Some call me Labor,” she answered; “but others know me as Truth.”

“And what is your name?” he asked, turning to the first lady.

“Some call me Pleasure,” said she, with a smile; “but I choose to be
known as the Joyous One.”

“And what can you promise me at the end if I go with you?”

“I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I give at the beginning.”

“Labor,” said Hercules, “I shall follow your road. I want to be strong
and manly and worthy of the love of my fellows. And whether I shall
ever reach the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward of
knowing that my journey has not been without some worthy aim.”

    --JAMES BALDWIN.




THE WALKER OF THE SNOW


    Speed on, speed on, good Master!
      The camp lies far away;
    We must cross the haunted valley
      Before the close of day.

    How the snow-blight came upon me
      I will tell you as I go,--
    The blight of the Shadow-hunter,
      Who walks the midnight snow.

    To the cold December heaven
      Came the pale moon and the stars,
    As the yellow sun was sinking
      Behind the purple bars.

    The snow was deeply drifted
      Upon the ridges drear,
    That lay for miles around me
      And the camps for which we steer.

    ’Twas silent on the hillside,
      And by the solemn wood,
    No sound of life or motion
      To break the solitude,

    Save the wailing of the moose-bird
      With a plaintive note and low,
    And the skating of the red leaf
      Upon the frozen snow.

    And said I, “Though dark is falling,
      And far the camp must be,
    Yet my heart it would be lightsome
      If I had but company.”

    And then I sang and shouted,
      Keeping measure, as I sped,
    To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe
      As it sprang beneath my tread.

    Nor far into the valley
      Had I dipped upon my way,
    When a dusky figure joined me,
      In a capuchon of gray,

    Bending upon the snow-shoes,
      With a long and limber stride;
    And I hailed the dusky stranger
      As we travelled side by side.

    But no token of communion
      Gave he by word or look,
    And the fear-chill fell upon me
      At the crossing of the brook.

    For I saw by the sickly moonlight
      As I followed, bending low,
    That the walking of the stranger
      Left no footmarks on the snow.

    Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me,
      Like a shroud around me cast,
    As I sank upon the snow-drift
      Where the Shadow-hunter passed.

    And the other trappers found me,
      Before the break of day,
    With my dark hair blanched and whitened
      As the snow in which I lay.

    But they spoke not as they raised me;
      For they knew that in the night
    I had seen the Shadow-hunter,
      And had withered in his blight.

    Sancta Maria speed us!
      The sun is falling low,--
    Before us lies the valley
      Of the Walker of the Snow!

    --CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.




THE FROG TRAVELLERS


Long, long ago, before the white man came across the Sea of Peace to
Japan, before the screaming engines frightened the white heron from the
rice fields, and before the sparrows perched on telegraph wires, there
lived two frogs, one in a well at Kioto, the other in a pond at Ozaka.

In the land of Japan there is a proverb that “the frog in the well
knows not the great ocean.” The Kioto frog had heard this said many
times by the maids who came to draw water, and one day he became vexed
at their laughter.

“I shall stay here no longer,” he said to himself. “I shall go at once
to see this great ocean of which they talk. I do not believe it is half
as wide or as deep as my well, where I can see the stars even in the
daytime, but I shall at least know what it looks like.”

Then Mr. Frog told his family that he was going on a journey, going out
to Ozaka to see the great ocean. So Mrs. Frog gave him a package of
boiled rice and snails, and tying it round his neck, he set off on his
journey. When he came out of the well, he saw that the other animals
did not leap, but walked upright on their legs. He thought he must walk
in the same way, so he stood up on his hind legs and waddled off slowly
across the fields.

On this very same day the frog who lived in the pond decided to see
more of the world.

[Illustration: THE WELL AT KIOTO]

“Good-by,” he said to Mrs. Frog, as he jumped from a lily-pad into the
grass, “I am tired of sitting here in the sun thinking and blinking, so
I am going to Kioto.”

It so happened that the Kioto frog and the frog from Ozaka met on a
hill halfway between the two cities.

“Good morning,” said one, bowing his head to the ground three times.

“Good morning,” said the other, also bowing respectfully.

Then they sank down in a shady spot, for they were very tired and lame
from trying to walk on their hind feet.

“Where are you going?” asked the Ozaka frog. “This is a fine day for a
journey.”

“I set out to see the great ocean at Ozaka, of which I have heard so
often,” replied the frog who lived in the well, “but I am so tired that
I think I shall be satisfied with looking at it from the top of this
hill.”

“I am going to Kioto,” said the other frog.

“It is a long journey, my friend,” said the Kioto frog. “Why do you not
look at it from this hill and save yourself the trouble of walking all
the way?”

“That is a good plan, friend,” said the frog from Ozaka.

Then the two frogs climbed to the top of a flat rock, and stood up on
their hind legs, the Kioto frog facing the great ocean at Ozaka, and
the other facing the city of Kioto. A frog’s eyes, as you know very
well, are so placed that when he sits comfortably at home on his
lily-pad, he looks before him. But when he stands on his hind legs with
his head in the air, he sees only what is behind him. Standing in this
way, on top of the rock, the frogs looked long and steadily at the
landscape. At last, being very tired, they sat down again.

[Illustration]

“Ozaka looks exactly like my home,” said the Kioto frog; “and as for
the ocean, I saw nothing larger than the brook I swam across this
morning.”

“You are right,” said the other. “Kioto looks just like Ozaka. They are
as much alike as two grains of rice. I am glad that I met you, for you
have saved me much trouble. I shall return to my pond at once. Good-by,
my friend.”

Then the two frogs jumped to the ground and hurried off, leaping as
a frog should do, and thus reaching home in a short time. That night
they told their friends about their adventures, and still the frog in
the pond thinks he has seen the great world, and “the frog in the well
knows not the great ocean.”

    --WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS.

       *       *       *       *       *

 A good action is never thrown away.




THE THREE BELLS


    Beneath the low-hung night cloud
      That raked her splintering mast
    The good ship settled slowly,
      The cruel leak gained fast.

    Over the awful ocean
      Her signal guns pealed out.
    Dear God! was that thy answer
      From the horror round about?

    A voice came down the wild wind,
      “Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry:
    “Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow
      Shall lay till daylight by!”

    Hour after hour crept slowly,
      Yet on the heaving swells
    Tossed up and down the ship-lights,
      The lights of the Three Bells!

    And ship to ship made signals,
      Man answered back to man,
    While oft, to cheer and hearten,
      The Three Bells nearer ran;

    And the captain from her taffrail
      Sent down his hopeful cry.
    “Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted,
      “The Three Bells shall lay by!”

    All night across the waters
      The tossing lights shone clear;
    All night from reeling taffrail
      The Three Bells sent her cheer,

    And when the dreary watches
      Of storm and darkness passed,
    Just as the wreck lurched under,
      All souls were saved at last.

    Sail on, Three Bells, forever,
      In grateful memory sail!
    Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,
      Above the wave and gale!

    Type of the Love eternal,
      Repeat the Master’s cry,
    As tossing through our darkness
      The lights of God draw nigh!

    --JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

       *       *       *       *       *

    O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:
    And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
      What further may be sought for or declared?




HOW THE INDIAN KNEW


One day an Indian came back from a trip to his traps, and noticed,
when he reached his wigwam, that a deer that had hung inside had been
stolen. He at once set to work to find the thief.

Following the trail left by the evil-doer, the Indian soon met a
party of white men. He asked if they had seen a little old man, lame
and white, who had a short gun. The Indian added that the man he was
seeking was followed by a small bobtailed dog, and that he carried a
deer. Such a man, he said, had stolen the deer from his wigwam.

“Why did you not seize the thief when you saw him?” said they.

“I did not see him,” answered the Indian.

“How, then, do you know that he is little, and old, and lame, and
white, and has a short gun, and is followed by a little bobtailed dog?”
asked they.

“I know that he is short,” replied the Indian, “because he piled up
stones to stand on when he took down the meat. He must be old, because
his steps are short, as is shown by his tracks. His gun, I know, is
short, for I found the place where he had leaned it against a sapling
while he was taking down the deer, and the muzzle left a scratch on
the bark near the ground. The dog, sitting down in the sand, left the
print of a stumpy tail. I knew the man was white by the tracks of
his boots, for Indians wear moccasins, and do not turn out their toes
when walking; and I knew that he was lame, because the steps of the
left foot were shorter than those of the right, as was shown by the
footprints.”

And the Indian passed on in pursuit of the one who had robbed
him.--SELECTED.




HOHENLINDEN


    On Linden, when the sun was low,
    All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
    And dark as winter was the flow
        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    But Linden saw another sight,
    When the drum beat, at dead of night,
    Commanding fires of death to light
        The darkness of her scenery.

    By torch and trumpet fast array’d,
    Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
    And furious every charger neigh’d,
        To join the dreadful revelry.

    Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
    Then rush’d the steed, to battle driven,
    And louder than the bolts of heaven,
        Far flash’d the red artillery.

    But redder yet that light shall glow
    On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,
    And bloodier yet the torrent flow
        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

    ’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
    Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
    Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
        Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

    The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
    Who rush to glory, or the grave!
    Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
        And charge with all thy chivalry!

    Few, few, shall part, where many meet!
    The snow shall be their winding sheet,
    And every turf beneath their feet
        Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.

    --THOMAS CAMPBELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The butterfly, an idle thing,
    Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
      As do the bee and bird;
    Nor does it, like the prudent ant,
    Lay up the grain for times of want,
      A wise and cautious hoard.




THE CLOUDS


    The dew is gleaming in the grass,
      The morning hours are seven;
    And I am fain to watch you pass,
      Ye soft white clouds of heaven.

    Ye stray and gather, part and fold;
      The wind alone can tame you;
    I think of what in time of old
      The poets loved to name you.

    They called you sheep, the sky your sward;
      A field without a reaper;
    They called the shining sun your lord,
      The shepherd wind your keeper.

    Your sweetest poets I will deem
      The men of old for moulding
    In simple beauty, such a dream,
      And I could lie beholding,

    Where daisies in the meadow toss,
      The wind from morn till even,
    Forever shepherd you across
      The shining field of heaven.

    --ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

 _By special permission._




SHOEING


At the blacksmith’s shop the bay mare Betty is being fitted to new
shoes. Already the fore feet are nicely shod and the blacksmith now
has the near hind foot in hand. The other occupants of the place are a
small donkey and the bloodhound Laura.

Betty is a sensible horse and enjoys the shoeing process. When the
time comes around for her regular visit to the forge, she walks
off voluntarily and unattended to the familiar spot. No halter is
necessary to keep her standing; in fact, she would not tolerate such an
indignity. She takes her place by the window as if perfectly at home.

Blacksmith and horse are old friends who understand each other well.
The man has won the animal’s confidence by the care he has taken to fit
the shoes comfortably. Though a plain, rough fellow, he is of a kindly
nature and knows his business thoroughly. The shop is a quaint little
place such as one finds in English villages. The thick masonry of the
walls shows how old the building is; the floor is paved with large
blocks of stone. Between the anvil and the forge there is only space
enough for the horse to stand.

[Illustration: Landseer  SHOEING]

At the stage of the process seen in the picture the preparations are
all over. The old shoes were first removed and the feet pared and
filed. New shoes were chosen as near the right size as possible, and
one by one shaped for each foot. And now, holding the shoe in his
long tongs, the blacksmith thrusts it into the fire, while he fans
the flames with the bellows. Thence it is transferred, a glowing red
crescent, to the anvil. Now the workman swings his hammer upon it with
ringing strokes, the sparks fly out in a shower, and the soft metal
is shaped at will. The shoe may be made a little broader or a little
longer, as the case may be; bent a trifle here or there, to accommodate
the foot to be fitted. The steel toe calk is welded in, the ends are
bent to form the heels, the holes for nails are punctured, the shoe
taking an occasional plunge into the flames during these processes.

Now there must be a preliminary trying-on. The shoe, still hot, is held
to the foot for which it is intended, and the air is filled with the
fumes of burning hoof. Yet the horse does not flinch, for the thick
hoof is a perfect protection for the sensitive parts of the foot. If
the careful blacksmith is not quite satisfied with the fit, there must
be more hammering on the anvil, and another trying-on. When the shoe is
satisfactory, it is thrust hissing into a barrel of cold water, and,
when cooled and hardened, is ready to be nailed on.

It is at this point in the story that we come upon Betty. The
blacksmith, after the approved method of his trade, holds the foot
firmly between his knees, and bends to his task. The nails, long and
flat, are in the tool-box on the floor beside him. A few firm blows of
the hammer drive each one into place, first on one side, then on the
other; the projecting points are twisted off every time, and finally
all the rough ends are filed smoothly on the outside of the hoof. Betty
is at last fully shod and will step complacently home.

The painter, Sir Edwin Landseer, has arranged the four figures of the
picture in such a way that we may see each one in a characteristic
pose. The bay mare is, of course, the chief attraction,--a fine
high-bred creature, with straight legs, arching neck, and gentle
face, marked on the forehead with a pure white star. Landseer exerted
his utmost skill in reproducing the texture of the glossy hide. Its
beautiful sheen is more striking by contrast with the shaggy hair of
the donkey. It was a clever thought to place this plebeian little beast
beside the aristocratic, high-spirited horse.

The donkey bends his head in a deprecating way below Betty’s handsome
neck, and the horse permits the companionship of an inferior with
gentle tolerance. There is something very appealing about the donkey,
a patient little beast of burden, meekly bearing his saddle. The
bloodhound shows no little curiosity as to the shoeing process, as if
it were something new to her. She sits on her haunches, thrusting her
head forward, the long ears drooping, the sensitive nose sniffing the
strange odors.

Among these dumb companions the blacksmith feels himself surrounded
by friends. He is a lover of pets, as we see by the bird-cage hanging
in the window. His sturdy frame looks equal to the demands of his
trade, which are, in fact, very onerous. It is grimy work, and only
the roughest clothes can be worn. A big leather apron with a cut down
the middle is, as it were, his badge of office. He does his work with
conscientious earnestness, concentrating all his thought and energy
upon each blow of the hammer. The task completed, he will take an
honest pride in the good piece of work he has done for Betty.

    --ESTELLE M. HURLL.

 _From “Landseer,” in “The Riverside Art Series,” by permission of
 Houghton Mifflin and Company._




THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH


    Under a spreading chestnut tree
      The village smithy stands;
    The smith, a mighty man is he,
      With large and sinewy hands;
    And the muscles of his brawny arms
      Are strong as iron bands.

    His hair is crisp and black and long;
      His face is like the tan;
    His brow is wet with honest sweat,
      He earns whate’er he can,
    And looks the whole world in the face,
      For he owes not any man.

    Week in, week out, from morn till night,
      You can hear his bellows blow;
    You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
      With measured beat and slow,
    Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
      When the evening sun is low.

    And children coming home from school
      Look in at the open door;
    They love to see the flaming forge,
      And hear the bellows roar,
    And catch the burning sparks that fly
      Like chaff from a threshing floor.

    He goes on Sunday to the church,
      And sits among his boys;
    He hears the parson pray and preach;
      He hears his daughter’s voice
    Singing in the village choir,
      And it makes his heart rejoice.

    It sounds to him like her mother’s voice
      Singing in Paradise!
    He needs must think of her once more,
      How in the grave she lies;
    And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
      A tear out of his eyes.

    Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
      Onwards, through life he goes;
    Each morning sees some task begin,
      Each evening sees it close;
    Something attempted, something done,
      Has earned a night’s repose.

    Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
      For the lesson thou hast taught!
    Thus, at the flaming forge of life,
      Our fortunes must be wrought;
    Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped
      Each burning deed and thought!

    --HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.




THE SEARCH FOR A WESTERN SEA


Two hundred years ago the great country lying between Lake Superior and
the Rocky Mountains was unknown to the people who lived in the little
stockaded forts, where Quebec, Montreal, and Three Rivers now stand.
Great explorers had followed Columbus to America, and had sailed down
the mighty St. Lawrence and its tributaries. They all longed to find
the Great Western Sea, which Columbus had hoped would lead to Asia; but
over two hundred years had passed since his voyage, and no one had yet
reached the great water of the West.

When Pierre de la Vérendrye was a boy, living at Three Rivers, he heard
many wonderful stories of adventure told by fur traders and explorers
as they returned from expeditions to the North and West, and he longed
for the time to come when he would be old enough to join such a party.
When he was twenty-seven years old, he had charge of a trading-post on
Lake Nepigon, and heard from the neighboring Indians of great lakes and
rivers, and immense tracts of treeless country where herds of cattle
roamed. He had not forgotten the dream of his boyhood, and when these
tales of a land far west reached him, he made up his mind that he would
be the one to explore the country and find a way to the Western Sea.

Years passed by, and it was not until 1731 that his dream was realized.
He had spent years in preparing for the expedition. The governor
at Quebec had given him a license to trade with the Indians, and
Montreal merchants promised to supply him with money and goods. On the
eighth day of June the company set out from Montreal. It consisted of
Vérendrye, his three tall sons, Jean, Pierre and François, and fifty
followers. There were the priests, the hardy voyageurs, the wood
runners, and the Indian interpreters. They embarked in birch canoes
measuring from eighty to ninety feet in length. In the bottom of the
canoes were strongly wrapped packages of merchandise which were to be
exchanged on the way for furs.

In seventy-eight days they reached Kaministiquia, a fur post on Lake
Superior, where Fort William now stands. This was the last Western
post. All the country beyond this would be new to the eager voyageurs.
Sailing down the Pigeon River, they entered Rainy Lake and built Fort
St. Pierre on its left bank. Winter was approaching and their supply of
provisions was getting low, so it was necessary for some of the party
to return to the nearest trading-post to obtain provisions and goods
in exchange for valuable furs. The Cree Indians who inhabited this
district had gazed in wonder at the presents of ammunition offered to
them by the white men, and had gladly given generous supplies of furs
in exchange for these new possessions.

When spring came, the voyageurs accepted the friendly offer of the
Indians to guide them west to the Lake of the Woods. It was several
months before the next long stop was made. They had reached the head of
the lake when it was again necessary to stop and build a fort for their
winter stay. This fort, built of logs, chinked up with clay and moss,
and roofed with branches of trees, was called St. Charles.

The next year they reached Lake Winnipeg by way of the Winnipeg
River, and near its mouth they built Fort Maurepas, now known as Fort
Alexander. In 1738, after travelling over many miles of the surrounding
country, Vérendrye left this fort, crossed the southern end of Lake
Winnipeg, and entered the Red River, which he followed until he came
to its junction with the Assiniboine, and to the place where the city
of Winnipeg now stands. The land around the river was dotted with the
tepees of the Assiniboine Indians, who probably now looked upon a white
man for the first time. A rude fort called Fort Rouge was built, and
leaving his sons to trade with the Indians, Vérendrye pushed on up the
Assiniboine and in one week came to the “Portage of the Prairie.” This
was called by the explorer, Fort De La Reine.

Vérendrye had now spent seven years in his search for the Western Sea.
He had suffered many hardships. His men had often mutinied and deserted
him. Winter had overtaken him when supplies were low, and in these
times of famine he and his men had lived on roots and bark, coarse
parchment, and often on the flesh of the sleigh dogs. His eldest son,
Jean, had been cruelly murdered by the Indians, while he was journeying
to one of the eastern forts for supplies. Still the brave explorer’s
courage did not fail, and he pressed on hoping to find some sign, or
hear some word that would tell him his quest had not been in vain.

The merchants at Montreal upon whom Vérendrye depended for aid were
not interested in his work of exploration, but cared only for the
loads of valuable furs which he sent to them. Fur traders were jealous
of his success, and charged him with trading for his own profit,
and deceiving his partners. Leaving his sons to continue their
explorations, he returned to Quebec in 1746 to defend himself against
these false charges.

Nothing could be proved against him, but this was small comfort
to the worn-out traveller. His life had been one of suffering and
disappointment, and his countrymen did not realize the noble work he
had done, yet he was eager to return to his sons and continue the work
he had begun. In 1749 he was preparing for the journey back to the
West, when he was taken ill, and died suddenly at Montreal. Though his
work was not appreciated during his lifetime, he is now honored as the
pioneer explorer of the Great West.

    --HELEN PALK.




THE MOSS ROSE


    The angel of the flowers, one day,
    Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,--
    That spirit to whose charge ’tis given
    To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.
    Awaking from his light repose,
    The angel whispered to the rose:
    “O fondest object of my care,
    Still fairest found, where all are fair;
    For the sweet shade thou giv’st me,
    Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.”
    “Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow,
    “On me another grace bestow.”
    The spirit paused, in silent thought,--
    What grace was there the flower had not?
    ’Twas but a moment,--o’er the rose
    A veil of moss the angel throws,
    And robed in nature’s simplest weed,
    Could there a flower that rose exceed?

    --F. A. KRUMMACHER.




WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!


    Woodman, spare that tree!
      Touch not a single bough!
    In youth it sheltered me,
      And I’ll protect it now.
    ’Twas my forefather’s hand
      That placed it near his cot;
    There, woodman, let it stand,
      Thy axe shall harm it not!

    That old familiar tree,
      Whose glory and renown
    Are spread o’er land and sea--
      And would’st thou hew it down?
    Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
      Cut not its earth-bound ties;
    Oh, spare that aged oak
      Now towering to the skies!

    When but an idle boy,
      I sought its grateful shade;
    In all their gushing joy
      Here, too, my sisters played.
    My mother kissed me here,
      My father pressed my hand--
    Forgive this foolish tear,
      But let that old oak stand.

    My heartstrings round thee cling,
      Close as thy bark, old friend!
    Here shall the wild bird sing,
      And still thy branches bend.
    Old tree! the storm still brave!
      And woodman, leave the spot;
    While I’ve a hand to save,
      Thy axe shall harm it not.

    --GEORGE P. MORRIS.




DICK WHITTINGTON


Many years ago in an English village there lived a boy whose name was
Dick Whittington. His father and mother died when he was so young that
he did not remember them at all. He had no home, and was a ragged
little fellow running about the streets of the little village.

Now the place where Dick lived was not very far from London, and the
people liked to talk about the great city. None of them had ever been
to London, but they seemed to know all about the wonderful things that
were to be seen there. Dick listened to their stories and longed to
see for himself. One day a large wagon drawn by eight fine horses with
bells on their heads was driven into the little town. When Dick saw
this wagon he thought that it must be going to the city, and he asked
the driver to let him go with him. When the driver learned that Dick
was very poor, and that he had neither father nor mother, he told the
lad that he might walk by the side of the wagon if he wished.

[Illustration]

It was a long walk for the little fellow, but at last they came to
London. Dick was in a great hurry to see the wonderful sights of the
city. He thanked the driver of the wagon and ran from one street to
another. At last it began to grow dark, and in every street there was
only dirt instead of gold. Nowhere could he find the golden pavements
that he had heard so much about. He sat down in a dark corner and cried
himself to sleep.

In the morning he woke up very hungry, but there was not even a crust
of bread for him to eat. He thought now only of food, and asked every
one he met to give him a penny to buy something to eat. Nobody stopped
to speak to him, and the poor boy grew weak for want of food. At last
he grew so faint and tired that he could go no farther. He sat down on
the steps of a fine house to rest, and wished that he were back again
in the little village where he was born.

Just at that time the owner of the house came home to dinner, and saw
the ragged little fellow asleep on the steps.

“My lad, what are you doing here? Wake up, my boy. Why don’t you go to
work?”

“I should like to work if I could find anything to do,” said Dick, “but
I don’t know where to look for work. I have not had anything to eat for
a long time.”

“Poor little fellow! Come with me, and I shall see what I can do for
you.” The kind merchant took Dick into the house, where he was given a
good dinner, and put to work in the kitchen.

Dick would have lived very happily in this new home if the old cook
had not been so cross. She found fault with him, and scolded him from
morning till night. But at last little Alice, his master’s daughter,
heard how the poor little kitchen boy was treated, and she asked the
cook to be kind to the lad.

From this time Dick was not treated so unkindly, and he would have
been quite happy if it had not been for another trouble. His bed was
in a garret at the top of the house, far away from other people. The
floor was full of holes, and every night rats and mice kept him awake
by running over his face. They tormented him so much that he tried to
think of some way to get rid of them.

One day a gentleman gave him a penny for cleaning his shoes. Dick
thought a long time about the best way to spend it. At last he made up
his mind that he would buy a cat with the money. The very next day he
went out into the street and saw a girl carrying a cat in her arms.

“I will give you a penny for your cat,” said Dick. “Will you take it?”

“Yes,” said the girl, “you may have her for a penny. She is worth more
than that, for she knows how to catch rats and mice.”

So Dick bought the cat, and took her to the garret. Every day he
carried a part of his dinner to her, and it was not long before she had
driven all the rats and mice away. Then the little fellow could sleep
soundly every night.

Soon after this a ship belonging to Dick’s master was about to start on
a voyage across the sea. It was loaded with goods which were to be sold
in other lands far away. The master called his servants together and
asked if they had anything they would like to send out in the ship for
trade. He wanted to give his servants a chance for a good fortune, too.
Every one had something to send out in the ship--every one but Dick. As
he had neither money nor goods, he did not meet with the others.

But Alice, the merchant’s daughter, guessed why Dick did not come in
with the rest of the servants, and sent for him. When the boy came into
the room the merchant said, “Well, Dick, what are you going to send out
on the ship?”

“I have nothing in the world,” Dick answered, “but a cat which I bought
some time ago for a penny. But I should not like to part with her.”

“Go, and get your cat, my lad. We shall send her out on the ship. She
may bring you some profit,--who knows?”

With tears in his eyes poor Dick carried puss down to the ship and gave
her to the captain. Everybody laughed at the boy for sending off a cat
to be sold. But little Alice felt sorry for him and gave him some money
to buy another cat.

After this the old cook used him more cruelly than ever. She was always
either scolding him, or making fun of him for sending his cat to sea.
At last Dick could not bear her abuse any longer, and made up his mind
to go back to his old home. So he packed up his few possessions and
very early one morning started off. After walking some distance he
sat down on a stone which to this day is called “Whittington’s Stone.”
While he sat there, wondering what it was best for him to do, the
church bells began to ring. As he listened they seemed to say to him:--

    “Turn again, Whittington,
    Thrice Lord Mayor of London.”

“Lord Mayor of London!” said Dick to himself. “Well, well, I would put
up with almost anything to be Lord Mayor of London. I shall return and
let the old cook scold and cuff me as much as she pleases.” He hurried
back to the merchant’s house and was lucky to get into the kitchen
before the old cook came downstairs. In fact, she never knew that he
had been away.

The ship with the cat on board was a long time at sea. It was at last
driven by the winds to a strange land where the people had never seen
any white men before. They came in crowds to visit the ship, and to buy
the fine things with which it was loaded.

It was not long before the king of the country invited the captain to
visit him. When the captain reached the king’s palace he was shown
into a beautiful room, and given a seat on rich carpets embroidered
with gold and silver thread. The king and queen were seated not far
away, and soon many fine dishes filled with good things to eat were set
before them. They had hardly begun to eat when a great many rats and
mice rushed into the room and ate everything that was in the dishes.
The captain wondered greatly at this, and asked the king, “Why do you
let the rats come into the palace in this way?”

“I cannot keep them out,” the king replied. “I would give half of my
treasure if I could get rid of them.”

The captain jumped for joy, for he remembered Dick Whittington’s cat.
“I have a wonderful animal on board the ship which will kill all your
rats and mice,” he said.

“Bring the creature to me,” said the king. “If she will do what you
say, I shall load your ship with gold.”

Away went the captain down to the ship to get the cat, while the king
and queen had another dinner made ready. The captain with the cat in
his arms reached the palace just as the guests were about to be served.
In rushed the rats and mice. As soon as the cat saw them she jumped
from the captain’s arms, and in a few minutes killed many of them. The
rest scampered away in fright and did not dare to come back again.

The king and queen were delighted, and wished to own the wonderful
creature that had done them so great a service. The king at once made a
bargain with the captain for all the goods on board the ship, and then
gave for the cat ten times as much money as he had given for everything
else on the ship.

The captain then bade the king and queen good-by, and set sail for
England. The good ship was soon safe at home, and the honest captain
hastened to see its owner. He quickly told the story of the cat, and
showed all the gold that the king and queen had sent to poor Dick in
payment for her. As soon as the merchant heard this, he called to
one of his servants and said, “Send for Dick. And pray call him Mr.
Whittington.”

The servant found Dick scouring pots and kettles in the kitchen. When
the lad came in, the merchant told him how the captain had sold his cat
and brought in return great riches. Then he opened the box and showed
Dick his treasure. “All this is yours,” said the merchant. “Your riches
are now far greater than mine, and I wish you may long enjoy them.”

[Illustration]

Poor Dick was so happy that he did not know what to say or do. He
begged his master to take part of his treasure, but the good man
refused. Dick then offered some of the jewels to his mistress, and he
also asked Alice to accept a portion of them. They told him how happy
they were because of his good fortune, and that he must keep it all
for his own. But the boy was too kind-hearted to keep everything for
himself. He made a present to the captain and the sailors, and to each
of his master’s servants, even to the cross old cook.

After a few years had passed there was a fine wedding at one of the
finest churches in London, and Miss Alice became the wife of Mr.
Richard Whittington. They lived in great splendor and were very happy.
Far and near they were known and loved for their kind deeds.

So it was not long before Richard Whittington became one of the
foremost men in London, and in good time he was thrice Lord Mayor of
the great city.

    --SELECTED.




SOMEBODY’S MOTHER


    The woman was poor, and old, and gray,
    And bent with the chill of the winter’s day;

    The street was wet with a recent snow,
    And the woman’s feet were aged and slow.

    She stood at the crossing, and waited long,
    Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

    Of human beings who passed her by,
    Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

    Down the street, with laughter and shout,
    Glad in the freedom of “school let out,”

    Came the boys, like a flock of sheep,
    Hailing the snow, piled white and deep;

    Past the woman so old and gray,
    Hastened the children on their way,

    Nor offered a helping hand to her,
    So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

    Lest the carriage wheels or the horses’ feet
    Should knock her down in the slippery street.

    At last came one of the merry troop--
    The gayest laddie of all the group;

    He paused beside her and whispered low,
    “I’ll help you across if you wish to go.”

    Her aged hand on his strong young arm
    She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

    He guided the trembling feet along,
    Proud that his own were firm and strong.

    Then back to his friends again he went,
    His young heart happy and well content.

    “She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know,
    For all she’s aged, and poor and slow;

    “And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
    To help my mother, if she should stand

    “At a crossing, weary and old and gray,
    When her own dear boy is far away.”

    And “somebody’s mother” bowed low her head
    In her home that night, and the prayer she said

    Was “God, be kind to the noble boy,
    Who is somebody’s son, and pride, and joy.”

    --ANONYMOUS.




THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD


    The Lord is my shepherd;
    I shall not want.

        He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
        He leadeth me beside the still waters.
        He restoreth my soul:
        He guideth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

        Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
        I will fear no evil:
        For thou art with me;
        Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

        Thou preparest a table before me
        In the presence of mine enemies:
        Thou hast anointed my head with oil;
        My cup runneth over.

    Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
    And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

    --_From the Book of Psalms._




BLACK BEAUTY’S BREAKING IN


I was now beginning to grow handsome; my coat had grown fine and soft,
and was bright black. I had one white foot, and a pretty white star on
my forehead. I was thought very handsome. My master would not sell me
until I was four years old; he said lads ought not to work like men,
and colts ought not to work like horses, until they were grown up.

[Illustration: THOROUGHBREDS]

When I was four years old, Squire Gordon came to look at me. He
examined my eyes, my mouth, and my legs; he felt them all down, and
then I had to walk and trot and gallop before him. He seemed to like
me, and said, “When he has been well broken in, he will do very well.”
My master said he would break me in himself, as he should not like me
to be frightened or hurt; and he lost no time about it, for the next
day he began.

Every one may not know what breaking in is, therefore I shall describe
it. It means to teach a horse to wear a saddle and bridle, and to
carry on his back a man, woman, or child; to go just the way his rider
wishes, and to go quietly. Besides this, he has to learn to wear a
collar, a crupper, and a breeching, and to stand still whilst they are
put on; then to have a cart or a wagon fixed behind him, so that he
cannot walk or trot without dragging it after him; and he must go fast
or slow, just as his driver wishes. He must never start at what he
sees, nor speak to other horses, nor bite, nor kick, nor have any will
of his own, but always do his master’s will, even though he may be very
tired or hungry. But the worst of all is when his harness is once on,
he may neither jump for joy nor lie down for weariness. So you see this
breaking in is a great thing.

I had, of course, long been used to the halter and the headstall, and
to be led about in the fields and lanes quietly; but now I was to have
a bit and bridle. My master gave me some oats, as usual, and, after a
great deal of coaxing, he got the bit into my mouth, and the bridle
fixed; but it was a nasty thing!

Those who have never had a bit in their mouths cannot think how bad it
feels--a great piece of cold, hard steel as thick as a man’s finger to
be pushed into one’s mouth, between one’s teeth and over one’s tongue,
with the ends coming out at the corner of one’s mouth, and held fast
there by straps over one’s head, under one’s throat, round one’s nose,
and under one’s chin, so that no way in the world can one get rid
of the nasty, hard thing. It is very bad; yes, very bad! at least I
thought so; but I knew my mother always wore one when she went out,
and all horses did when they were grown up. And so, what with the nice
oats, and what with my master’s pats, kind words, and gentle ways, I
got to wear my bit and bridle.

Next came the saddle; but that was not half so bad. My master put it
on my back very gently, whilst the old workman held my head. He then
made the girths fast under my body, patting and talking to me all the
time. Then I had a few oats, then a little leading about; and this he
did every day, until I began to look for the oats and the saddle. At
length, one morning, my master got on my back, and rode me round the
meadow on the soft grass. It certainly did feel queer; but I must say I
felt rather proud to carry my master, and, as he continued to ride me a
little every day, I soon became accustomed to it.

The next unpleasant business was putting on the iron shoes. My master
went with me to the smith’s forge to see that I was not hurt. The
blacksmith took my feet in his hand, one after the other, and cut away
some of the hoof. It did not pain me, and so I stood still on three
legs until he had done them all. Then he took a piece of iron the shape
of my foot and clapped it on, and drove some nails through the shoe
quite into my hoof, so that the shoe was firmly on. My feet felt very
stiff and heavy, but in time I became used to it.

And now, having come so far, my master went on to break me to harness;
there were more new things to wear. First, a stiff, heavy collar just
on my neck, and a bridle with great side pieces against my eyes, called
blinkers; and blinkers indeed they were, for I could not see on either
side, but only straight in front of me. Next, there was a small saddle
with an ugly, stiff strap that went right under my tail; that was the
crupper. I hated the crupper; to have my long tail doubled up and poked
through that strap was almost as bad as the bit. I never felt more like
kicking; but of course I could not kick such a good master. And so in
time I became used to everything, and could do my work as well as my
mother.

I must not forget to mention one part of my training, which I have
always considered a very great advantage. My master sent me for a
fortnight to a neighboring farmer’s, who had a meadow which was skirted
on one side by the railway. Here were some sheep and cows, and I was
turned in amongst them. I shall never forget the first train that ran
by. I was feeding quietly near the fence which separated the meadow
from the railway, when I heard a strange sound at a distance. And
before I knew whence it came, with a rush and a clatter, and a puffing
out of smoke, a long black train of something flew by, and was gone
almost before I could draw my breath. I turned, and galloped to the
other side of the meadow as fast as I could go, and there I stood
snorting with astonishment and fear.

In the course of the day many other trains went by, some more slowly;
these drew up at the station close by, and sometimes made an awful
whistle and groan before they stopped. I thought it very dreadful; but
the cows went on eating very quietly, and hardly raised their heads as
the black, dreadful thing came puffing and groaning past.

For the first few days I could not feed in peace; but as I found
that this terrible creature never came into the field, or did me any
harm, I began to disregard it, and very soon I cared as little about
the passing of a train as the cows and sheep did. Since then, I have
seen many horses much alarmed and restive at the sight or sound of a
steam-engine; but, thanks to my good master’s care, I am as fearless at
railway stations as in my own stable.

Now, if any one wants to break in a young horse well, that is the way.

My master often drove me in double harness with my mother, because she
was steady, and could teach me how to go better than a strange horse.
She told me that the better I behaved, the better I should be treated,
and that it was wisest always to do my best to please my master.

“But,” said she, “there are a great many kinds of men. There are good,
thoughtful men, like our master, that any horse may be proud to serve;
but there are bad, cruel men, who never ought to have a horse or dog
to call their own. Besides, there are a great many foolish men, vain,
ignorant, and careless, who never trouble themselves to think. These
spoil more horses than all, just for want of sense; they do not mean
it, but they do it for all that. I hope you will fall into good hands;
but a horse never knows who may buy him, or who may drive him: it is
all a chance for us; but still I say, do your best wherever it is, and
keep up your good name.”--ANNA SEWELL.

 _From “Black Beauty,” by permission of Jarrold & Sons._




THE DOOR OF SPRING


    How shall we open the door of Spring
      That Winter is holding wearily shut?
        Though winds are calling and waters brawling,
        And snow decaying and light delaying,
      Yet will it not move in its yielding rut
    And back on its flowery hinges swing,
              Till wings are flapping
              And woodpeckers tapping
              With sharp, clear rapping
                At the door of Spring.

    How shall we fasten the door of Spring
      Wide, so wide that it cannot close?
        Though buds are filling and frogs are trilling,
        And violets breaking and grass awaking,
      Yet doubtfully back and forth it blows
    Till come the birds, and the woodlands ring
              With sharp beak stammer--
              The sudden clamor
              Of the woodpecker’s hammer
                At the door of Spring.

    --ETHELWYN WETHERALD.

 _From “The Last Robin,” by permission._

       *       *       *       *       *

      I live for those who love me,
    For those who know me true,
    For the heaven that smiles above me,
      And awaits my spirit, too;
    For the cause that needs assistance,
    For the wrong that needs resistance;
    For the future in the distance,
      For the good that I can do.




THE CROCUS’S SONG


    Down in my solitude under the snow,
      Where nothing cheering can reach me;
    Here, without light to see how to grow,
      I’ll trust to nature to teach me.

    I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown,
      Locked in so gloomy a dwelling;
    My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down,
      While the bud in my bosom is swelling.

    Soon as the frost will get out of my bed,
      From this cold dungeon to free me,
    I will peer up with my little bright head--
      All will be joyful to see me.

    Then from my heart will young petals diverge
      As rays of the sun from their focus;
    I from the darkness of earth will emerge,
      A happy and beautiful Crocus!

    Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower
      This little lesson may borrow,--
    Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour,
      We come out the brighter to-morrow.

    --HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.




A SOUND OPINION


One day a farmer, named Bernard, having finished his business at the
market town, found that he had a few hours at his disposal before
returning home. He had often heard people speaking about a certain Mr.
Wiseman, a lawyer, whose reputation was so great that even the judges
did not like to decide contrary to his opinion. Bernard thought he
might spend some of his time in getting an opinion from so learned and
clever a lawyer.

When he arrived at Mr. Wiseman’s office, he had to wait a long time,
but at last his turn came and he was shown into the room. Mr. Wiseman
asked him to sit down, and after taking a good look at him through his
spectacles, asked him to state his business.

“Upon my word, Mr. Lawyer,” said the farmer, twisting his hat in his
hand, “I can’t say I have any particular business with you; but as
I happened to be in town, to-day, I thought I should be losing an
opportunity if I did not get an opinion from you.”

“I thank you for your confidence in me,” replied the lawyer. “You have,
I suppose, some law-suit going on?”

“A law-suit?” said the farmer; “I should rather think not! There is
nothing I hate so much, and I have never had a quarrel with any one in
my life.”

“Then, I suppose, you want some family property fairly and justly
divided?”

“I beg your pardon, sir; my family lives with me in peace, and we have
no need to think of dividing our property.”

“Perhaps, then, you want some agreement drawn up about the sale or
purchase of something?”

“Not at all! I am not rich enough to be purchasing property, and not
poor enough to wish to sell any.”

“Then what on earth do you want me to do, my friend?” said the
astonished lawyer.

“Well, Mr. Wiseman, I thought I had already told you that,” replied
Bernard, with a sheepish laugh; “what I want is an opinion. I am ready
to pay for it. You see, here I am in town, and it would be a great pity
if I were to lose the opportunity.”

The lawyer looked at him and smiled; then taking up his pen, he asked
the farmer what his name was. “Peter Bernard,” said he, quite pleased
that the lawyer at last understood what he wanted.

“Your age?”

“Forty years, or somewhere about that.”

“Your profession?”

“My profession! Ah, yes! you mean what do I do? I am a farmer.”

The lawyer, still smiling, wrote two lines on a piece of paper, folded
it up, and gave it to his strange client.

“Is that all,” cried Bernard; “well, well! so much the better. I
daresay you are too busy to write much. Now, how much does that cost,
Mr. Lawyer?”

“Half-a-crown.”

Bernard paid the money, made his bow, and went away delighted that he
had got an opinion.

When he reached home it was four in the afternoon; he was tired with
his journey, and made up his mind to have a good rest. It happened,
however, that his hay had been cut for some days, and was now
completely dry; and one of his men came to ask if it should be carried
in and housed that night.

“This night!” said the farmer’s wife. “Who ever heard of such a
thing? Your master is tired, and the hay can just as well be got in
to-morrow.” The man said it was no business of his, but the weather
might change, and the horses and carts were ready, and the farm hands
had nothing to do. To this the angry wife replied that the wind was in
a favorable quarter, and that they could not any way get the work done
before nightfall.

Bernard, having listened to both sides of the question, hesitated to
decide, when suddenly he remembered the paper the lawyer had given him.
“Stop a minute!” cried he, “I have an opinion--a famous opinion--an
opinion that cost me half-a-crown. That’s the thing to put us straight.
You are a grand scholar, my dear; tell us what it says.” His wife took
the paper, and with some little difficulty, read out these two lines:--

_Peter Bernard: Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day._

“There’s the very thing!” cried the farmer. “Quick! out with the men
and the carts, and we’ll have the hay in at once!”

His wife still grumbled, but it was of no use. Bernard was obstinate.
He declared that he was not going to pay half-a-crown for nothing, and
that, as he had an opinion from his lawyer, he would follow it whatever
happened. In fact, he set the example himself, and urging his men to
the greatest speed, did not return to his home till all the hay was
safely housed.

During the night the weather suddenly changed. An unforeseen storm
burst over the valley. In the morning a stream flowed through the
meadows carrying in its current the newly cut hay of all the neighbors.
Bernard alone saved his.

From that day forward he followed the lawyer’s advice, and in course
of time became one of the richest farmers in the district. Nor did he
forget that he owed his success to the lawyer, to whom he carried every
year a couple of fat fowls.--SELECTED.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Anger and haste hinder good counsel.




THE SOLDIER’S DREAM


    Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,
      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
    And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered--
      The weary to sleep and the wounded to die.

    When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
      By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
    At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
      And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

    Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array,
      Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
    ’Twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way
      To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

    I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
      In life’s morning march when my bosom was young;
    I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
      And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

    Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
      From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
    My little ones kissed me a thousand times o’er,
      And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

    “Stay, stay with us!--rest; thou art weary and worn!”
      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
    But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!

    --THOMAS CAMPBELL.




MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH


    Men of Harlech! in the hollow,
    Do you hear, like rushing billow,
    Wave on wave that surging follow
      Battle’s distant sound?
    ’Tis the tramp of Saxon foemen,
    Saxon spearmen, Saxon bowmen,--
    Be they knights or hinds or yeomen,
      They shall bite the ground!
      Loose the folds asunder,
      Flag we conquer under!
    The placid sky, now bright on high,
    Shall launch its bolts in thunder.
    Onwards! ’tis our country needs us.
    He is bravest, he who leads us!
    Honor’s self now proudly heads us!
    Cambria, God, and Right!
    Rocky steeps and passes narrow
    Flash with spear and flight of arrow.
    Who would think of death or sorrow?
      Death is glory now!
    Hurl the reeling horsemen over!
    Let the earth dead foemen cover!
    Fate of friend, of wife, of lover,
      Trembles on a blow!
      Strands of life are riven;
      Blow for blow is given
    In deadly lock or battle shock,
    And mercy shrieks to Heaven!
    Men of Harlech! young or hoary,
    Would you win a name in story?
    Strike for home, for life, for glory!
      Cambria, God, and Right!

    --WILLIAM DUTHIE.




HUGH JOHN SMITH BECOMES A SOLDIER


It was on the day before a great review of soldiers at the nearest town
that Hugh John Smith first became a soldier and a general. His father’s
house was connected by a short driveway with a great main road along
which king and beggar had for more than a thousand years gone to and
from the town.

[Illustration:  Duyray  THE CHARGE OF THE SCOTS GREYS AT WATERLOO]

Hugh John loved the wide road, and every day he ran down the driveway
and looked through the bars of the gate  to see who was passing. It
was a large white gate of strong wood, lovely to swing on, if by chance
it was left unfastened. It would shut of itself, and you had only to
push it open, jump on, and ride all the way back, while the gate swung
into place.

On the great day when Hugh John became a soldier, he had been digging
all the morning in the sand hole. He had on his red coat, which was his
pride, and he was taking a fort protected by high walls of sand. He
shouted “Boom!” when he fired off his cannon, and “Bang, whack!” when
he knocked down the walls that he had so carefully patted into shape.

Suddenly there came a sound which always made the heart of Hugh John
beat fast. It was the sound of the drum. He had only time to make a
dash for his soldier’s cap, gird on his sword with the gold hilt, and
fly. As he ran down the driveway, the sound of the fifes grew louder
and louder. It was at this point that Hugh John had a great struggle
with himself. His brother and sister were playing under an elm tree on
the front lawn. He could not bear that they should miss the soldiers.
But then, if he went back, the troops might be past before he reached
the gate.

“I must see the soldiers. I must--I must!” he cried.

But in his heart a little voice kept saying, “It is mean to go off
without telling your brother and sister.”

“I can’t be mean! I won’t be mean!” thought Hugh John. And so he ran
back with all his might, and with a warning cry called the younger
children to follow. Then with legs that passed each other so quickly
that they could hardly be seen, Hugh John fairly flung himself towards
the white gate. The gate was open, and with a wild cry he sprang
through and stood on the roadside just as the troops came into view.

The first who passed were soldiers in a dark uniform. No one cast a
glance at Hugh John. He stood with his drawn sword, giving the salute
as each company went by. Then came red coats and brass bands. Hugh John
saluted them all. No one paid the least attention to him. He did not,
indeed, expect any one to notice him. He was only a small dusty boy
with a sword too big for him, standing under the shadow of the elms.
But he saluted every one of them as they swung past, dust-choked and
thirsty.

At last came the Scottish bagpipes. Hugh John crossed the road, and
then he was nearer to the soldiers. Swinging step, waving plumes, all
in review order, came on the famous regiment. They passed by, and the
sound of the pipes soon grew faint in the distance. Then came more
companies of soldiers and more and more. And ever the sword of Hugh
John flashed to the salute, and his small arm grew weary as it rose and
fell.

Then happened the most astonishing thing in the world. It was the
greatest event in Hugh John’s life. There came to his ear a new sound,
the clatter of horses’ hoofs. A bugle rang out, and Hugh John’s eyes
watched the noble grey horses come tramping along as if proud of their
riders. He stood more erect than ever.

On they came, a fine young officer at their head. He sat erect on a
noble horse, leading one of the finest troops of horsemen in the world.
He saw the small dusty boy in his red coat standing by the roadside,
and he marked his pale face and his erect bearing. Hugh John had seen
soldiers before, but never any so fine as these. He could hardly lift
his sword, but his hand was steady and he went through the beautiful
movements of the military salute with order and precision.

The young officer smiled and raised his own sword in response, as if
Hugh John had been one of his own troopers. The boy’s heart stood
still. Could this thing be? A real soldier had saluted him. But there
was something more wonderful yet to come. The officer turned in his
saddle.

“Attention, men. Draw swords!” he cried, and his voice rang like a
trumpet.

There came a glitter of steel as the swords flashed into line. The
horses tossed their heads at the stirring sound. “Eyes right! Carry
swords!” came again the sharp command. And every blade made a circle
of glittering light as it rose to the salute. Tears welled up in Hugh
John’s eyes as he stood there in the pride of the honor done to him. He
had been treated as a real soldier by the greatest soldier there. He
was no longer a little dusty boy. Now he was a soldier indeed.

“Eyes front! Slope swords!” rang the words once more. The regiment
passed by, and only the far drum beats came back as Hugh John stood
silent under the elm tree. When his father rode up on his way home, he
asked the boy what he was doing there.

Hugh John wanted to laugh, but the tears ran down his cheeks. “I’m not
hurt, father,” he said, “I’m not crying. It was only that the Scots
Greys saluted me. But I’m not crying, I’m not indeed!” Then the stern
man gathered the great soldier up and set him across his saddle. He was
alone, for the other children had gone to their play. And thus rode our
hero home--Hugh John Smith no more, General Napoleon he called himself
now.

Late that night Hugh John stole down the hushed driveway, his bare feet
pattering through the dust which the dew was making cool. He stood
again by the roadside where he had seen the troops march by. Then
clasping his hands he made a solemn vow.

“The Scots Greys saluted me. Never, never, so long as I live, will I be
mean again!”--SAMUEL R. CROCKETT.

 _From “Sir Toady Lion,” by special permission of the Author._




ENGLAND’S DEAD


    Sons of the ocean isle!
    Where sleep your mighty dead?
    Show me what high and stately pile
    Is reared o’er Glory’s bed.
    Go, stranger! track the deep,
    Free, free, the white sail spread!
    Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
    Where rest not England’s dead.

    On Egypt’s burning plains,
    By the pyramid o’erswayed,
    With fearful power the noon-day reigns,
    And the palm-trees yield no shade.
    But let the angry sun
    From Heaven look fiercely red,
    Unfelt by those whose task is done!
    There slumber England’s dead.

    The hurricane hath might
    Along the Indian shore,
    And far, by Ganges’ banks at night,
    Is heard the tiger’s roar.
    But let the sound roll on!
    It hath no tone of dread,
    For those that from their toils are gone;
    There slumber England’s dead.

    Loud rush the torrent-floods
    The western wilds among,
    And free, in green Columbia’s woods,
    The hunter’s bow is strung.
    But let the floods rush on!
    Let the arrow’s flight be sped!
    Why should they reck whose task is done?
    There slumber England’s dead.

    The mountain-storms rise high
    In the snowy Pyrenees,
    And toss the pine-boughs through the sky,
    Like rose-leaves on the breeze.
    But let the storm rage on!
    Let the forest-wreaths be shed!
    For the Roncesvalles’ field is won;
    There slumber England’s dead.

    On the frozen deep’s repose
    ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
    When round the ship the ice-fields close,
    To chain her with their power.
    But let the ice drift on!
    Let the cold-blue desert spread!
    Their course with mast and flag is done;
    There slumber England’s dead.

    The warlike of the isles,
    The men of field and wave,
    Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
    The seas and shores their grave?
    Go, stranger! track the deep,
    Free, free, the white sail spread!
    Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
    Where rest not England’s dead.

    --FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.




A CHILD’S DREAM OF A STAR


There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought
of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child too, and
his constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They
wondered at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and
blueness of the sky; they wondered at the goodness and the power of
God, who made the lovely world.

They used to say to one another sometimes, “Supposing all the children
upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky
be sorry?” They believed they would be sorry. “For,” said they, “the
buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams
that gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water; and the
smallest bright specks, playing at hide-and-seek in the sky all night,
must surely be the children of the stars; and they would always be
grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more.”

There was one clear-shining star that used to come out in the sky
before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger
and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night
they watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever saw
it first cried out, “I see the star!” And often they cried out both
together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew
to be such friends with it, that before lying down on their beds, they
always looked out once again, to bid it good-night; and when they were
turning round to sleep they used to say, “God bless the star!”

But while she was still very young,--oh, very, very young,--the sister
drooped, and came to be so weak, that she could no longer stand at the
window at night; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and
when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient, pale face
on the bed, “I see the star!” and then a smile would come upon the
face, and a little, weak voice used to say, “God bless my brother and
the star!”

And so the time came, all too soon! when the child looked out alone,
and when there was no face on the bed; and when there was a little
grave among the graves, not there before; and when the star made long
rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears.

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining
way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed,
he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw
a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star,
opening, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels
waited to receive him.

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the
people who were carried up into the star; and some came out from the
long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people’s necks, and
kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light,
and were so happy in their company, that, lying in his bed, he wept for
joy.

But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one
he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified
and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His
sister’s angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the
leader among those who had brought the people thither, “Is my brother
come?” And he said, “No.” She was turning hopefully away, when the
child stretched out his arms, and cried, “O sister, I am here! Take
me!” And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night;
and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down towards
him, as he saw it through his tears. From that hour forth, the child
looked out upon the star as on the Home he was to go to when his time
should come; and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone,
but to the star too, because of his sister’s angel gone before. There
was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and whilst he was so
little that he never yet had spoken a word, he stretched his tiny form
out on the bed, and died.

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels,
and the train of people, and the rows of angels, with their beaming
eyes all turned upon those people’s faces. Said his sister’s angel
to the leader, “Is my brother come?” And he said, “Not that one, but
another.” As the child beheld his brother’s angel in her arms, he
cried, “O sister, I am here! Take me!” And she turned and smiled upon
him, and the star was shining.

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old
servant came to him, and said, “Thy mother is no more. I bring her
blessing on her darling son!” Again at night he saw the star, and all
the former company. Said his sister’s angel to the leader, “Is my
brother come?” And he said, “Thy mother!” A mighty cry of joy went
forth through all the star, because the mother was reunited to her two
children. And he cried, “O mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take
me!” And they answered him, “Not yet,” and the star was shining.

He grew to be a man whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in
his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed
with tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister’s angel
to the leader, “Is my brother come?” And he said, “Nay, but his maiden
daughter.” And the man who had been the child saw his daughter newly
lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said,
“My daughter’s head is on my sister’s bosom, and her arm is round my
mother’s neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can
bear the parting from her--God be praised!” And the star was shining.

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his face was wrinkled, and
his steps were slow, and his back was bent. One night, as he lay upon
his bed, his children standing around, he cried, as he had cried so
long ago, “I see the star!” They whispered to one another, “He is
dying.” And he said, “I am. My age is falling from me like a garment,
and I move towards the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I thank
Thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who await
me!” And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave.

    --CHARLES DICKENS.




EXCELSIOR


    The shades of night were falling fast,
    As through an Alpine village passed
    A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice,
    A banner with the strange device,
              Excelsior!

    His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
    Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
    And like a silver clarion rung
    The accents of that unknown tongue,
              Excelsior!

    In happy homes he saw the light
    Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
    Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
    And from his lips escaped a groan,
              Excelsior!

    “Try not the pass!” the old man said;
    “Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
    The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”
    And loud that clarion voice replied,
              Excelsior!

    “O stay,” the maiden said, “and rest
    Thy weary head upon this breast!”
    A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
    But still he answered with a sigh,
              Excelsior!

    “Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch!
    Beware the awful avalanche!”
    This was the peasant’s last good-night,
    A voice replied, far up the height,
              Excelsior!

    At break of day, as heavenwards
    The pious monks of Saint Bernard
    Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
    A voice cried through the startled air,
              Excelsior!

    A traveller, by the faithful hound,
    Half-buried in the snow was found,
    Still grasping in his hand of ice
    That banner with the strange device,
              Excelsior!

    There in the twilight cold and gray,
    Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
    And from the sky, serene and far,
    A voice fell like a falling star,
              Excelsior!

    --HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.




THE SENTINEL’S POUCH


Private William Baum, of the Prussian army, as he stood peering into
the darkness, was almost wishing that the Austrians and Russians, whose
camp-fires he could see along the other side of the valley, would make
an attack, and give him something else to do than shiver in the wet.
But they did not; and Baum, growing colder and wetter every minute,
wished himself back in his snug little apple-orchard at the foot of
the Giant Mountains, where he used to be in bed every night before
the village clock tolled ten, after a good supper of brown bread and
cabbage.

“If the king had to be out in a night of this sort,” he said aloud,
“he’d soon be as tired of war as I am.”

“And how do you know he hasn’t?” broke in a sharp voice, close beside
him.

At once Baum was himself again. The first sign of a stranger
approaching his post recalled him to his duty as a soldier.

His musket was at his shoulder in a moment, and his voice rang out
clear and stern,--

“Stand! Who goes there?”

“A friend,” replied the unknown.

“Advance, friend, and give the pass-word.”

“‘The Prussian eagle.’”

“Pass, friend; all’s well.”

But instead of passing on, the stranger came close up to the sentry,
who could just make out by a stray gleam of moonlight, that his visitor
was wrapped in a horseman’s cloak, and had a hat drawn over his eyes in
such a way as to hide his face.

“You seem to have rather damp quarters here, comrade,” said he. “Why
don’t you have a smoke to warm yourself a bit?”

“Smoke!” replied the sentry. “Why, where do you come from, brother, not
to know that smoking on duty is forbidden?”

“But suppose the king gave you leave to smoke?” said the stranger.

“The king!” answered the soldier, gruffly. “What would my captain say?
Long before the king could hear of it, the drummer’s cane would make
acquaintance with my back.”

“Pooh! the captain’s not here to see you. Out with your pipe, man. I’ll
tell no tales.”

“Look here, you rascal!” cried the soldier, in an angry tone, “I half
suspect you’re some fellow who wants to get me into trouble. Now, if
that’s so, you had better be off before worse comes of it; for if you
say any more, I’ll give you a cuff you won’t like.”

“I’d like to see you try it,” said the other, with a laugh.

The soldier’s only reply was a blow which sent the stranger’s battered
old hat flying into the air, while he himself staggered back several
paces.

“Very good,” said he, recovering himself, and speaking in quite a
different tone. “You’ll hear of this to-morrow, my man, and get what
you deserve, never fear. Goodnight to you.”

He stooped as he spoke, and picking up something from the ground,
vanished into the darkness.

The sudden change in his unknown visitor’s tone and manner, and his
parting threat, caused some uneasiness to Baum. He began to fear that
he had insulted an officer of high rank--a colonel at the very least,
perhaps even a general.

“However,” thought he, “he doesn’t know my name, that’s one comfort;
and he won’t find it very easy to describe the spot where I was posted,
seeing that the night is so dark.”

But the next moment he gave a terrible start, for he had just missed
his tobacco-pouch, which usually hung at his belt; and he remembered
having seen the stranger pick up something as he went off. It must have
been the pouch, and his name was upon it in full.

There was not much sleep for poor Baum that night, although he was
relieved from guard half an hour later. He tried to keep up his courage
by telling himself over and over again that the general could hardly
punish him for obeying orders; but even this did not comfort him much,
for in those days there were very few things which a general could not
do to a private soldier.

The next morning, sure enough, a corporal and four men came to conduct
Private William Baum to headquarters; and when he got there, he
found all the generals standing around a little, lean, bright-eyed
man, in a very shabby dress, whom Baum knew at once to be the king
himself--Frederick the Great of Prussia.

“Gentlemen,” said Frederick, and with a sharp glance at the unlucky
sentry, “what does a Prussian soldier deserve, who strikes his king?”

“Death,” answered the generals with one voice.

“Good!” said Frederick. “Here is the man.” And he held out a
tobacco-pouch marked with the name of “William Baum.”

“Mercy, sire, mercy!” cried Baum, falling on his knees. “I never
thought it was Your Majesty with whom I was speaking.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” said the king, clapping him on the
shoulder; “and I hope all my soldiers will obey orders as well as you
do. I said you should get what you deserve, and so you shall; for I’ll
make you a sergeant this very day.”

And the king kept his word.--SELECTED.

       *       *       *       *       *

    He has enough who is content.




THE MILKMAID


    A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head,
    Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said:
    “Let me see,--I should think that this milk will procure
    One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.

    “Well then,--stop a bit,--it must not be forgotten,
    Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten;
    But if twenty for accident should be detached,
    It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.

    “Well, sixty sound eggs,--no, sound chickens, I mean:
    Of these some may die,--we’ll suppose seventeen,
    Seventeen! not so many--say ten at the most,
    Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

    “But then there’s their barley: how much will they need?
    Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,--
    So that’s a mere trifle; now then, let us see,
    At a fair market price how much money there’ll be.

    “Six shillings a pair--five--four--three-and-six.
    To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix;
    Now what will that make? Fifty chickens, I said,--
    Fifty times three-and-sixpence--I’ll ask Brother Ned.

    “O, but stop,--three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell ’em:
    Well, a pair is a couple,--now then let us tell ’em:
    A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!)
    Why, just a score times and five pair will remain.

    “Twenty-five pair of fowls--now how tiresome it is
    That I can’t reckon up so much money as this:
    Well, there’s no use in trying, so let’s give a guess,--
    I’ll say twenty pounds, and it can’t be no less.

    “Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow,
    Thirty geese and two turkeys,--eight pigs and a sow;
    Now if these turn out well, at the end of a year,
    I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, ‘tis clear.”

    Forgetting her burden, when this she had said,
    The maid superciliously tossed up her head;
    When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended,
    And so all her schemes for the future were ended.

    This moral, I think, may be safely attached,--
    “Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched.”

    --JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

    ’Tis always morning somewhere, and above
    The awakening continents from shore to shore
    Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.




TOM, THE WATER-BABY


One day Tom had a new adventure. He was sitting on a water-lily leaf,
he and his friend the dragon-fly, watching the gnats dance. The
dragon-fly had eaten as many as he wanted, and was sitting quite still
and sleepy, for it was very hot and bright.

The gnats danced a foot over his head quite happily, and a large black
fly settled within an inch of his nose and began washing his own face
and combing his hair with his paws. But the dragon-fly never stirred,
and kept on chatting to Tom about the times when he lived under the
water.

Suddenly Tom heard the strangest noise up the stream. He looked up
the water, and there he saw a sight as strange as the noise; a great
ball rolling over and over down the stream, seeming one moment of soft
brown fur, and the next of shining glass. Yet it was not a ball; for
sometimes it broke up and streamed away into pieces, and then it joined
again; and all the while the noise came out of it louder and louder.

Tom asked the dragon-fly what it could be; but of course, with his
short sight, he could not even see it, though it was not ten yards
away. So Tom set off to see for himself; and when he came near, the
ball turned out to be four or five beautiful otters, many times larger
than Tom, who were swimming about, and rolling and diving, and
twisting and scratching in the most charming fashion that ever was seen.

[Illustration]

But when the biggest of them saw Tom, she darted out from the rest, and
cried in the water-language sharply enough, “Quick, children, here is
something to eat, indeed!” and came at poor Tom, showing such a wicked
pair of eyes and such a set of sharp teeth in a grinning mouth, that
Tom, who had thought her very handsome, said to himself, “Handsome is
that handsome does,” and slipped in between the water-lily roots as
fast as he could, and then turned around and laughed at her.

“Come out,” said the wicked old otter, “or it will be the worse for
you.”

But Tom looked at her from between two thick roots, and shook them with
all his might.

“Come away, children,” said the otter. “It is not worth eating, after
all. It is only an eft, which nothing eats.”

“I am not an eft!” said Tom. “Efts have tails.”

“You are an eft,” said the otter. “I see your two hands quite plainly,
and I know that you have a tail.”

“I tell you I have not,” said Tom. “Look here!” and he turned his
pretty little self quite round; and sure enough, he had no more tail
than you have.

The otter might have got out of it by saying that Tom was a frog; but,
like a great many other people, when she had once said a thing she
stood to it, right or wrong.

“I say you are an eft,” said the otter, “and therefore you are, and not
fit food for gentlefolk like me and my children; you may stay there
till the salmon eat you.” She knew the salmon would not, but she wished
to frighten poor Tom.

“What are salmon?” asked Tom.

“Fish, you eft; great fish, nice to eat. They are the lords of the
fish, and we are lords of the salmon;” and she laughed again. “They
are coming soon, children, coming soon; I can smell the rain coming up
off the sea. Then hurrah for fresh salmon and plenty of eating all day
long.”

The otter grew so proud that she turned head over heels twice, and then
stood upright half out of the water, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“And where do they come from?” asked Tom.

“Out of the sea, eft,--the great wide sea, where they might stay and be
safe if they liked.”

Then the otter sailed away down the brook, and Tom saw her no more for
that time. And lucky it was for her that she did so; for no sooner was
she gone than down the bank came seven little rough terrier dogs,
snuffing and yapping, grubbing and splashing, in full cry after the
otter.

Tom hid among the water-lilies till they were gone; for he could not
guess that they were the water-fairies come to help him. But he could
not help thinking of what the otter had said about the great river and
the broad sea. As he thought, he longed to go and see them. He could
not tell why; but the more he thought, the more he grew discontented
with the narrow little stream in which he lived, and with all his
companions. He wished to get out into the wide, wide world, and enjoy
all the wonderful sights of which he was sure it was full.

Once he set off to go down the stream, but the stream was very low, and
when he came to the shallows he could not keep under water, for there
was no water left to keep under. So the sun burned his back and made
him sick; and he went back again and lay quiet in the pool for a whole
week more.

Then on the evening of a very hot day he saw a wonderful sight. He had
been very stupid all day, and so had the trout; for they would not move
an inch to take a fly, though there were thousands on the water; but
lay dozing on the bottom under the shade of the stones. Tom lay dozing
too, and was glad to cuddle their smooth, cool sides, for the water was
warm and unpleasant.

Towards evening it grew suddenly dark, and Tom looked up and saw a
blanket of black clouds lying across the valley above his head. He felt
not quite frightened, but sat very still; for everything was still.
There was not a whisper of wind nor a chirp of a bird to be heard. Next
a few drops of rain fell into the water. One hit Tom on the nose, and
made him pop his head down quickly enough. Then the thunder roared, and
the lightning flashed from cloud to cloud and cliff to cliff, till the
rocks in the stream seemed to shake.

[Illustration]

Tom looked up at it through the water, and thought it the finest thing
he ever saw in his life. Out of the water he dare not put his head; for
the rain came down by bucketsful, and the hail fell like shot on the
stream, and churned it into foam. Soon the stream rose and rushed down,
higher and higher, full of beetles and sticks and straws. Tom could
hardly stand against the stream, and hid behind a rock. But the trout
did not hide; for out they rushed from among the stones, and began
gobbling the beetles and leeches in the most greedy and quarrelsome
way; swimming about with great worms in their mouths, tugging and
kicking to get them away from each other.

By the flashes of lightning Tom saw a new sight--all the bottom of the
stream alive with great eels, turning and twisting along, all down
stream and away. They had been hiding for weeks past in the cracks of
the rocks and in burrows in the mud. Tom had hardly ever seen them
except now and then at night; but now they were all out, and went
hurrying past him so fiercely and wildly that he was quite frightened.

As they hurried past he could hear them say to each other, “We must
hurry! We must hurry! What a jolly thunder-storm! Down to the sea! Down
to the sea!”

Then the otter came by with all her brood, twining and sweeping along
as fast as the eels themselves.

She spied Tom as she came by and said, “Now is your time, eft, if you
wish to see the world. Come along, children, never mind those eels; we
shall breakfast on salmon to-morrow. Down to the sea! Down to the sea!”

Then came a flash brighter than all the rest, and by the light of
it--in the thousandth part of a second they were gone again--but he had
seen them, he was certain of it--three beautiful little white girls,
with their arms twined round each other’s necks, floating down the
torrent, as they sang, “Down to the sea! Down to the sea!”

“Oh, stay! Wait for me!” cried Tom; but they were gone. Yet he could
hear their voices clear and sweet through the roar of thunder and water
and wind, singing as they died away, “Down to the sea!”

[Illustration]

“Down to the sea?” said Tom. “Everything is going to the sea, and I
shall go, too. Good-by, trout.”

Now down the rushing stream he went, guided by the bright flashes of
the storm; past tall birch-fringed rocks, which shone out one moment
as clear as day, and the next were dark as night.

Past dark coves under the banks, from which great trout rushed out on
Tom, thinking him to be good to eat, but turned back quickly, for the
fairies sent them home again with a scolding for daring to meddle with
a water-baby. Along deep reaches, where the white water-lilies tossed
and flapped beneath the wind and hail; past sleeping villages; under
dark bridges, and away and away to the sea. Tom could not stop, and did
not care to stop; he would see the great world below, and the salmon,
and the breakers, and the wide, wide sea.--CHARLES KINGSLEY.




AN APRIL DAY


    All day the low-hung clouds have dropped
      Their garnered fulness down;
    All day that soft gray mist hath wrapped
      Hill, valley, grove, and town.
    There has not been a sound to-day
      To break the calm of nature:
    Nor motion, I might almost say,
      Of life, or living creature;
    Of waving bough, or warbling bird,
      Or cattle faintly lowing;
    I could have half-believed I heard
      The leaves and blossoms growing.

    I stood to hear--I love it well--
      The rain’s continuous sound;
    Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,
      Down straight into the ground.
    For leafy thickness is not yet
      Earth’s naked breast to screen,
    Though every dripping branch is set
      With shoots of tender green.

    Sure, since I looked at early morn,
      Those honeysuckle buds
    Have swelled to double growth; that thorn
      Hath put forth larger studs;
    That lilac’s cleaving cones have burst,
      The milk-white flowers revealing;
    Even now, upon my senses first
      Methinks their sweets are stealing.

    Down, down they come,--those fruitful stores!
      Those earth-rejoicing drops!
    A momentary deluge pours,
      Then thins, decreases, stops;
    And, ere the dimples on the stream
      Have circled out of sight,
    Lo! from the west a parting gleam
      Breaks forth of amber light.
    But yet behold! abrupt and loud
      Comes down the glittering rain:
    The farewell of a passing cloud,
      The fringes of her train.

    --CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.




PUSSY WILLOW


    The brook is brimmed with melting snow,
      The maple sap is running,
    And on the highest elm, a crow
      His coal-black wings is sunning.
    A close, green bud the Mayflower lies
      Upon its mossy pillow;
    And sweet and low the south wind blows,
    And through the brown fields calling goes,
      “Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!”

    Soon red will bud the maple trees,
      The bluebirds will be singing,
    The yellow tassels in the breeze
      Be from the poplars swinging.
    And rosy will the Mayflower be
      Upon its mossy pillow,
    But you must come the first of all--
    “Come, Pussy!” is the south wind’s call,
      “Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!
    Within your close, brown wrapper stir,
    Come out and show your silver fur,
      Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!”

    --ANONYMOUS.




LAURA SECORD


In the year 1812 the United States of America declared war against
Great Britain. They were eager to conquer Canada and seemed confident
of success. The Canadians were filled with dismay at the news, for
their country was then in a desperate position. In the whole of Canada
there were less than forty-five hundred regular troops. Great Britain
was at war with Napoleon and could not lend much aid; but the brave men
who responded to the call to arms were determined to repel the invaders
and to save their country.

One of the most terrible battles of the war was fought in October,
at Queenston Heights on the Niagara River. It resulted in a victory
for the Canadians, but the victory was dearly bought. Brave General
Brock was killed, and the battle-field was strewn with the bodies of
volunteers who had died or been wounded in defence of their homes.

Among those who had been wounded, and lay helpless on the hillside, was
Captain James Secord of Queenston. Laura Secord, his wife, had watched
the battle from a distance, and hearing of his danger rushed up the
hill to his aid. While she knelt at his side, three American soldiers
attempted to kill him, but the slender, pale-faced woman stood in front
of her wounded husband and called for help. The captain of the cowardly
soldiers ordered them away, and Laura Secord, believing her husband to
be dead, lifted him in her arms and carried him to their home. It was
soon found that he still lived, and his wife’s tender nursing saved his
life. When the summer came again, he was still an invalid and unable to
walk.

The Canadians had retired from Queenston and the town was occupied by
an American force. The Secords had been compelled to remain in the
neighborhood on account of the captain’s health, and were frequently
forced to entertain the enemy in their home.

One June day a number of officers entered the house and commanded
Mrs. Secord to give them food. She pretended to be a very humble and
dull person, and began at once to prepare the meal. In the meantime
the officers discussed their general’s plans, and did not pay much
attention to the woman who had appeared so simple. Laura Secord,
however, listened to all they said, and discovered that they intended
to surprise the little handful of soldiers who were defending Beaver
Dam, and capture Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, the officer in charge.

When James Secord heard this news, he was in despair. The defenders of
Beaver Dam should be warned of the attack, but how could he, a crippled
soldier, carry the message? He was trying to think of a way out of the
difficulty when his wife startled him by saying, “I shall take the
message, to-morrow at daybreak. You are unable to go, and there is no
one else.”

This meant that she would have to pass the American pickets, and travel
in the heat, through twenty miles of bush. The woods were infested with
fierce Indians belonging to both armies, and attacks from them were
always to be expected. Her husband was unwilling to let her go, but
seeing no other way, he finally consented.

Laura Secord arose at daybreak on the morning of the 23d of June, and
began to prepare for her journey. Dressed in a short flannel skirt and
cotton jacket, without shoes or stockings, her milking-stool in one
hand, her pail in the other, she drove one of her cows close to the
American lines and sat down to milk it. Immediately the cow kicked
over the milking-pail and ran towards the bush. This happened two or
three times and the soldiers laughed heartily, and chaffed at the
sullen milkmaid’s clumsiness. She mumbled something about the cow being
“contrary” and ran past the sentry into the bush to catch it. Her
scant clothing and her evident anger at the cow deceived the man, who
let her pass without asking any questions. He did not know that the
cow’s antics had been caused by the pinches Mrs. Secord had given it,
and that the angry milkmaid was hurrying on her way to Beaver Dam.

A mile away she hid the pail and stool under the bushes, first milking
the cow to prevent her returning too soon to the clearing. Hour after
hour she tramped on, going over unbeaten paths to avoid the American
scouts. The underbrush in the first of the forest was tangled and
dense. Soon her feet were torn and bleeding, and every step she took
gave her pain. The slopes of the hills were thick with brush and
hard to climb, and swamps and streams had to be crossed in the most
dangerous ways. When night came, it was hard to tell which of the many
blazed trails she should take, and faint with hunger and pain she fell
to the ground many times.

About midnight she came to a clearing and began to hope her journey was
nearly ended, when the air was filled with the war-whoop of the Red
Indians. She was soon surrounded by a dozen savages who were covered
with warpaint and decked with feathers. Thinking her to be a spy, one
of them stepped close to her and demanded, “Woman! what does woman
want?” She was terrified, but knew that everything depended upon her
self-possession. She asked for the “Big Chief” and explained by signs
that the “Long knives” (the Americans) were coming, and that she must
reach the British. She soon discovered that the Indians were scouts
of the British and that she need have no fear. With a hearty “Ugh” of
understanding, one of them beckoned her to follow, and led the way
through the meadows to the British lines.

She gave her message to Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, who praised her bravery
and made her comfortable for the rest of the night. Her warning
prepared the little garrison for the attack which took place next day,
and so well were the plans made that the fifty men under Fitzgibbon
compelled the American force of five hundred soldiers to surrender,
almost without a struggle.

Laura Secord lived to be ninety-three years old, and when she died
in 1868, she was buried beside her husband on the ground which had
been the old battle-field of Lundy’s Lane. A handsome monument was
erected over her grave by Canadians, who wished to do honor to the
great courage of the woman who saved her countrymen from danger and
defeat.--HELEN PALK.

       *       *       *       *       *

    He that is down needs fear no fall;
      He that is low, no pride;
    He that is humble ever shall
      Have God to be his guide.




THE MAPLE LEAF FOREVER


    In days of yore, from Britain’s shore
      Wolfe, the dauntless hero, came,
    And planted firm Britannia’s flag
      On Canada’s fair domain.
    Here may it wave, our boast, our pride,
      And joined in love together,
    The Thistle, Shamrock, Rose entwine
      The Maple Leaf forever!

    The Maple Leaf, our emblem dear,
      The Maple Leaf forever!
    God save our King and Heaven bless
      The Maple Leaf forever!

    At Queenston’s Heights and Lundy’s Lane,
      Our brave fathers, side by side,
    For freedom, homes, and loved ones dear,
      Firmly stood and nobly died;
    And those dear rights which they maintained,
      We swear to yield them never!
    Our watchword evermore shall be,
      The Maple Leaf forever!

    Our fair Dominion now extends
      From Cape Race to Nootka Sound;




    May peace forever be our lot,
      And plenteous store abound:
    And may those ties of love be ours
      Which discord cannot sever,
    And flourish green o’er Freedom’s home,
      The Maple Leaf forever!

    On Merry England’s far-famed land
      May kind Heaven sweetly smile;
    God bless Old Scotland evermore,
      And Ireland’s Emerald Isle!
    Then swell the song both loud and long,
      Till rocks and forest quiver,
    God save our King, and Heaven bless
      The Maple Leaf forever!

    --ALEXANDER MUIR.




THE COLORS OF THE FLAG


    What is the blue on our flag, boys?
      The waves of the boundless sea,
    Where our vessels ride in their tameless pride,
      And the feet of the winds are free;
    From the sun and smiles of the coral isles
      To the ice of the South and North,
    With dauntless tread through tempests dread
      The guardian ships go forth.

    What is the white on our flag, boys?
      The honor of our land,
    Which burns in our sight like a beacon light
      And stands while the hills shall stand;
    Yea, dearer than fame is our land’s great name,
      And we fight, wherever we be,
    For the mothers and wives that pray for the lives
      Of the brave hearts over the sea.

    What is the red on our flag, boys?
      The blood of our heroes slain
    On the burning sands in the wild waste lands
      And the froth of the purple main;
    And it cries to God from the crimsoned sod
      And the crest of the waves outrolled,
    That He send us men to fight again
      As our fathers fought of old.

    We’ll stand by the dear old flag, boys,
      Whatever be said or done,
    Though the shots come fast, as we face the blast,
      And the foe be ten to one--
    Though our only reward be the thrust of a sword
      And a bullet in heart or brain.
    What matters one gone, if the flag float on
      And Britain be Lord of the main!

    --FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.




HOW THE MOUNTAIN WAS CLAD


There was a deep gorge between two mountains. Through this gorge a
large full stream flowed heavily over a rough and stony bottom. Both
sides were high and steep, and one side was bare; but close to its
foot, and so near the stream that the latter sprinkled it with moisture
every spring and autumn, stood a group of fresh-looking trees gazing
upwards and onwards, yet unable to advance this way or that.

“What if we should clothe the mountain,” said the juniper one day to
the foreign oak, to which it stood nearer than all others. The oak
looked down to find out who it was that spoke, and then it looked up
again without deigning a reply. The river rushed along so violently
that it worked itself into a white foam; the north wind forced its way
through the gorge, and shrieked in the clefts of the rocks; the naked
mountain, with its great weight, hung heavily over and felt cold.
“What if we should clothe the mountain?” said the juniper to the fir
on the other side. “If anybody is to do it, I suppose it must be we,”
said the fir, taking hold of its beard and glancing towards the birch.
“What do you think?” But the birch peered cautiously up the mountain,
which hung over it so threateningly that it seemed as if it could
scarcely breathe. “Let us clothe it in God’s name!” said the birch. And
so, though there were but these three, they undertook to clothe the
mountain. The juniper went first.

When they had gone a little way they met the heather. The juniper
seemed as though about to pass it. “Nay, take the heather along,” said
the fir. And the heather joined them. Soon it began to glide on before
the juniper. “Catch hold of me,” said the heather. The juniper did so,
and where there was only a wee crevice the heather thrust in a finger,
and where it first had placed a finger, the juniper took hold with its
whole hand. They crawled and crept along, the fir laboring on behind,
the birch also. “This is well worth doing,” said the birch.

But the mountain began to ponder on what manner of objects these might
be that were clambering up over it. And after it had been considering
the matter a few hundred years, it sent a little brook down to inquire.
It was yet in the time of the spring freshets, and the brook stole on
until it reached the heather. “Dear, dear heather, cannot you let me
pass? I am so small.” The heather was very busy; only raised itself
a little and pressed onwards. In, under, and onwards went the brook.
“Dear, dear juniper, cannot you let me pass? I am so small.” The
juniper looked sharply at it; but if the heather had let it pass, why,
in all reason, it must do so too. Under it and onwards went the brook;
and now came to the spot where the fir stood puffing on the hillside.
“Dear, dear fir, cannot you let me pass? I am really so small,” said
the brook, and it kissed the fir’s feet and made itself so very sweet.
The fir became bashful at this, and let it pass, but the birch raised
itself before the brook asked it. “Hi, hi, hi!” said the birch, and
grew. “Ha, ha, ha!” said the brook, and grew. “Ho, ho, ho!” said the
brook, and flung the heather and the juniper and the fir and the birch
flat on their faces and backs, up and down these great hills. The
mountain sat up for many hundred years musing on whether it had not
smiled a little that day.

It was plain enough the mountain did not want to be clad. The heather
fretted over this until it grew green again, and then started forward.
“Fresh courage!” said the heather.

The juniper had half raised itself to look at the heather, and
continued to keep this position, until at length it stood upright.
It scratched its head, and set forth again, taking such a vigorous
foothold that it seemed as though the mountain must feel it. “If you
will not have me, then I shall have you.” The fir crooked its toes a
little to find out whether they were whole, then lifted one foot, found
it whole, then the other, which proved also to be whole, then both of
them. It first examined the ground it had been over; next, where it
had been lying; and finally, where it should go. After this, it began
to wend its way slowly along, and acted as though it had never fallen.
The birch had become most wretchedly soiled, but now rose up and made
itself tidy. Then they sped onwards, faster and faster upwards, and on
either side in sunshine and in rain. “What in the world can this be?”
said the mountain, all glittering with dew, as the summer sun shone
down on it. The birds sang, the wood-mouse piped, the hare hopped
along, and the ermine hid itself and screamed.

Then the day came when the heather could peep with one eye over the
edge of the mountain. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” said the heather,
and away it went. “Dear me! what is it the heather sees?” said the
juniper, and moved on until it could peer up. “Oh dear, oh dear!” it
shrieked, and was gone.

“What’s the matter with the juniper to-day?” said the fir, and took
long strides onwards in the heat of the sun. Soon it could raise itself
on its toes and peep up. “Oh dear!” Branches and needles stood on end
in wonderment. It worked its way forward, came up, and was gone. “What
is it all the others see, and not I?” said the birch; and lifting well
its skirts it tripped after. It stretched its whole head up at once.
“Oh--oh--is not here a great forest of fir and heather, of juniper and
birch standing on the table-land waiting for us?” said the birch; and
its leaves quivered in the sunshine so that the dew trembled. “Ay, this
is what it is to reach the goal!” said the juniper.

    --_From the Norwegian of_ BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.

 _By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company._




LUCY GRAY


    Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;
      And, when I crossed the wild,
    I chanced to see at break of day
      The solitary child.

    No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
      She dwelt on a wide moor,--
    The sweetest thing that ever grew
      Beside a human door!

    You yet may spy the fawn at play,
      The hare upon the green;
    But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
      Will never more be seen.

    “To-night will be a stormy night--
      You to the town must go;
    And take a lantern, child, to light
      Your mother through the snow.”

    “That, father, will I gladly do;
      ’Tis scarcely afternoon,--
    The minster-clock has just struck two,
      And yonder is the moon.”

    At this the father raised his hook
      And snapped a fagot-band;
    He plied his work;--and Lucy took
      The lantern in her hand.

    Not blither is the mountain roe:
      With many a wanton stroke
    Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
      That rises up like smoke.

    The storm came on before its time;
      She wandered up and down;
    And many a hill did Lucy climb,
      But never reached the town.

    The wretched parents, all that night,
      Went shouting far and wide;
    But there was neither sound nor sight
      To serve them for a guide.

    At daybreak on a hill they stood
      That overlooked the moor;
    And thence they saw the bridge of wood
      A furlong from their door.

    They wept, and, turning homewards, cried,
      “In Heaven we all shall meet!”
    When in the snow the mother spied
      The print of Lucy’s feet.

    Then downwards from the steep hill’s edge
      They tracked the footmarks small;
    And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
      And by the long stone wall;

    And then an open field they crossed;
      The marks were still the same;
    They tracked them on, nor ever lost,
      And to the bridge they came.

    They followed from the snowy bank
      Those footmarks, one by one,
    Into the middle of the plank;
      And further there were none!

    Yet some maintain that to this day
      She is a living child;
    That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
      Upon the lonesome wild.

    O’er rough and smooth she trips along,
      And never looks behind;
    And sings a solitary song
      That whistles in the wind.

    --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

       *       *       *       *       *

                          Govern the lips
    As they were palace doors, the king within;
    Tranquil and fair and courteous be all words
    Which from that presence win.




BEAUTIFUL JOE


I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a small town. The first
thing I remember was lying close to my mother and being very snug and
warm. The next thing I remember was being always hungry. I am very
unwilling to say much about my early life. I have lived so long in
a family where there is never a harsh word spoken, and where no one
thinks of ill-treating anybody or anything, that it seems almost wrong
even to think or speak of such a matter as hurting a poor dumb beast.

[Illustration]

The man that owned my mother was a milkman. He kept one horse and three
cows, and he had a shaky old cart that he used to put his milk-cans
in. I don’t think there can be a worse man in the world than that
milkman. He used to beat and starve my mother. I have seen him use his
heavy whip to punish her. When I got older I asked her why she did not
run away. She said she did not wish to; but I soon found out that the
reason that she did not run away was because she loved her master.
Cruel and savage as he was, she yet loved him, and I believe she would
have laid down her life for him.

[Illustration: THE WOUNDED HOUND  R. ANSDELL.]

One reason for our master’s cruelty was his idleness. After he went his
rounds in the morning with his milk-cans, he had nothing to do till
late in the afternoon but take care of his stable and yard. If he had
kept them clean, it would have taken up all his time; but he never did
anything to make his home neat and pleasant.

My mother and I slept on a heap of straw in the corner of the stable,
and when she heard his step in the morning she always roused me, so
that we could run out as soon as he opened the stable door. He always
aimed a kick at us as we passed, but my mother taught me how to dodge
him.

After our master put the horse in the cart, and took in the cans, he
set out on his rounds. My mother always went with him. I used to ask
her why she followed such a man, and she would say that sometimes she
got a bone from the different houses they stopped at. But that was not
the whole reason. She liked the master so much, that in spite of his
cruelty she wanted to be with him.

I had not her sweet and patient disposition, and I would not go with
her. I watched her out of sight, and then ran up to the house to see if
the master’s wife had any scraps for me. I nearly always got something,
for she pitied me, and often gave me a kind word or look with the bits
of food that she threw to me.

I had a number of brothers and sisters--six in all. One rainy day when
we were eight weeks old the master, followed by two or three of his
ragged, dirty children, came into the stable, and looked at us. Then he
began to swear because we were so ugly, and said if we had been good
looking, he might have sold some of us. Mother watched him anxiously,
fearing some danger to her puppies, and looked up at him pleadingly.
It only made him swear the more. He took one puppy after another, and
right there, before his children and my poor distracted mother, put an
end to their lives. It was very terrible. I lay weak and trembling,
expecting every instant that my turn would come next. I don’t know why
he spared me. I was the only one left.

My mother never seemed the same after this. She was weak and miserable.
And though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. She
could not run after the master, and she lay on our heap of straw, only
turning over with her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One
day she licked me gently, wagged her tail, and died.

As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable, my master came into the
stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There
she lay, a little gaunt, scarred creature, starved and worried to death
by him. She would never again look kindly at me, or curl up to me at
night to keep me warm. Oh, how I hated her murderer! Still I kept quiet
till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart was nearly broken,
and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him a savage bite on
the ankle.

“Oho!” he said. “So you are going to be a fighter, are you? I’ll fix
you for that.” He seized me by the back of the neck and carried me out
to the yard where a log lay on the ground. “Tom,” he called to one of
his children, “bring me the hatchet!”

He laid my head on the log and pressed one hand on my struggling body.
There was a quick, dreadful pain, and he had cut off my ear close to my
head. Then he cut off the other ear, and turning me swiftly round, cut
off my tail. Then he let me go, and stood looking at me as I rolled on
the ground and yelped in agony. He was in such a passion that he did
not think that people passing on the street might hear me.

There was a young man going by. He heard my screams, and hurrying up
the path stood among us before the master caught sight of him.

In the midst of my pain, I heard the young man say, fiercely, “What
have you been doing to that dog?”

“I’ve been cutting his ears, for fighting, my young gentleman,” said my
master; “there is no law to prevent that, is there?”

“And there is no law to prevent me from taking a dog away from such a
cruel owner, either,” cried the young man; and giving the master an
angry look, he snatched me up in his arms, and walked down the path and
out of the gate.

I was moaning with pain, but still I looked up occasionally to see
which way we were going. We took the road to the town and stopped in
front of a pleasant-looking home. Carrying me gently in his arms, the
young man went up a walk leading to the back of the house. There was a
small stable there. He went into it and put me down on the floor. Some
boys were playing about the stable, and I heard them say, in horrified
tones, “Oh, Cousin Harry, what is the matter with that dog?”

“Hush,” he said. “Don’t say anything. You, Jack, go down to the kitchen
and ask Mary for a basin of warm water and a sponge, and don’t let your
mother or Laura hear you.”

A few minutes later the young man had bathed my ears and tail, and had
rubbed something on them that was cool and pleasant, and had bandaged
them firmly with strips of cotton. I felt much better and was able to
look about me.

Presently one of the boys cried out, “Here is Laura.” A young girl,
holding up one hand to shade her eyes from the sun, was coming up the
walk that led from the house to the stable. I thought then that I never
had seen such a beautiful girl, and I think so still. She was tall and
slender, and had lovely brown eyes and brown hair, and a sweet smile,
and just to look at her was enough to make one love her.

“Why, what a funny dog!” she said, and stopped short and looked at me.
Up to this, I had not thought what a queer-looking sight I must be. Now
I twisted round my head, saw the white bandage on my tail, and knowing
I was not a fit spectacle for a pretty young lady like that, I slunk
into a corner.

“Poor doggie, have I hurt your feelings?” she said. “What is the matter
with your head, good dog?”

“Dear Laura,” said the young man, coming up, “he got hurt, and I have
been bandaging him.”

“Who hurt him?”

“I would rather not tell you.”

“But I wish to know.” Her voice was as gentle as ever, but she spoke so
decidedly that the young man was obliged to tell her everything. All
the time he was speaking she kept touching me gently with her fingers.
When he had finished his account of rescuing me from the master, she
said quietly:--

“You will have the man punished?”

“What is the use? That won’t stop him from being cruel.”

“It will put a check on his cruelty.”

“I don’t think it would do any good,” said the young man.

“Cousin Harry!” and the young girl stood up very straight and tall, her
brown eyes flashing, and one hand pointing at me. “That animal has been
wronged; it looks to you to right it. The coward who has maimed it for
life should be punished. A child has a voice to tell its wrong, --a
poor, dumb creature must suffer in silence; in bitter, bitter silence.
And you are doing the man himself an injustice. If he is bad enough
to illtreat his dog, he will illtreat his wife and children. If he is
checked and punished now for his cruelty, he may reform. And even if
his wicked heart is not changed, he will be obliged to treat them with
outward kindness through fear of punishment. I want you to report that
man immediately. I shall go with you if you like.”

“Very well,” he said, and together they went off to the house.

The boys came and bent over me, as I lay on the floor in the corner. I
wasn’t much used to boys, and I didn’t know how they would treat me. It
seemed very strange to have them pat me, and call me “good dog.” No one
had ever said that to me before to-day.

One of them said, “What did Cousin Harry say the dog’s name was?”

“Joe,” answered another boy.

“We might call him ‘Ugly Joe,’ then,” said a lad with a round fat face
and laughing eyes.

“I don’t think Laura would like that,” said Jack, coming up behind him.
“You see,” he went on, “if you call him ‘Ugly Joe,’ she will say that
you are wounding the dog’s feelings. ‘Beautiful Joe’ would be more to
her liking.”

A shout went up from the boys. I don’t wonder they laughed.
Plain-looking I naturally was; but I must have been hideous in those
bandages.

“‘Beautiful,’ then, let it be,” they cried. “Let us go and tell mother,
and ask her to give us something for our beauty to eat,” and they all
trooped out of the stable.

    --MARSHALL SAUNDERS.

 _By permission of the Standard Publishing Co._




SOMEBODY’S DARLING


    Into a ward of the whitewashed halls
      Where the dead and dying lay,
    Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
      Somebody’s darling was borne one day--
    Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,
      Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
    Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
      The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.

    Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
      Kissing the snow of that fair young brow
    Pale are the lips of delicate mould,--
      Somebody’s darling is dying now.
    Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow
      Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
    Cross his hands on his bosom now,
      Somebody’s darling is still and cold.

    Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,
      Murmur a prayer soft and low;
    One bright curl from its fair mates take,--
      They were somebody’s pride you know.
    Somebody’s hand had rested there,--
      Was it a mother’s, soft and white?
    And have the lips of a sister fair
      Been baptized in those waves of light?

    God knows best; he has somebody’s love;
      Somebody’s heart enshrined him there;
    Somebody wafted his name above,
      Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
    Somebody wept when he marched away,
      Looking so handsome, brave, and grand:
    Somebody’s kiss on his forehead lay,
      Somebody clung to his parting hand.

    Somebody’s waiting and watching for him,
      Yearning to hold him again to the heart;
    And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
      And the smiling, childlike lips apart.
    Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
      Pausing to drop on his grave a tear:
    Carve on the wooden slab at his head,--
      “_Somebody’s darling slumbers here._”

    --MARIE LACOSTE.




HOME, SWEET HOME


    ’Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
    Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home;
    A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
    Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.
    Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
    There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

    An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
    Oh, give me my lowly, thatched cottage again.
    The birds singing gayly that came at my call;
    Give me them, and with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
    Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
    There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

    How sweet, too, to sit ’neath a fond father’s smile,
    And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile,
    Let others delight ’mid new pleasures to roam,
    But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!
    Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
    There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

    To thee I’ll return, overburdened with care;
    The heart’s dearest face will smile on me there,
    No more from that cottage again will I roam,
    Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
    Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
    There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.

    --JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.




THE BEAVERS


There were plenty of little low houses in the pond, and in each one
lived a family of beavers. It was the delight of the little beavers to
explore every corner of the pond, from the brook at the upper end to
the dam at the lower end.

Very likely the little fellows believed that the dam had always been
there. But, in fact, the old beavers had built it themselves. When they
first came to that spot in the woods, they found only a brook flowing
over a hard, gravelly bottom. They first cut down a bush and floated it
along till it stuck fast between a rock and a clump of trees. Next they
cut other bushes, and carried down poles and branches, till they had a
tangle of brush stretching from one bank to the other. Upon this they
piled sticks and stones and mud, and then more sticks and stones and
mud, and then still more sticks and stones and mud.

At last the dam was so high and solid that the water could not flow
through. So it spread out in a pond above the dam till it was deep
enough to trickle over the top and tinkle away in a little brook under
the trees.

Tiny islands were left here and there in the pond. The old beavers
built their houses on the islands or on the bank. First each mother
and father dug two tunnels from the bottom of the pond up through the
earth to the floor of their house. One tunnel was to be used when going
in and out during the summer. The other tunnel led to their winter
pantry under the water. This pantry was to be a pile of fresh sticks
cut in the woods every autumn.

[Illustration: THE BEAVERS AT WORK]

Around the two holes in the floor the beavers laid logs and stones in
a circle. Upon this foundation they piled sticks and sod to form walls
and a roof. Then they plastered the house all over with mud. At the
top of the roof they left a small hole, covered only with a tangle of
sticks. This was for fresh air. Last of all they swam inside and made
the walls even by gnawing off the sharp ends of the wood. Then the
house was ready to be furnished with beds of leaves and grasses.

Perhaps during the happy summer the baby beavers believed that play was
the most delightful thing in the world. But soon the father beavers
came strolling back to the village to cut down trees for the winter.
Then the little fellows found that work was even better fun than play.

One night the little beavers followed their parents into the woods and
watched them cut down a tree. The father stood up on his hind legs,
propping himself with his tail, and began to cut a notch around the
trunk. The mother helped on the other side. They gnawed upwards and
downwards, digging out huge chips with their chisel teeth. The circle
grew deeper and deeper, till the father’s head was almost hidden
whenever he thrust it in to take a fresh bite. When finally the wood
cracked and the tree-top began to sway, all the family scampered away
to the pond. They dived for the tunnel and hid in the house for a
while. There was danger that some hungry wildcat had heard the crash of
the branches and had hurried there to catch them for its supper.

As soon as it seemed safe to do so, the beavers paddled out again and
trotted away to the fallen tree. The parents trimmed off the branches
and cut the trunk into pieces short enough to carry. The father seized
a thick pole in his teeth and swung it over his shoulders. As he
dragged it towards the pond he kept his head twisted to one side, so
that the end of the pole trailed on the ground.

It happened that he reached the pond just in time to help mend the dam
with his thick pole. A pointed log had jammed a hole in the dam. The
water was beginning to pour through the hole with a rush. If the pond
should run dry, the doors of the tunnels would be left in plain sight.
Then probably a wolf, or some other enemy, would hide there to catch
the beavers on their way from the woods to their houses.

The old father pushed his pole into the water; then he jumped in, and
taking hold of it with his teeth, he swam out above the hole. When he
let go, the water carried the pole squarely across the break in the
dam. The other beavers cut bushes and floated them down to weave across
the hole. After that they scooped up mud and stones to plaster the dam
till not a drop trickled through the mended places.

The next work to be done that autumn was to gather food for the winter.
Some of the trees with the juiciest bark grew too far away to be
easily dragged to the pond. All the grown-up beavers set to work to
dig a canal. They dug and scooped and gnawed off roots, and dragged
out stones, till they had made a long canal more than a foot deep. The
water flowed into this from the pond. Then it was easy enough to float
wood from the juicy trees down to the beaver village.

Even the babies could help in towing the wood down the canal and across
the pond to the different houses. Some of the wood became so heavy
with soaked-up water that it sank to the bottom beside the doors, and
could be packed in a solid pile as easily as on land. Most of the wood,
however, kept light enough to float. Instead of heaping new sticks on
top, the beavers pushed them under the top branches. Then more was
pressed under that, and more under that, till the pile reached to the
bottom. In the winter, of course, the top sticks could not be eaten,
because they would be frozen fast in the ice.

All winter long the beavers lived quietly in their little homes under
the snow. Most of the time they slept, each on his own soft bed in the
dark. Whenever they were hungry, they paddled down the tunnel which
led to the woodpile. Gnawing off some sticks they swam back with the
bundles under their chins. They used the middle of the room for a
dining-table. There they nibbled the bark. Then they carried the peeled
sticks back into the pond. They did not like to have rubbish left on
the floor.

So the winter months slipped away. At last spring melted the ice on the
pond. Here and there in the black water little brown heads came popping
up. They went ploughing towards shore, leaving the rippled water
stretching behind. Up the banks scrambled the beavers,--mother beavers
and father beavers, big brother beavers and big sister beavers, and all
the little beavers who had been babies the year before. Away roamed
the fathers up the brook, to have a good time travelling all summer
long. The grown-up brothers and sisters began to build dams and houses
of their own, while the little fellows wandered into the woods to find
their dinners of tender buds and twigs.

    --JULIA AUGUSTA SWARTZ.

 _From “Wilderness Babies,” by permission of Little, Brown & Company._

       *       *       *       *       *

    There’s not a flower that decks the vale,
      There’s not a beam that lights the mountain,
    There’s not a shrub that scents the gale,
      There’s not a wind that stirs the fountain,
    But in its use or beauty shows
      True love to us, and love undying.




THE BROOK


    I come from haunts of coot and hern,
      I make a sudden sally,
    And sparkle out among the fern,
      To bicker down a valley.

    By thirty hills I hurry down,
      Or slip between the ridges,
    By twenty thorps, a little town,
      And half a hundred bridges.

    Till last by Philip’s farm I flow
      To join the brimming river;
    For men may come, and men may go,
      But I go on forever.

    I chatter over stony ways,
      In little sharps and trebles,
    I bubble into eddying bays,
      I babble on the pebbles.

    With many a curve my banks I fret
      By many a field and fallow,
    And many a fairy foreland set
      With willow-weed and mallow.

    I chatter, chatter, as I flow,
      To join the brimming river;
    For men may come, and men may go,
      But I go on forever.

    I wind about, and in and out,
      With here a blossom sailing,
    And here and there a lusty trout,
      And here and there a grayling,

    And here and there a foamy flake
      Upon me, as I travel
    With many a silvery waterbreak
      Above the golden gravel,

    And draw them all along, and flow
      To join the brimming river;
    For men may come, and men may go,
      But I go on forever.

    I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
      I slide by hazel covers,
    I move the sweet forget-me-nots
      That grow for happy lovers.

    I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
      Among my skimming swallows,
    I make the netted sunbeam dance
      Against my sandy shallows.

    I murmur under moon and stars
      In brambly wildernesses;
    I linger by my shingly bars;
      I loiter round my cresses;

    And out again I curve and flow
      To join the brimming river;
    For men may come, and men may go,
      But I go on forever.

    --ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.




THE LITTLE POSTBOY


In my travels about the world I have made the acquaintance of a great
many children, and I might tell you many things about their dress,
their speech, and their habits of life in the different countries I
have visited. I presume, however, that you would rather hear me relate
some of my experiences in which children have taken part, so this shall
be the story of my adventure with a little postboy, in the northern
part of Sweden.

Very few foreigners travel in Sweden in the winter, on account of the
intense cold. I made my journey in this season, however, because I was
on my way to Lapland, where it is easier to travel when the swamps and
rivers are frozen, and the reindeer sleds can fly along over the smooth
snow. It was very cold, indeed, the greater part of the time; the days
were short and dark, and if I had not found the people so kind, so
cheerful, and so honest, I should more than once have felt inclined to
turn back.

But I do not think there are better people in the world than those who
live in Norrland, which is a province in the northern part of Sweden.
They are a tall, strong race, with yellow hair and bright blue eyes.
They live plainly, but very comfortably, in snug wooden houses, with
double windows and doors to keep out the cold; and since they cannot
do much outdoor work, they spin and weave and mend their farming
implements in the large family room, thus enjoying the winter in spite
of its severity.

Here there are neither railroads nor stages, but the government has
established post stations at distances varying from ten to twenty
miles. At each station a number of horses, and sometimes vehicles, are
kept, but generally the traveller has his own sled, and simply hires
the horses from one station to another. These horses are furnished
either by the keeper of the station or by some of the neighboring
farmers; and when they are wanted, a man or boy goes with the traveller
to bring them back.

I had my own little sled, filled with hay and covered with reindeer
skins to keep me warm. So long as the weather was not too cold, it was
very pleasant to speed along through the dark forests, over the frozen
rivers, or past farm after farm in the sheltered valleys, up hill and
down until long after the stars came out, then to get a warm supper
in some dark red post cottage, while the cheerful people sang or told
stories around the fire.

The cold increased a little every day, to be sure; but I became
gradually accustomed to it, and soon began to fancy that the Arctic
climate was not so difficult to endure as I had supposed. At first the
thermometer fell to zero; then it went down ten degrees below; then
twenty, and finally thirty. Being dressed in thick furs from head to
foot, I did not suffer greatly; but I was very glad when the people
assured me that such extreme cold never lasted more than two or three
days. Boys of twelve or fourteen very often went with me to bring their
fathers’ horses, and so long as those lively, red-cheeked fellows could
face the weather, it would not do for me to be afraid.

One night there was a wonderful aurora in the sky. The streamers of red
and blue light darted hither and thither, chasing each other up to the
zenith and down again to the northern horizon, with a rapidity and a
brilliance which I had never seen before.

“There will be a storm soon,” said my postboy; “one always comes after
these lights.”

Next morning the sky was overcast, and the short day was as dark as
our twilight. But it was not quite so cold, and I travelled onwards as
fast as possible. There was a long tract of wild and thinly settled
country before me, and I wished to get through it before stopping for
the night. Unfortunately it happened that two lumber merchants were
travelling the same way and had taken the post horses; so I was obliged
to wait at the stations until horses were brought from the neighboring
farms. This delayed me so much that at seven o’clock in the evening I
had still one more station of three Swedish miles before reaching the
village where I intended to spend the night. Now, a Swedish mile is
nearly equal to seven English miles, so that this station was at least
twenty miles long.

I decided to take supper while the horse was eating his feed. The
keeper’s wife--a friendly, rosy-faced woman--prepared me some excellent
coffee, potatoes, and stewed reindeer meat, upon which I made a
satisfactory meal. The house was on the border of a large, dark forest,
and the roar of the icy northern wind in the trees seemed to increase
while I waited in the warm room.

I did not feel inclined to go forth into the wintry storm, but, having
set my mind on reaching the village that night, I was loath to turn
back.

“It is a bad night,” said the woman, “and my husband who has gone on
with the two lumbermen will certainly stay at Umea until morning. His
name is Neils Petersen, and I think you will find him at the posthouse
when you get there. Lars will take you, and they can come back
together.”

“Who is Lars?” I asked.

“My son,” said she. “He is getting the horse ready. There is nobody
else about the house to-night.”

Just then the door opened, and in came Lars. He was about twelve years
old; but his face was so rosy, his eyes so clear and round and blue,
and his golden hair was blown back from his face in such silky curls,
that he appeared to be even younger. I was surprised that his mother
should be willing to send him twenty miles through the dark woods on
such a night.

“Come here, Lars,” I said. Then I took him by the hand and asked him,
“Are you not afraid to go so far to-night?”

He looked at me with wondering eyes, and smiled, and his mother made
haste to say:--

“You need not fear, sir. Lars is young, but he’ll take you safe enough.
If the storm doesn’t get worse, you will be at Umea by eleven o’clock.”

The boy had put on his overcoat of sheepskin, tied the lappets of his
fur cap under his chin and a thick woollen scarf around his nose and
mouth, so that only the round blue eyes were visible. Drawing on his
mittens of hare’s fur, he took a short leather whip, and was ready.

I wrapped myself in my furs, and we went out together. The driving snow
cut me in the face like needles, but Lars did not mind it in the least.
He jumped into the sled, which he had filled with fresh, soft hay,
tucked in the reindeer skins at the sides, and we cuddled together on
the narrow seat.

The night was dark, the snow blew incessantly, and the tall fir trees
roared all around us. Lars, however, knew the way, and somehow or other
we kept the beaten track. He talked to the horse so cheerfully that my
own spirits began to rise.

“Ho there, Axel!” he would say. “Keep the road,--not too far to the
left. Well done! Here’s a level; now trot a bit.”

So we went on,--sometimes up hill, sometimes down hill,--for a long
time, as it seemed. I began to grow chilly, and even Lars handed me
the reins, while he swung and beat his arms to keep the blood in
circulation. He no longer sang little songs as when we first set out;
but he was not in the least alarmed, or even impatient. Whenever I
asked, as I did about every five minutes, “Are we nearly there?” he
always answered, “A little farther.”

Suddenly the wind seemed to increase.

“Ah,” said he, “now I know where we are; it’s one mile more.” But one
mile, you must remember, meant _seven_.

Lars checked the horse, and peered anxiously from side to side in the
darkness. I looked also, but could see nothing.

“What is the matter?” I finally asked.

“We have got past the hills on the left,” he said. “The country is open
to the wind, and here the snow drifts worse than anywhere else on the
road. If there have been no snow ploughs out to-night, we shall have
trouble.”

You must know that the farmers along the road are obliged to turn out
with their horses and oxen, and plough down the drifts, whenever the
road is blocked up by a storm.

In less than a quarter of an hour we could see that the horse was
sinking in the deep snow. He plunged bravely forward, but made scarcely
any headway, and presently became so exhausted that he stood quite
still.

Lars and I stood up and looked around. In a few minutes the horse
started again, and with great labor carried us a few yards farther.

“Shall we get out and try to find the road?” said I.

“It’s no use,” Lars answered. “In these new drifts we would sink to the
waist. Wait a little, and we shall get through this one.”

It was as he said. Another pull brought us through the deep part of the
drift, and we reached a place where the snow was quite shallow. But
it was not the hard, smooth surface of the road; we could feel that
the ground was uneven, and covered with roots and bushes. Bidding Axel
stand still, Lars jumped out of the sled and began wading around among
the trees.

I shouted to him, in order to guide him, and it was not long before he
came back to the sled.

“If I knew where the road was,” said he, “I could get into it again.
But I don’t know, and I think we must stay here all night.”

“We shall freeze to death in an hour!” I cried. I was already chilled
to the bone. The wind had made me very drowsy, and I knew that if I
slept, I should soon be frozen.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Lars, cheerfully. “I am a Norrlander, and
Norrlanders never freeze. I went with the men to the bear hunt last
winter, upon the mountains, and we were several nights in the snow.
Besides, I know what my father did with a gentleman from Stockholm on
this very road, and we’ll do it to-night.”

“What is it?”

“Let me take care of Axel first,” said Lars. “We can spare him some hay
and one reindeer skin.”

It was a slow and difficult task to unharness the horse, but we
accomplished it at last. Lars then led him under the drooping branches
of a fir-tree, tied him to one of them, gave him an armful of hay,
and fastened the reindeer skin upon his back. Axel began to eat as if
satisfied with the arrangement.

When this was done, Lars spread the remaining hay evenly over the
bottom of the sled and covered it with the skins, which he tucked in
very firmly on the side towards the wind. Then lifting them on the
other side, he said:--

“Now take off your fur coat, quick, lay it over the hay, and then creep
under it.”

I obeyed as rapidly as possible. For an instant I shuddered in the icy
air; but the next moment I lay stretched in the bottom of the sled,
sheltered from the storm. I held up the ends of the reindeer skins
while Lars took off his coat and crept in beside me. Then we drew the
skins down and pressed the hay against them. When the wind seemed to
be entirely excluded, Lars said that we must pull off our boots, untie
our scarfs, and loosen our clothes. When this was done and we lay close
together, I found that the chill gradually passed out of my blood. My
hands and feet were no longer numb; a delightful feeling of comfort
crept over me, and I lay as snugly as in the best bed. I was surprised
to find that, although my head was covered, I did not feel stifled.
Enough air came in under the skins to prevent us from feeling oppressed.

In five minutes, I think, we were sound asleep, and I dreamed of
gathering peaches on a warm August day at home. In fact, I did not wake
up thoroughly during the night; neither did Lars, though it seemed to
me that we both talked in our sleep. I remember that his warm soft hair
pressed against my chin, and that his feet reached no farther than my
knees.

Just as I was beginning to feel a little cramped and stiff from lying
so still, I was suddenly aroused by the cold wind on my face. Lars had
risen up on his elbow, and was peeping out from under the skins. “I
think it must be near six o’clock,” he said. “The sky is clear, and I
can see the big star. We can start in another hour.”

I felt so much refreshed that I was for setting out at once, but Lars
remarked, very sensibly, that it was not yet possible to find the road.
While we were talking, Axel neighed.

“There they are!” cried Lars, and he immediately began to put on his
boots, his scarf, and heavy coat. I did the same, and by the time we
were ready, we heard shouts and the crack of whips. We harnessed Axel
to the sled, and proceeded slowly in the direction of the sounds, which
came, as we presently saw, from a company of farmers, out this early to
plough the road. They had six pairs of horses geared to a wooden frame,
something like the bow of a ship, pointed in front and spreading out to
a breadth of ten or twelve feet. The machine not only cut through the
drifts, but packed the snow, leaving a good solid road behind it. After
it had passed, we sped along merrily in the cold morning twilight, and
in little more than an hour reached the posthouse at Umea. There we
found Lars’s father prepared to return home. He waited until Lars had
eaten a good warm breakfast, when I said good-by to both, and went on
towards Lapland.

Lars was so quiet and cheerful and fearless, that although I had been
nearly all over the world and he had never been away from home, I felt
that I had learned a lesson from him, and might probably learn many
more, if I should know him better.

    --BAYARD TAYLOR.




HIAWATHA’S FRIENDS


    Two good friends had Hiawatha,
    Singled out from all the others,
    Bound to him in closest union,
    And to whom he gave the right hand
    Of his heart, in joy and sorrow;
    Chibiabos, the musician,
    And the very strong man, Kwasind.
      Straight between them ran the pathway,
    Never grew the grass upon it;
    Singing birds, that utter falsehoods,
    Story-tellers, mischief-makers,
    Found no eager ear to listen,
    Could not breed ill-will between them,
    For they kept each other’s counsel,
    Spake with naked hearts together,
    Pondering much and much contriving
    How the tribes of men might prosper.
      Most beloved by Hiawatha
    Was the gentle Chibiabos,
    He the best of all musicians,
    He the sweetest of all singers.
    Beautiful and childlike was he,
    Brave as man is, soft as woman,
    Pliant as a wand of willow,
    Stately as a deer with antlers.
      When he sang, the village listened;
    All the warriors gathered round him,
    All the women came to hear him;
    Now he stirred their souls to passion,
    Now he melted them to pity.
      From the hollow reeds he fashioned
    Flutes so musical and mellow,
    That the brook, the Sebowisha,
    Ceased to murmur in the woodland,
    That the wood-birds ceased from singing,
    And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
    Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,
    And the rabbit, the Wabasso,
    Sat upright to look and listen.
      Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,
    Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos,
    Teach my waves to flow in music,
    Softly as your words in singing!”
    Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,
    Envious, said, “O Chibiabos,
    Teach me tones as wild and wayward,
    Teach me songs as full of frenzy!”
      Yes, the robin, the Opechee,
    Joyous, said, “O Chibiabos,
    Teach me tones as sweet and tender,
    Teach me songs as full of gladness!”
      And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,
    Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos,
    Teach me tones as melancholy,
    Teach me songs as full of sadness!”
      All the many sounds of nature
    Borrowed sweetness from his singing;
    All the hearts of men were softened
    By the pathos of his music;
    For he sang of peace and freedom,
    Sang of beauty, love, and longing;
    Sang of death, and life undying
    In the Islands of the Blessed,
    In the kingdom of Ponemah,
    In the land of the Hereafter.
      Very dear to Hiawatha
    Was the gentle Chibiabos,
    He the best of all musicians,
    He the sweetest of all singers;
    For his gentleness he loved him,
    And the magic of his singing.
      Dear, too, unto Hiawatha
    Was the very strong man, Kwasind,
    He the strongest of all mortals,
    He the mightiest among many;
    For his very strength he loved him,
    For his strength allied to goodness.
      Idle in his youth was Kwasind,
    Very listless, dull, and dreamy,
    Never played with other children,
    Never fished and never hunted,
    Not like other children was he;
    But they saw that much he fasted,
    Much his Manito entreated,
    Much besought his Guardian Spirit.
      “Lazy Kwasind!” said his mother,
    “In my work you never help me!
    In the Summer you are roaming
    Idly in the fields and forests;
    In the Winter you are cowering
    O’er the firebrands in the wigwam!
    In the coldest days of Winter
    I must break the ice for fishing;
    With my nets you never help me!
    At the door my nets are hanging,
    Dripping, freezing with the water;
    Go and wring them, Yenadizze!
    Go and dry them in the sunshine!”
      Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind
    Rose, but made no angry answer;
    From the lodge went forth in silence,
    Took the nets, that hung together,
    Dripping, freezing at the doorway;
    Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,
    Like a wisp of straw he broke them,
    Could not wring them without breaking,
    Such the strength was in his fingers.
      “Lazy Kwasind!” said his father,
    “In the hunt you never help me;
    Every bow you touch is broken,
    Snapped asunder every arrow;
    Yet come with me to the forest,
    You shall bring the hunting homeward.”
      Down a narrow pass they wandered,
    Where a brooklet led them onward,
    Where the trail of deer and bison
    Marked the soft mud on the margin,
    Till they found all further passage
    Shut against them, barred securely
    By the trunks of trees uprooted,
    Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,
    And forbidding further passage.
      “We must go back,” said the old man,
    “O’er these logs we cannot clamber;
    Not a woodchuck could get through them,
    Not a squirrel clamber o’er them!”
    And straightway his pipe he lighted,
    And sat down to smoke and ponder.
    But before his pipe was finished,
    Lo! the path was cleared before him:
    All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,
    To the right hand, to the left hand,
    Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,
    Hurled the cedars light as lances.
      “Lazy Kwasind!” said the young men,
    As they sported in the meadow;
    “Why stand idly looking at us,
    Leaning on the rock behind you?
    Come and wrestle with the others,
    Let us pitch the quoit together!”
      Lazy Kwasind made no answer,
    To their challenge made no answer,
    Only rose, and, slowly turning,
    Seized the huge rock in his fingers,
    Tore it from its deep foundation,
    Poised it in the air a moment,
    Pitched it sheer into the river,
    Sheer into the swift Pauwating,
    Where it still is seen in Summer.
      Once as down that foaming river,
    Down the rapids of Pauwating,
    Kwasind sailed with his companions,
    In the stream he saw a beaver,
    Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,
    Struggling with the rushing currents,
    Rising, sinking in the water.
      Without speaking, without pausing,
    Kwasind leaped into the river,
    Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,
    Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,
    Followed him among the islands,
    Stayed so long beneath the water,
    That his terrified companions
    Cried, “Alas! good-by to Kwasind!
    We shall never more see Kwasind!”
    But he reappeared triumphant,
    And upon his shining shoulders
    Brought the beaver, dead and dripping,
    Brought the King of all the Beavers.
      And these two, as I have told you,
    Were the friends of Hiawatha,
    Chibiabos, the musician,
    And the very strong man, Kwasind.
    Long they lived in peace together,
    Spake with naked hearts together,
    Pondering much and much contriving
    How the tribes of men might prosper.

    --HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Lost time is never found again.




THE WHITE SHIP


Henry I, king of England, went over to Normandy with his son Prince
William and a great retinue to have the prince acknowledged as his
successor, and to contract a marriage between him and the daughter of
the Count of Anjou. Both these things were triumphantly done, with
great show and rejoicing; and on the 25th of November, in the year
1120, the whole company prepared to embark for the voyage home.

On that day, there came to the king, Fitz-Stephen, a sea-captain
and said, “My liege, my father served your father all his life upon
the sea. He steered the ship with the golden boy upon the prow, in
which your father sailed to conquer England. I have a fair vessel in
the harbor here, called _The White Ship_, manned by fifty sailors
of renown. I pray you, Sire, to let your servant have the honor of
steering you in _The White Ship_ to England.”

“I am sorry, friend,” replied the king, “that my ship is already
chosen, and that I cannot, therefore, sail with the son of the man who
served my father. But the prince and his company shall go along with
you in the fair _White Ship_ manned by the fifty sailors of renown.” An
hour or two afterwards, the king set sail in the vessel he had chosen,
accompanied by other vessels, and, sailing all night with a fair and
gentle wind, arrived upon the coast of England in the morning. While
it was yet night, the people in some of these ships heard a faint, wild
cry come over the sea, and wondered what it was.

Now the prince was a dissolute young man of eighteen, who bore no love
to the English, and who had declared that when he came to the throne,
he would yoke them to the plough like oxen. He went aboard _The White
Ship_ with one hundred and forty youthful nobles like himself, among
whom were eighteen noble ladies of the highest rank. All this gay
company, with their servants and the fifty sailors, made three hundred
souls aboard the fair _White Ship_.

“Give three casks of wine, Fitz-Stephen,” said the prince, “to the
fifty sailors of renown. My father the king has sailed out of the
harbor. What time is there to make merry here, and yet reach England
with the rest?”

“Prince,” said Fitz-Stephen, “before morning my fifty and _The White
Ship_ shall overtake the swiftest vessel in attendance on your father
the king, if we sail at midnight.” Then the prince commanded to make
merry; and the sailors drank the three casks of wine; and the prince
and all the noble company danced in the moonlight on the deck.

When, at last, the ship shot out of the harbor, there was not a
sober seaman on board. But the sails were all set, and the oars all
going merrily. Fitz-Stephen had the helm. The gay young nobles and
the beautiful ladies wrapped in mantles of various bright colors to
protect them from the cold, talked, laughed, and sang. The prince
encouraged the fifty sailors to row yet harder, for the honor of _The
White Ship_.

Crash! A terrific cry broke from three hundred hearts. It was the cry
the people, in the distant vessels of the king, heard faintly on the
water. _The White Ship_ had struck upon a rock,--was filling,--going
down! Fitz-Stephen hurried the prince into a boat with some few nobles.
“Push off,” he whispered, “and row to the land. It is not far off, and
the sea is smooth. The rest of us must die.” But as they rowed fast
away from the sinking ship, the prince heard the voice of his sister
calling for help. He never in his life had been so noble as he was
then. He cried in agony, “Row back at any risk! I cannot bear to leave
her!”

They rowed back. As the prince held out his arms to catch his sister,
such numbers leaped into the boat that it was overturned. And in the
same instant, _The White Ship_ went down. Only two men floated. They
both clung to the main-yard of the ship, which had broken from the mast
and now supported them. One asked the other who he was. He replied, “I
am a nobleman,--Godfrey by name, son of Gilbert. And you?”--”I am a
poor butcher of Rouen,” was the answer. Then they said together, “Lord
be merciful to us both!” and tried to encourage each other as they
drifted in the cold, benumbing sea on that unfortunate November night.

By and by another man came swimming towards them, whom they knew, when
he pushed aside his long wet hair, to be Fitz-Stephen. “Where is the
prince?” said he. “Gone, gone!” the two cried together. “Neither he,
nor his brother, nor his sister, nor the king’s niece, nor her brother,
nor any of all the brave three hundred, noble or commoner, except us
three, has risen above the water!” Fitz-Stephen, with a ghastly face,
cried, “Woe! woe to me!” and sank to the bottom.

The other two clung to the yard for some hours. At length the young
noble said faintly, “I am exhausted, and chilled with the cold, and can
hold no longer. Farewell, good friend! God preserve you!” So he dropped
and sank; and, of all the brilliant crowd, the poor butcher of Rouen
alone was saved. In the morning some fishermen saw him floating in his
sheepskin coat, and got him into their boat,--the sole relater of the
dismal tale.

For three days no one dared to carry the intelligence to the king. At
length they sent into his presence a little boy who, weeping bitterly
and falling at his feet, told him that _The White Ship_ was lost with
all on board. The king fell to the ground like a dead man, and never,
never afterwards was seen to smile.

    --CHARLES DICKENS.




THE ARAB AND HIS STEED


    My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
    With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
    Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed,
    I may not mount on thee again--thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.

    Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
    The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
    The stranger hath thy bridle-rein--thy master hath his gold--
    Fleet-limb’d and beautiful! farewell! thou’rt sold, my steed,
      thou’rt sold!

    Farewell! those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
    To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger’s home:
    Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
    The silky mane I braided once must be another’s care.

    [Illustration: Schreyer  ARABS AT A WELL IN THE DESERT]

    The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
    Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:
    Evening shall darken on the earth; and o’er the sandy plain
    Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

    Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
    Thy master’s home,--from all of these my exiled one must fly.
    Thy proud, dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
    And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master’s hand to meet.

    Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
    Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
    And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
    Then must I, starting, wake to feel--thou’rt sold, my Arab steed!

    Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
    Till foam-wreaths lie like crested waves, along thy panting side,
    And the rich blood that’s in thee swells in thy indignant pain,
    Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

    Will they ill-use thee? If I thought--but no, it cannot be--
    Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.
    And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone my lonely heart should yearn,
    Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

    Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
    When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish’d from his view?
    When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
    Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears.

    Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary step alone,
    Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on!
    And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think:
    It was here he bow’d his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!

    When last I saw thee drink!--Away! the fever’d dream is o’er;
    I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!
    They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong,
    They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

    Who said that I had given thee up, who said that thou wert sold?
    ’Tis false--’tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold.
    Thus, thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains,
    Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

    --CAROLINE NORTON.




A BRIDGE OF MONKEYS


For many days we had been pushing our way, as best we could, through
one of the densest of South American forests. Late one afternoon we
stopped by the side of a narrow but swiftly flowing river, and began
to prepare our camp for the night. Suddenly we heard, at some distance
from us on the other side of the stream, a great chattering and
screaming, as if thousands of monkeys were moving among the trees and
each trying to make more noise than all the rest.

“An army of monkeys on the march,” said our guide. “They are coming
this way, and will most likely cross the river yonder where the banks
are so steep, with those tall trees growing on either side.”

“How will they cross there?” I asked. “The water runs so swiftly that
they certainly cannot swim across.”

“Oh, no,” said the guide; “monkeys would rather go into fire than
water. If they cannot leap the stream, they will bridge it.”

“Bridge it! and how will they do that?”

“Wait, captain, and you shall see,” answered the guide.

We could now plainly see the animals making their way through the
tree-tops and approaching the place which the guide had pointed out. In
front was an old gray-headed monkey who directed all their movements
and seemed to be the general-in-chief of the army, while here and there
were other officers, each of whom appeared to have certain duties to
perform.

One ran out upon an overhanging branch, and, after looking across the
stream as if to measure the distance, scampered back and made a report
to the leader. There was at once a change in the conduct of the army.
Commands were given, and a number of able-bodied monkeys were marched
to the front. Then several ran along the bank, examining the trees on
both sides.

At length all gathered near a tall cottonwood, that grew over the
narrowest part of the stream, and twenty or thirty of them climbed
its trunk. The foremost--a strong fellow--ran out upon a limb, and,
taking several turns of his tail around it, slipped off, and hung head
downwards. The next on the limb climbed down the body of the first,
and, wrapping his tail tightly around him, dropped off in his turn, and
hung head downwards. And thus the third monkey fastened himself to the
second, and the fourth to the third, and so on, until the last one upon
the string rested his fore paws upon the ground.

The living chain now commenced swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
The motion was slight at first, but gradually increased, the monkey at
the lower end striking his hands against the ground and pushing out
with all his strength. This was kept up until the end of the chain was
thrown among the branches of the tree on the opposite bank. One of
these the lowermost monkey caught and held fast. The chain now reached
from one side of the stream to the other, forming a living bridge over
which all the other monkeys, young and old, passed without confusion or
delay.

The army was soon safely across, but how were the animals forming the
bridge to get themselves over? Should the monkey at the top of the
chain let go of the cottonwood branch, the other end of the bridge was
so much lower that he, with those nearest him, would be dashed against
the opposite bank or soused into the water.

The question was soon answered. A powerful fellow was seen taking firm
hold of the lowest on the bridge, then another fastened himself to him
in like manner, and this was continued until a dozen more were added to
the string. These last monkeys then ran up to a high limb, and lifted
that end of the bridge until it was several feet above that on the
opposite bank.

Then the monkey who had formed the first link in the chain loosed his
hold upon the cottonwood branch, and the whole bridge swung safely
over. The lowermost links dropped lightly to the ground, while the
higher ones leaped to the branches and came down by the trunk. The
whole army then scampered away into the forest, and the sound of their
chattering was soon lost in the distance.

    --MAYNE REID.

 _By special permission._




WE ARE SEVEN

    I met a little cottage girl;
      She was eight years old, she said;
    Her hair was thick with many a curl
      That clustered round her head.

    She had a rustic, woodland air,
      And she was wildly clad;
    Her eyes were fair, and very fair--
      Her beauty made me glad.

    “Sisters and brothers, little maid,
      How many may you be?”
    “How many? Seven in all,” she said,
      And wondering looked at me.

    “And where are they? I pray you tell.”
      She answered, “Seven are we;
    And two of us at Conway dwell,
      And two are gone to sea.

    “Two of us in the churchyard lie,
      My sister and my brother;
    And in the churchyard cottage I
      Dwell near them with my mother.”

    “You say that two at Conway dwell,
      And two are gone to sea,
    Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
      Sweet maid, how this may be?”

    Then did the little maid reply:
      “Seven boys and girls are we;
    Two of us in the churchyard lie,
      Beneath the churchyard tree.”

    “You run about, my little maid,
      Your limbs they are alive;
    If two are in the churchyard laid,
      Then ye are only five.”

    “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
      The little maid replied;
    “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
      And they are side by side.

    “My stockings there I often knit,
      My kerchief there I hem;
    And there upon the ground I sit,
      And sing a song to them.

    “And often after sunset, sir,
      When it is light and fair,
    I take my little porringer,
      And eat my supper there.

    “The first that died was sister Jane;
      In bed she moaning lay,
    Till God released her of her pain,
      And then she went away.

    “So in the churchyard she was laid;
      And, when the grass was dry,
    Together round her grave we played,
      My brother John and I.

    “And when the ground was white with snow,
      And I could run and slide,
    My brother John was forced to go,
      And he lies by her side.”

    “How many are you, then,” said I,
      “If they two are in Heaven?”
    Quick was the little maid’s reply,
      “O master! we are seven.”

    “But they are dead; those two are dead!
      Their spirits are in Heaven!”--
    ’Twas throwing words away; for still
    The little maid would have her will,
      And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

    --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.




THE MIRROR


A long, long time ago there lived in a quiet spot a young man and his
wife. They had one child, a little daughter, whom they both loved with
all their hearts. I cannot tell you their names, for they long since
have been forgotten; but the name of the place where they lived was
Matsuyama, in one of the provinces of Japan.

It happened once, while the little girl was still a baby, that the
father was obliged to go to the great city, the capital of Japan, upon
some business. It was too far for the mother and her little one to go,
and so he set out alone, after promising to bring home some pretty
presents for them. The mother had never been farther from home than the
next village, and she could not help being very anxious at the thought
of the long journey her husband was about to take. Yet she was proud,
too, for he was the first man in all that countryside who had been to
the big town where the king and his great lords lived, and where there
were so many beautiful and curious things to be seen.

At last the time came when she might expect her husband to return;
so she dressed the baby in her best clothes, and herself put on an
embroidered blue robe which she knew her husband liked. You may fancy
how glad she was to see him home again, and how the little girl clapped
her hands and laughed with delight when she saw the pretty toys her
father had brought for her. He had much to tell of all the wonderful
things he had seen upon his long journey, and in the great town which
he had visited.

“I have brought you a very curious present,” said the young man to his
wife. “Look, and tell me what you see inside of this.”

Then he gave her a plain, white wooden box, and when she had opened
it, she found a round piece of metal. One side of the metal was white
like frosted silver, and ornamented with raised figures of birds and
flowers; the other side was bright as the clearest crystal. Into its
shining surface the young mother looked with wonder and delight, for
there she saw smiling at her, with parted lips and bright eyes, a
happy, joyous face.

“What do you see?” again asked the husband, pleased at her
astonishment, and glad to show that he had learned something while he
had been away.

“I see a pretty woman looking at me, and she moves her lips as if she
were speaking, and--how very odd, she has on a blue dress like mine!”

“Why, you silly woman, it is your own face that you see,” said the
husband, proud of knowing something that his wife did not know. “That
round piece of metal is called a mirror. In the city everybody has a
mirror, but in this country place no one has ever before seen one.”

The wife was charmed with her present, and for a few days could not
look into the mirror often enough; for you must remember that, as this
was the first time she had seen a mirror, so of course it was the first
time she had ever seen the reflection of her own fair face. But she
considered such a wonderful thing far too precious for everyday use,
and soon shut it up in its box again, and put it away carefully among
her most valued treasures.

Years passed on, and the husband and wife still lived happily. The joy
of their life was their little daughter, who grew up the very image
of her mother, and who was so dutiful and affectionate that everybody
loved her. Remembering her own passing vanity on finding herself so
lovely in the mirror, the mother kept it carefully hidden away, fearing
that its use might breed a spirit of pride in her little girl.

She never spoke of the mirror and the father had forgotten all about
it. So it happened that the daughter grew up as simple as the mother
had been, and knew nothing of her own good looks, or of the mirror
which would have reflected them.

But by and by a sad misfortune came upon this happy little family. The
good, kind mother became ill; and although her daughter waited upon her
day and night with loving care, the sick woman grew worse and worse,
until at last they knew that she must soon die.

When she found that she must leave her husband and child, the poor
woman felt very sorrowful, grieving for those she should see no more,
and most of all for her little daughter. She called the girl to her
and said: “My darling child, you know that I am very ill: soon I must
die, and leave your dear father and you alone. When I am gone, promise
me that you will look into this mirror every night and every morning:
there you shall see me and know that I am still watching over you.”

With these words she took the mirror from the secret place where it was
kept, and gave it to her daughter. The child promised, with many tears,
to obey, and the mother, having become calm and resigned, died within a
short time.

Now the daughter never forgot her mother’s last request, but each
morning and evening took the mirror from its hiding place and looked
in it long and earnestly. There she saw the bright and smiling vision
of her lost mother; not pale and sickly as she was in her last days,
but young and beautiful as in the days of long ago. To her mother at
night the young girl told the story of the trials and difficulties of
the day; and to her mother in the morning she looked for sympathy and
encouragement in whatever might be in store for her.

So day by day she lived as in her mother’s sight, striving still to
please her as she had always done, and careful always to avoid whatever
might pain or grieve her. The maiden’s greatest joy was to be able to
look into the mirror and say: “Mother, I have been to-day what you
would have me to be.”

Seeing that his daughter looked into the mirror every night and
morning, and seemed to hold converse with it, her father at length
asked her the reason of her strange behavior.

“Father,” she said, “I look into the mirror every day to see my dear
mother and to talk with her.” Then she told him of her mother’s dying
wish, and that she had never failed to fulfil it.

Touched by so much simplicity, and such faithful, loving obedience, the
father shed tears of pity and affection. Nor could he find it in his
heart to tell the child that the image she saw in the mirror was but
the reflection of her own sweet face becoming day by day more and more
like her dead mother’s.

    --FROM THE JAPANESE.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Press on! if once and twice thy feet
      Slip back and stumble, harder try;
    From him who never dreads to meet
      Danger and death, they’re sure to fly.




THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS


    It was the schooner Hesperus,
      That sailed the wintry sea;
    And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
      To bear him company.

    Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
      Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
    And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
      That ope in the month of May.

    The skipper he stood beside the helm,
      His pipe was in his mouth,
    And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
      The smoke now west, now south.

    Then up and spake an old sailor,
      Had sailed the Spanish Main,
    “I pray thee put into yonder port,
      For I fear a hurricane.

    “Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
      And to-night no moon we see!”
    The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
      And a scornful laugh laughed he.

    Colder and louder blew the wind,
      A gale from the northeast;
    The snow fell hissing in the brine,
      And the billows frothed like yeast.

    Down came the storm, and smote amain
      The vessel in its strength;
    She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
      Then leaped her cable’s length.

    “Come hither! come hither! my little daughter
      And do not tremble so;
    For I can weather the roughest gale
      That ever wind did blow.”

    He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
      Against the stinging blast;
    He cut a rope from a broken spar,
      And bound her to the mast.

    “O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
      O say what may it be?”
    “’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”
      And he steered for the open sea.

    “O father! I hear the sound of guns,
      O say what may it be?”
    “Some ship in distress that cannot live
      In such an angry sea!”

    “O father! I see a gleaming light,
      O say what may it be?”
    But the father answered never a word,
      A frozen corpse was he.

    Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
      With his face turned to the skies,
    The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
      On his fixed and glassy eyes.

    Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
      That savèd she might be;
    And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave
      On the Lake of Galilee.

    And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
      Through the whistling sleet and snow,
    Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
      Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe.

    And ever the fitful gusts between
      A sound came from the land;
    It was the sound of the trampling surf,
      On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

    The breakers were right beneath her bows,
      She drifted a dreary wreck,
    And a whooping billow swept the crew
      Like icicles from her deck.

    She struck where the white and fleecy waves
      Looked soft as carded wool,
    But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
      Like the horns of an angry bull.

    Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
      With the masts went by the board;
    Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank
      Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

    At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
      A fisherman stood aghast,
    To see the form of a maiden fair,
      Lashed close to a drifting mast.

    The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
      The salt tears in her eyes;
    And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
      On the billows fall and rise.

    Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
      In the midnight and the snow!
    Christ save us all from a death like this,
      On the reef of Norman’s Woe!

    --HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Tender-handed stroke a nettle,
      And it stings you for your pains,
    Grasp it like a man of mettle,
      And it soft as silk remains.




THE BLACK DOUGLAS


King Edward I of England, commonly known as “Longshanks,” nearly
conquered Scotland. It was from no lack of spirit or energy that he did
not quite complete his troublesome task, but he died a little too soon.
On his death-bed he called his pretty, spiritless son to him, and made
him promise to carry on the war; he then ordered that his bones should
be wrapped up in a bull’s hide, and carried at the head of the army in
future campaigns against the Scots. Edward II soon forgot his promise
to his father, and spent his time in dissipation among his favorites,
and allowed the resolute Scots to recover Scotland.

Good James, Lord Douglas, was a very wise man in his day. He may not
have had long shanks, but he had a very long head. He was one of the
hardest foes with whom the two Edwards had to contend, and his long
head proved quite too powerful for the second Edward, who, in his
single campaign against the Scots, lost at Bannockburn nearly all that
his father had gained.

The tall Scottish castle of Roxburgh stood near the border, lifting its
grim turrets above the Teviot and the Tweed. When the Black Douglas,
as Lord James was called, had recovered castle after castle from
the English, he desired to gain this stronghold, and determined to
accomplish his wish. But he knew it could be taken only by surprise,
and a very wily affair it must be. He had outwitted the English so
many times that they were sharply on the lookout for him.

Near the castle was a gloomy old forest, called Jedburgh. Here, just
as the first days of spring began to kindle in the sunrise and the
sunsets, and warm the frosty hills, the Black Douglas concealed sixty
picked men.

It was Shrove-tide, and the festival was to be celebrated with song
and harp and a great blaze of light, and free offerings of wine in
the great hall of the castle. The garrison was to have leave for
merrymaking and indulging in revelry.

The sun had gone down in the red sky, and the long, deep shadows began
to fall on the woods, the river, the hills, and valleys. An officer’s
wife had retired from the great hall, where all was preparation for the
merrymaking, to the high battlements of the castle, in order to quiet
her little child and put it to rest. The sentinel, from time to time,
paced near her. She began to sing:--

    “Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!
    Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye:
    The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

She saw some strange objects moving across the level ground in the
distance. They greatly puzzled her. They did not travel quite like
animals, but they seemed to have four legs.

“What are those queer-looking things yonder?” she asked of the sentinel
as he drew near.

“They are Farmer Asher’s cattle,” said the soldier, straining his eyes
to discern the outlines of the long figures in the shadows. “The good
man is making merry to-night, and has forgotten to bring in his oxen;
lucky ’twill be if they do not fall a prey to the Black Douglas.”

So sure was he that the objects were cattle, that he ceased to watch
them longer. The woman’s eye, however, followed the queer-looking
cattle for some time, until they seemed to disappear under the outer
works of the castle. Then feeling quite at ease, she thought she would
sing again. Spring was in the evening air; and, perhaps, it was the
joyousness of spring which made her sing.

Now, the name of the Black Douglas had become so terrible to the
English that it was used to frighten the children, who, when they
misbehaved, were told that the Black Douglas would get them. The little
ditty I have quoted must have been very quieting to good children in
those alarming times.

So the good woman sang cheerily:--

    “Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye!
    Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;
    The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

“Do not be so sure of that,” said a husky voice close beside her, and
a mail-gloved hand fell solidly upon her shoulder. She was dreadfully
frightened, for she knew from the appearance of the man he must be the
Black Douglas.

The Scots came leaping over the walls. The garrison was merrymaking
below, and, almost before the disarmed revellers had any warning, the
Black Douglas was in the midst of them. The old stronghold was taken,
and many of the garrison were put to the sword; but the Black Douglas
spared the woman and the child, who probably never afterwards felt
quite so sure about the little ditty:--

    “Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye;
    The Black Douglas shall not get ye!”

Douglas had caused his picked men to approach the castle by walking on
their hands and knees, with long black cloaks thrown over their bodies,
and their ladders and weapons concealed under their cloaks. The men
thus presented very nearly the appearance of a herd of cattle in the
deep shadows, and completely deceived the sentinel, who was probably
thinking more of the music and dancing below, than of the watchful
enemy who had been haunting the gloomy woods of Jedburgh.

The Black Douglas fought with King Robert Bruce at Bannockburn. One
lovely June day, in the far-gone year of 1329, King Robert lay dying.
He called Douglas to his bedside, and told him that it had been one of
the dearest wishes of his heart to go to the Holy Land, and recover
Jerusalem from the Infidels; but since he could not go, he wished him
to embalm his heart after his death, and carry it to the Holy City, and
deposit it in the Holy Sepulchre.

Douglas had the heart of Bruce embalmed and enclosed in a silver case,
and wore it on a silver chain about his neck. He set out for Jerusalem,
but resolved first to visit Spain and engage in the war waged against
the Moorish king of Granada. He fell in Andalusia, in battle. Just
before his death he threw the silver casket into the thickest of the
fight, exclaiming, “Heart of Bruce, I follow thee or die!”

His dead body was found beside the casket, and the heart of Bruce was
brought back to Scotland and deposited in the ivy-clad Abbey of Melrose.

Douglas was a real hero, and few things more engaging than his exploits
were ever told under the holly and mistletoe, or in the warm Christmas
light of the old Scottish Yule-logs.--SIR WALTER SCOTT.




BRUCE AND THE SPIDER


    King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think;
    ’Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was
      beginning to sink,
    For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad,
    He had tried and tried, but couldn’t succeed, and so he became quite
      sad.

    He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be;
    And after a while as he pondered there, “I’ll give it all up,” said
      he.
    Now just at the moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clew,
    And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped to see what the
      spider would do.

    ’Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, and it hung by a rope so
      fine,
    That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not
      divine.
    It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavor,
    But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as
      ever.

    Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed, to utter the least complaint,
    Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, a little dizzy, and
      faint.
    Its head grew steady--again it went, and travelled a half yard
      higher,
    ’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet
      would tire.

    Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted,
    Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were
      counted.
    “Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more
      to climb,
    When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time.”

    But up the insect went once more, ah me, ’tis an anxious minute;
    He’s only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win
      it?
    Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got,
    And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his
      native spot.

    “Bravo, bravo!” the king cried out, “all honor to those who try;
    The spider up there defied despair; he conquered, and why shouldn’t
      I?”
    And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, and gossips tell the tale,
    That he tried once more as he tried before, and that time he did not
      fail.

    Pay goodly heed, all you who read, and beware of saying, “I can’t,”
    ’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead to Idleness, Folly, and Want.
    Whenever you find your heart despair of doing some goodly thing,
    Con over this strain, try bravely again, and remember the Spider and
      King.

    --ELIZA COOK.




THE OLD MAN OF THE MEADOW


When I was a little girl, I caught a grasshopper and put him into
a bottle. Then I sat down outside the bottle, and looked at the
grasshopper. He sat inside the bottle, and looked at me.

It began to grow upon my mind that the grasshopper looked much like
an old man. His face, with the big, solemn eyes and straight mouth,
was like an old man’s face. He wore a gray coat, like a loose duster.
He had a wrinkled greenish vest. He wore knee-breeches and long red
stockings. The more I looked at him, the more he looked like a little,
grave, old-time man who came to visit my aged grandfather. But I
thought my grasshopper in the bottle felt like a prisoner. I said, “Now
you may go, my Old Man of the Meadow.”

I took the cork out of the bottle. The grasshopper at once leaped up,
and sat on the rim of the bottle. Then a strange thing happened. The
Old Man of the Meadow spread out two wide brown wings. They had a
broad, lemon-colored band on them. They were gay as the wings of a
butterfly. On them he sailed away.

I could hardly believe my eyes. I ran after him to a tall stalk of
golden-rod. There he sat, a plain, gray-green old man. But again he
spread out the wide wings, and was gone. My Old Man of the Meadow had
then this splendid dress-coat under his sober overcoat. Seated at rest,
he looked plain and quiet,--a creature of the earth. Lifted into the
air, he was nearly as fine as a butterfly.

The grasshopper lives much in the grass, and his chief motion is in
hops, or long jumps. He has another name, “the murmurer.” This is given
him because of the noise or song he makes. His song is loud and shrill.
It is made by rubbing his wings one upon the other. He has a little
piece of skin like a tight drumhead set in each wing. As he moves his
wings, this tiny drum vibrates, or trembles, and makes the shrill
sound. Mrs. Grasshopper does not have this drum in her wings.

Let us take a closer look at the grasshopper. As he is an insect, he
should have a body made in rings, in three parts, with four wings and
six legs set on the second, or chest part. His front pair of legs is
shorter than the others. This hinders him in walking over a level
surface. But it helps him in walking up a tree, or small plant, or
a wall. See the hind legs! They are more than twice as long as the
others. The thigh, or upper part, is very long and strong. By means of
these big legs the grasshopper is a famous jumper.

Now, if you have a grasshopper to look at, you will see that the feet
have four parts. The part of the leg between the foot and the thigh
has sharp points like the teeth of a comb. The hind part of the body
is long and slender, and, being made of rings, can bend easily. In the
great green grasshopper all the body is of a fine green tint.

Let us look at the wings. The upper pair, or wing-covers, are large
and long. Notice two things about the wings: they lap at the tips, and
are high in the middle. When they are shut, they have a shape like a
slanting roof. The upper ones are longer than the lower ones. These
wing-cases have large veins. Lift up a wing-case and pull out a lower
wing. It is folded very closely, in lengthwise plaits. Where these
wings join Mr. Grasshopper’s body, you will find his drum plate for
making music. One kind of grasshopper has very short wing-covers. In
that kind, both Mr. and Mrs. Grasshopper make music. There is also one
grasshopper, a little green fellow, that has no drum, and is silent.

The upper side of the grasshopper’s chest is shaped like a great horny
collar. The head is large, and has two big glossy eyes. There is, also,
a knob on the forehead. Between the eyes are set the feelers. They are
very long, even longer than all the body. The mouth of the grasshopper
is wide, and it has strong jaws. But they are not so strong as those
of his cousin, the cricket.

Grasshoppers prefer vegetable food. They will sometimes eat animal
food. When two are shut up in a box, they will fight, and the one which
is killed will be eaten by the victor.

If you could look inside the grasshopper’s body, you would see that he
has a gizzard much like that of a chicken. It is made of little bands
set with fine teeth. These teeth chew up into a pulp the leaves which
the grasshopper has eaten. After he has eaten for a long time, he sits
quite still. He looks as if he were thinking. Sometimes, when he sits
in this way, he moves his mouth as if chewing. From this action, people
used to think that he chewed the cud, as cows and sheep do. But he does
not chew the cud. If you watch him well, in these silent times, you
will see him gravely licking his long feelers and his lips. He seems to
be cleaning them. To do this, he runs out a long, limber tongue, shaped
much like yours.

The color in the grasshopper does not seem to be laid on the surface
of his coat, as on that of the beetle. It is not put on in plumes and
scales, as the butterfly has it. But it is dyed through and through the
wings and body. The wing-cases and the rings of the body are not hard,
like horn or shell, as in the beetle tribe. They are of a tough skin,
and are dyed with the color.

The grasshopper does not change its home. It dies near where it was
born. Frost and cold kill it. It does not outlive the winter, as
butterflies, bees, and wasps do. Each grasshopper lives alone. He does
nothing for his neighbor, and his neighbor does nothing for him.

    --JULIA MACNAIR WRIGHT.




JOHN GILPIN


[Illustration]

    John Gilpin was a citizen
      Of credit and renown,
    A train-band captain eke was he
      Of famous London town.

    John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,
      “Though wedded we have been
    These thrice ten tedious years, yet we
      No holiday have seen.

    “To-morrow is our wedding-day,
      And we will then repair
    Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
      All in a chaise and pair.

    “My sister and my sister’s child,
      Myself and children three,
    Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
      On horseback after we.”

    He soon replied, “I do admire
      Of womankind but one;
    And you are she, my dearest dear,
      Therefore it shall be done.

    “I am a linen-draper bold,
      As all the world doth know,
    And my good friend the calender
      Will lend his horse to go.”

    Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said;
      And for that wine is dear,
    We will be furnished with our own,
      Which is both bright and clear.”

    John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
      O’erjoyed was he to find,
    That though on pleasure she was bent,
      She had a frugal mind.

    [Illustration]

    The morning came, the chaise was brought,
      But yet was not allowed
    To drive up to the door, lest all
      Should say that she was proud.

    So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
      Where they did all get in,--
    Six precious souls, and all agog
      To dash through thick and thin.

    Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,
      Were never folks so glad!
    The stones did rattle underneath,
      As if Cheapside were mad.

    John Gilpin at his horse’s side,
      Seized fast the flowing mane,
    And up he got, in haste to ride,
      But soon came down again:--

    For saddletree scarce reached had he,
      His journey to begin,
    When, turning round his head, he saw
      Three customers come in.

    So down he came; for loss of time,
      Although it grieved him sore,
    Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
      Would trouble him much more.

    ’Twas long before the customers
      Were suited to their mind,
    When Betty, screaming, came downstairs,
      “The wine is left behind!”

    “Good-lack!” quoth he, “yet bring it me,
      My leathern belt likewise,
    In which I bear my trusty sword,
      When I do exercise.”

    Now, Mrs. Gilpin (careful soul!)
      Had two stone bottles found,
    To hold the liquor that she loved,
      And keep it safe and sound.

    Each bottle had a curling ear,
      Through which the belt he drew
    And hung a bottle on each side,
      To make his balance true.

    Then over all, that he might be
      Equipped from top to toe,
    His long red cloak, well-brushed and neat,
      He manfully did throw.

    Now see him mounted once again
      Upon his nimble steed,
    Full slowly pacing o’er the stones,
      With caution and good heed.

    But finding soon a smoother road
      Beneath his well-shod feet,
    The snorting beast began to trot,
      Which galled him in his seat.

    So, “Fair and softly!” John he cried,
      But John he cried in vain;
    That trot became a gallop soon,
      In spite of curb and rein.

    So stooping down, as needs he must
      Who cannot sit upright,
    He grasped the mane with both his hands,
      And eke with all his might.

    His horse, who never in that sort
      Had handled been before,
    What thing upon his back had got
      Did wonder more and more.

    Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
      Away went hat and wig;
    He little dreamt, when he set out,
      Of running such a rig.

    [Illustration]

    The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
      Like streamer long and gay,
    Till, loop and button, failing both,
      At last it flew away.

    Then might all people well discern
      The bottles he had slung,--
    A bottle swinging at each side,
      As hath been said or sung.

    The dogs did bark, the children screamed,
      Up flew the windows all;
    And every soul cried out, “Well done!”
      As loud as he could bawl.

    Away went Gilpin--who but he?
      His fame soon spread around:
    “He carries weight! he rides a race!
      ’Tis for a thousand pound!”

    And still, as fast as he drew near,
      ’Twas wonderful to view,
    How in a trice the turnpike-men
      Their gates wide open threw.

    And now, as he went bowing down
      His reeking head full low,
    The bottles twain behind his back
      Were shattered at a blow.

    Down ran the wine into the road,
      Most piteous to be seen,
    Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke
      As they had basted been.

    But still he seemed to carry weight,
      With leathern girdle braced;
    For all might see the bottle-necks
      Still dangling at his waist.

    Thus all through merry Islington
      These gambols did he play,
    Until he came unto the Wash
      Of Edmonton so gay;

    And there he threw the Wash about
      On both sides of the way,
    Just like unto a trundling mop,
      Or a wild goose at play.

    At Edmonton, his loving wife
      From the balcony espied
    Her tender husband, wondering much
      To see how he did ride.

    “Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here’s the house!”
      They all at once did cry;
    “The dinner waits, and we are tired.”
      Said Gilpin,--”So am I!”

    But yet his horse was not a whit
      Inclined to tarry there!
    For why?--his owner had a house
      Full ten miles off, at Ware.

    So like an arrow swift he flew,
      Shot by an archer strong;
    So did he fly--which brings me to
      The middle of my song.

    Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
      And sore against his will,
    Till at his friend the calender’s
      His horse at last stood still.

    [Illustration]

    The calender, amazed to see
      His neighbor in such trim,
    Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate
      And thus accosted him:

    “What news? what news? your tidings tell;
      Tell me you must and shall;
    Say, why bareheaded you are come,
      Or why you come at all!”

    Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
      And loved a timely joke;
    And thus unto the calender
      In merry guise he spoke:

    “I came because your horse would come;
      And, if I well forbode,
    My hat and wig will soon be here,
      They are upon the road.”

    The calender, right glad to find
      His friend in merry pin,
    Returned him not a single word
      But to the house went in;

    Whence straight he came with hat and wig,
      A wig that flowed behind,
    A hat not much the worse for wear,
      Each comely in its kind.

    He held them up, and in his turn,
      Thus showed his ready wit:
    “My head is twice as big as yours,
      They therefore needs must fit.

    “But let me scrape the dirt away,
      That hangs upon your face;
    And stop and eat, for well you may
      Be in a hungry case.”

    Said John, “It is my wedding-day,
      And all the world would stare,
    If wife would dine at Edmonton,
      And I should dine at Ware.”

    So turning to his horse, he said--
      “I am in haste to dine:
    ’Twas for your pleasure you came here,
      You shall go back for mine.”

    Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast,
      For which he paid full dear;
    For, while he spake, a braying ass
      Did sing most loud and clear:

    Whereat his horse did snort, as he
      Had heard a lion roar,
    And galloped off with all his might,
      As he had done before.

    Away went Gilpin, and away
      Went Gilpin’s hat and wig;
    He lost them sooner than at first;
      For why?--they were too big.

    Now, mistress Gilpin, when she saw
      Her husband posting down
    Into the country--far away,
      She pulled out half-a-crown;

    And thus unto the youth, she said,
      That drove them to the Bell,
    “This shall be yours when you bring back
      My husband, safe and well.”

    The youth did ride and soon did meet
      John coming back amain;
    Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
      By catching at his rein;

    But, not performing what he meant,
      And gladly would have done,
    The frighted steed he frighted more,
      And made him faster run.

    Away went Gilpin, and away
      Went postboy at his heels,--
    The postboy’s horse right glad to miss
      The lumbering of the wheels.

    Six gentlemen upon the road,
      Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
    With postboy scampering in the rear,
      They raised the hue and cry:

    “Stop, thief! stop, thief!--a highwayman!”
      Not one of them was mute;
    And all and each that passed that way
      Did join in the pursuit.

    And now the turnpike-gates again
      Flew open in short space;
    The toll-men thinking as before,
      That Gilpin rode a race.

    And so he did, and won it too,
      For he got first to town;
    Nor stopped till where he had got up
      He did again get down.

    Now let us sing, long live the king,
      And Gilpin, long live he;
    And when he next doth ride abroad,
      May I be there to see!

    --WILLIAM COWPER.




A FOREST FIRE


The day was sultry, and towards noon a strong wind sprang up that
roared in the pine tops like the dashing of distant billows, but
without in the least degree abating the heat. The children were
lying listlessly upon the floor, and the girl and I were finishing
sunbonnets, when Mary suddenly exclaimed, “Bless us, mistress, what a
smoke!”

I ran immediately to the door, but was not able to distinguish ten
yards before me. The swamp immediately below us was on fire, and the
heavy wind was driving a dense black cloud of smoke directly towards
us.

“What can this mean?” I cried. “Who can have set fire to the fallow?”
As I ceased speaking, John Thomas stood pale and trembling before me.
“John, what is the meaning of this fire?”

“Oh, ma’am, I hope you will forgive me; it was I set fire to it, and I
would give all I have in the world if I had not done it.”

“What is the danger?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that we shall all be burnt up,” said John, beginning to
whimper. “What shall we do?”

“Why, we must get out of it as fast as we can, and leave the house to
its fate.”

“We can’t get out,” said the man, in a low, hollow tone, which seemed
the concentration of fear; “I would have got out of it if I could; but
just step to the back door, ma’am, and see.”

Behind, before, on every side, we were surrounded by a wall of fire,
burning furiously within a hundred yards of us, and cutting off all
possibility of retreat; for, could we have found an opening through the
burning heaps, we could not have seen our way through the dense canopy
of smoke, and, buried as we were in the heart of the forest, no one
could discover our situation till we were beyond the reach of help.

I closed the door, and went back to the parlor. Fear was knocking
loudly at my heart, for our utter helplessness destroyed all hope of
our being able to effect our escape. The girl sat upon the floor by the
children, who, unconscious of the peril that hung over them, had both
fallen asleep. She was silently weeping; while the boy who had caused
the mischief was crying aloud.

A strange calm succeeded my first alarm. I sat down upon the step of
the door, and watched the awful scene in silence. The fire was raging
in the cedar swamp immediately below the ridge on which the house
stood, and it presented a spectacle truly appalling.

From out of the dense folds of a canopy of black smoke--the blackest I
ever saw--leaped up red forks of lurid flame as high as the tree-tops,
igniting the branches of a group of tall pines that had been left
for saw logs. A deep gloom blotted out the heavens from our sight.
The air was filled with fiery particles, which floated even to the
doorstep--while the crackling and roaring of the flames might have been
heard at a great distance.

To reach the shore of the lake, we must pass through the burning
swamp, and not a bird could pass over it with unscorched wings. The
fierce wind drove the flames at the sides and back of the house up the
clearing; and our passage to the road or to the forest, on the right
and left, was entirely obstructed by a sea of flames. Our only ark of
safety was the house, so long as it remained untouched by the fire.

I turned to young Thomas, and asked him how long he thought that would
be. “When the fire clears this little ridge in front, ma’am. The Lord
have mercy on us then, or we must all go.”

The heat soon became suffocating. We were parched with thirst, and
there was not a drop of water in the house, and none to be procured
nearer than the lake. I turned once more to the door, hoping that a
passage might have been burnt through to the water. I saw nothing but a
dense cloud of fire and smoke--could hear nothing but the crackling and
roaring of flames, which were gaining so fast upon us that I felt their
scorching breath in my face.

“Ah,” thought I--and it was a most bitter thought--”what will my
beloved husband say when he returns and finds that his poor wife and
his dear girls have perished in this miserable manner? But God can save
us yet.”

The thought had scarcely found a voice in my heart before the wind rose
to a hurricane, scattering the flames on all sides into a tempest of
burning billows. I buried my head in my apron, for I thought that all
was lost, when a most terrific crash of thunder burst over our heads,
and, like the breaking of a waterspout, down came the rushing torrent
of rain which had been pent up for so many weeks.

In a few minutes the chip yard was all afloat, and the fire effectually
checked. The storm which, unnoticed by us, had been gathering all day,
and which was the only one of any note we had that summer, continued to
rage all night, and before morning had quite subdued the cruel enemy
whose approach we had viewed with such dread.

    --SUSANNAH MOODIE.




THE HORSES OF GRAVELOTTE


    Hot was the battle, and bloody the fight,
    Cool was the evening and peaceful the night.

    From the camp in the wood where the valley lies lone,
    Three times the signalling trumpet has blown.

    Loud and ringing its clear notes fall,
    Over wood and field they hear the “Recall.”

    In troops and by knots, by three and by two,
    Back they straggle, the valiant few.

    Ah! not all are returning back;
    Full many a man doth the regiment lack.

    They were there in their places at reveillé,
    At night they lie cold, and pallid to see.

    And horses whose saddles are empty to-night
    Are galloping wildly to left and to right.

    But the bray of the trumpet that sounds the recall,
    For the third time summoneth one and all.

    See the black stallion is pricking his ear,
    And neighs at the sound he is wont to hear.

    Look, how the brown ranges up to his side,
    It was ever his place when the trumpet cried.

    And next the blood-flecked dapple-gray
    Limps up to his place in the ranks to-day.

    By troops, by knots, by three and by two,
    Come riderless horses, to signal true.

    For horses and riders both know the “Recall,”
    And the trumpet-blast it is summoning all.

    And over three hundred came back that day,
    With empty saddles from that fierce fray.

    Over three hundred! How bloody the fight
    That emptied so many saddles that night!

    Over three hundred! The struggle was sore:
    One man had fallen out of every four.

    Over three hundred! When trumpets blew,
    The riderless steeds to the flag were true.

    When ye talk of Gravelotte’s noble dead,
    Praise the horses that answered in their stead.

    --GEROK.

 _From “German Ballads,” translated by Elizabeth Craigmyle, by
 permission of Walter Scott & Co. Limited._




FOUR-LEAF CLOVERS


    I know a place where the sun is like gold,
      And the cherry-blooms burst with snow;
    And down underneath is the loveliest nook,
      Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

    One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
      And one is for love, you know,
    But God put another in for luck--
      If you search, you will find where they grow.

    But you must have hope, and you must have faith,
      You must love and be strong, and so,
    If you work, if you wait, you will find the place
      Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

    --ELLA HIGGINSON.




ALADDIN


One day, in one of the rich provinces of China, an African magician
stopped to watch some boys at play. Being a magician, he knew that one
of them was called Aladdin, that his father was dead, that he and his
mother lived alone, and that he was a careless, idle fellow, just such
a boy as would be helpful to him, and one out of whom he could make a
tool.

The stranger, going up to Aladdin, touched him on the shoulder, and
said, “My lad, are you not the son of Mustapha, the tailor?”

“Yes,” answered the boy, “but my father has been dead for some time.”
On hearing this, the magician grieved greatly, and, embracing Aladdin,
said, “I am your father’s brother; go tell your mother I shall come and
sup with her to-night.” He then gave a handful of money to the boy, who
hastened home to relate to his mother all that had happened.

That night the stranger came. At the evening meal he expressed great
admiration for Aladdin, saying: “He must be very like what his father
was at his age; though it is forty years since I left my native
country, my love for my brother has kept his features in my mind, and I
recollected them the moment I saw the boy.”

When he asked Aladdin what trade he had chosen, the lad hung his head
in shame at not being able to give an answer to that question. His
mother replied that he was a worthless fellow, who cared only to loiter
in the streets. The magician reproved him for his idleness, and offered
to make a merchant of him, if he would but apply himself to business.
This Aladdin promised to do. His pretended uncle provided him with fine
clothing, and with many favors, won the confidence of the boy and his
mother.

One morning the magician set out with Aladdin to show him something
very wonderful. At length they came to a valley which separated two
mountains. Aladdin was directed to gather dry sticks and kindle a
fire. When this was done, the magician, pronouncing certain magical
words, cast a perfume into the blaze. Immediately a great smoke arose,
the earth trembled and opened, showing a large, flat stone. Then he
said to the frightened boy, “There is hidden under that stone an
immense treasure, which you may possess if you will carefully follow
my instructions.” Aladdin promised exact obedience. The magician then
embraced him, and putting a ring which would protect him from danger
upon his finger, bade him pronounce the names of his father and his
grandfather and raise the stone. Aladdin obeyed, and discovered a hole
several feet deep, and steps to descend lower.

“Observe,” said the magician, “what I am about to tell you. Not only
the possession of the treasure, but your life itself depends on your
careful attention. I have opened the cave, but am forbidden to enter
it. That honor is for you alone. Go down boldly, then. At the bottom of
the steps you will find three great halls, but touch nothing in them.
At the end of the halls you will come to a garden; at the farther end
of it you will find a lamp, burning in a niche. Take that lamp down,
throw away the wick, pour out the liquid, and put the lamp into your
bosom to bring to me.”

Aladdin secured the treasure and stopped to admire the trees, which
were loaded with fruits of many colors. He knew nothing of the value of
these fruits, but was so pleased with their beauty that he filled his
pockets. Then he returned to the entrance and called to his uncle to
assist him in getting out.

Through his magic, the magician had learned that if he could possess a
lamp hidden somewhere underground, it would make him more powerful than
any prince in the world, and he had resolved to have some friendless
boy bring him the wonderful talisman and then shut him up in the cave.
When Aladdin called for help, the magician refused to assist him until
he should give him the lamp, but this the boy would not do until he
was out of the cave. The dispute lasted a long time, when the magician
became so angry that he pronounced two magical words, which replaced
the stone and closed the earth. By this means he lost all hope of
obtaining the lamp; it was forever out of his power to open the cave
again. He set off immediately for his own country.

In vain did the terrified boy call upon his uncle to let him out. He
was in great despair. In this state he continued for two days, but on
the third day, in distress, he happened to clasp his hands together,
and in doing so rubbed the ring which the magician had put upon his
finger, and in his haste had forgotten to take away. Immediately an
enormous genie rose out of the earth, and said, “What wouldst thou? I
am ready to obey thee as thy slave whilst thou wearest that ring, I and
the other slaves of the ring.” Aladdin answered, “I charge thee, by
the ring, if thou art able, to release me from this place.” He had no
sooner spoken than the earth opened and the genie lifted him up to the
surface, and immediately disappeared.

Aladdin hastened home and related all to his mother, who was overjoyed
to see him, but distressed that she had no money with which to buy food
for him. They agreed to sell the lamp he had brought home, but to clean
it first, thinking if it were clean, it would bring a greater price.
As the mother began to rub it with sand and water, a genie of gigantic
size stood before her and said, “What wouldst thou? I am ready to obey
thee as thy slave, the slave of all those who hold that lamp in their
hands.”

The poor woman, overcome with fear, let the lamp fall, but Aladdin
caught it, and said, “I am hungry; bring me something to eat at
once.” The genie disappeared and returned with a large silver basin,
containing twelve covered plates of the same metal, all full of the
choicest dainties. When the provisions were all gone, Aladdin sold the
plates one by one for the support of himself and his mother.

One day Aladdin saw the beautiful daughter of the sultan. He was so
impressed with her beauty, that he requested his mother to go to the
sultan and to ask for him the hand of the princess in marriage. The
poor woman objected, saying, “How can I go to the sultan with such
a message? What extravagant madness! Besides, no one approaches the
sovereign to ask a favor without a gift. What have you to offer the
sultan, even for his smallest favor, much less for the highest he can
bestow?”

“I own,” replied Aladdin, “my wishes are extravagant, but you should
not think I can send no gift to the sultan. I am able to furnish you
with one I am sure he will accept.”

Then Aladdin arranged the fruits he had brought from the cavern,
but which in reality were magnificent jewels, in a vessel of fine
porcelain, and persuaded his mother to carry them to the monarch.
“Depend upon it, my son,” she said, “your present will be thrown away.
The sultan will either laugh at me, or be in so great a rage that he
will make us both the victims of his fury.”

The following day Aladdin’s mother appeared before the sultan and with
great fear made known her son’s desire. The instant the sultan heard
it, he burst into laughter, but when he saw the marvellous jewels, his
amusement gave place to amazement. He said, “My good woman, return to
your son and tell him he shall marry the princess when he sends to me
forty basins of gold, each filled with the same kind of stones, each
basin to be carried by a black slave, led by a young and handsome white
slave, all handsomely dressed.”

Full of disappointment the mother returned, but Aladdin received her
message with great pleasure. He rubbed his wonderful lamp. The genie
instantly appeared. Aladdin told him of the sultan’s demand, and
ordered him to provide all that was required. In a very short time the
house was filled with the forty black slaves, each carrying a large
gold basin filled with precious stones, and covered with a silver cloth
embroidered in gold. Each black slave was led by a white one. Aladdin
requested his mother to take this gift to the sultan.

All the passers-by stopped to gaze at the procession on its way to the
palace. The astonishment of the sultan himself was great. He turned
to Aladdin’s mother and said, “Go, my good woman, tell your son I am
waiting with open arms to receive him.”

The joy with which Aladdin received the message Was unutterable. When
he arrived at court, the sultan came from his throne to meet him, and
ordered the marriage to take place at once. But Aladdin begged that he
might have time to build a palace for the charming princess, and asked
the sultan to select a suitable place for it.

“My son,” said the sultan, “take the large open space before my palace;
that may suit your purpose.”

Aladdin returned home, summoned the genie, and ordered him to build a
magnificent palace opposite that of the sultan. The next morning at
daybreak the genie appeared and said, “Sir, your palace is finished;
come, see if it is as you desire.” The sultan was astonished; the
princess delighted. The marriage took place that day. For months they
lived in great happiness, and Aladdin won the love of the people by his
generosity.

About this time the wicked magician learned that Aladdin had been very
fortunate. He determined to destroy him, and immediately set off for
China. On his arrival, he mingled with the people at the inns, and from
them learned that the prince had gone on a hunting expedition, and
would not return for several days.

His next step was to obtain the lamp. He bought a dozen shining new
ones, placed them in a basket, then went to the palace, crying out,
“Who will change old lamps for new?” He drew a crowd of idle people
about him, so that the noise they made attracted the princess. One
of the women in waiting said, “Let us try if this man is as silly as
he pretends to be. There is an old copper lamp on a cornice; if the
princess pleases, we shall see if he will give a new one for the old.”

The princess consented, and the exchange was made. Alas, poor princess!
The magician had obtained the very prize he sought. At midnight he
rubbed the lamp. The genie appeared, saying, “What wouldst thou? I am
ready to obey thee as thy slave, the slave of all those who possess the
lamp.” “I command thee,” said the magician, “to transport the palace
which thou hast built, and all who are within, to a place in Africa.”
The genie obeyed.

The next morning the grief and anger of the sultan were terrible when
he found that both his daughter and the palace had disappeared. He
blamed Aladdin. He exclaimed, “Where is that impostor? Let his head pay
the price of his wickedness!”

Soldiers were sent in search of Aladdin, whom they met on his return
from hunting. He was dragged before the sultan as a criminal and
ordered to be instantly beheaded. But the people of the province, who
loved him very much, burst into the palace, and so alarmed the sultan
that he ordered the executioner to set him at liberty.

Then Aladdin said, “Oh, sire, let me know my crime.”

“You should know where your palace stood. Look and tell me what has
become of it.”

Aladdin was overcome with grief and despair. This angered the sultan
still more, and he exclaimed, “Bring back my daughter, whom I value
a thousand times beyond that palace; fail to do so, and nothing shall
prevent me from putting you to death.” Aladdin said: “Give me forty
days to search for my dear princess. If I am unsuccessful, I shall
return and deliver myself into your hands.”

“I give you forty days,” said the sultan.

Aladdin, wretched and downfallen, left the palace. As he wandered by
the bank of the river his foot slipped, and catching hold of a piece of
rock to save himself, he pressed the magician’s ring that he wore on
his finger. The genie of the ring appeared, saying, “What wouldst thou
have?” Aladdin cried out, “Oh, genie, bring back my palace to where it
stood.” “I cannot do what you command,” replied the genie; “you must
ask the slave of the lamp.” “At least,” begged Aladdin, “convey me to
the place where it now stands, and set me under the princess’s window.”
Instantly he found himself beside his palace.

The princess was walking in her chamber and weeping for him. Happening
to draw near the window, she saw Aladdin, and at once sent one of her
slaves to bring him into the palace by a private gate. When the joy of
their meeting had subsided, the princess told him they were in Africa.
Then Aladdin knew it was the wicked magician who had caused all his
trouble, and he asked his wife what had become of the old lamp he had
left on the cornice of the hall. The princess told him that her woman
had exchanged it for a new one, and that the tyrant in whose power she
was, carried that very lamp in his bosom, and that every day he paid
her a visit. They at last laid a plan by which they hoped to regain
possession of the talisman.

Aladdin went to the city in disguise as a slave; and bought a powder
which, if swallowed, would cause instant death. In the evening the
magician waited upon the princess, who received him very graciously.
After supper, when the wine was placed before them, the princess gave
a signal to the servant, who placed a golden goblet before each of
them. In that of the princess was the powder Aladdin had given her.
Wine being poured, the princess told the magician that in China it was
customary to exchange cups, and at the same time held her goblet out to
him. He eagerly made the exchange, and, drinking it all at one draught,
fell senseless on the floor.

When the magician fell, Aladdin, who had been watching, ran to him,
hastily snatched the lamp and rubbed it. When the genie appeared, he
commanded him to transport the palace and all it contained to the place
from which he had brought it.

The sultan had continued to grieve for his daughter, and every day
went to his window to look at the spot where the palace had stood.
As usual, the morning after the return of the palace, he went to the
window, expecting to see the spot still vacant, but, to his unspeakable
joy, there he saw the glorious palace standing. He hastened to greet
his daughter and her husband, and he and Aladdin at once forgave each
other. The whole city rejoiced at the safe return of their beloved
prince and his princess. After the death of the sultan, Aladdin and
the princess ascended the throne. They ruled wisely and well for many
years, and left noble sons and daughters to mourn their death.

    --_The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment._




THE RAPID


    All peacefully gliding, the waters dividing,
      The indolent bateau moved slowly along;
    The rowers, light-hearted, from sorrow long parted,
      Beguiled the dull moments with laughter and song:
          “Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily
          Gambols and leaps on its tortuous way;
        Soon we shall enter it, cheerily, cheerily,
          Pleased with its freshness, and wet with its spray.”

    More swiftly careering, the wild Rapid nearing,
      They dashed down the stream like a terrified steed;
    The surges delight them, no terrors affright them,
      Their voices keep pace with their quickening speed;
        “Hurrah for the Rapid! that merrily, merrily
         Shivers its arrows against us in play;
        Now we have entered it, cheerily, cheerily,
          Our spirits as light as its feathery spray.”

    Fast downwards they’re dashing, each fearless eye flashing,
      Though danger awaits them on every side;
    Yon rock--see it frowning! they strike--they are drowning!
      But downwards they speed with the merciless tide.
        No voice cheers the Rapid, that angrily, angrily
          Shivers their bark in its maddening play;
        Gayly they entered it--heedlessly, recklessly,
          Mingling their lives with its treacherous spray!

    --CHARLES SANGSTER.




LONG LIFE


    He liveth long who liveth well;
      All else is life but flung away;
    He liveth longest who can tell
      Of true things truly done each day.

    Then fill each hour with what will last;
      Buy up the moments as they go;
    The life above, when this is past,
      Is the ripe fruit of life below.

    --HORATIO BONAR.




LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY


Daffydowndilly was so called because in his nature he resembled a
flower, and loved to do only what was beautiful and agreeable, and
took no delight in labor of any kind. But while Daffydowndilly was yet
a little boy, his mother sent him away from his pleasant home, and
put him under the care of a very strict schoolmaster, who went by the
name of Mr. Toil. Those who knew him best affirmed that this Mr. Toil
was a very worthy character; and that he had done more good, both to
children and grown people, than anybody else in the world. Certainly he
had lived long enough to do a great deal of good; for, if all stories
be true, he had dwelt upon earth ever since Adam was driven from the
garden of Eden.

Nevertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly countenance, especially
for such little boys or big men as were inclined to be idle; his voice,
too, was harsh; and all his ways and customs seemed very disagreeable
to our friend Daffydowndilly. The whole day long this terrible old
schoolmaster sat at his desk overlooking the scholars, or stalked about
the schoolroom with a certain awful birch-rod in his hand. Now came a
rap over the shoulders of a boy whom Mr. Toil had caught at play, now
he punished a whole class who were behindhand with their lessons; and,
in short, unless a lad chose to attend quietly and constantly to his
book, he had no chance of enjoying a quiet moment in the schoolroom of
Mr. Toil.

“This will never do for me,” thought Daffydowndilly.

Now the whole of Daffydowndilly’s life had hitherto been passed with
his dear mother, who had a much sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and who
had always been very indulgent to her little boy. No wonder, therefore,
that poor Daffydowndilly found it a woful change to be sent away from
the good lady’s side, and put under the care of this ugly-visaged
schoolmaster, who never gave him any apples or cakes, and seemed to
think that little boys were created only to get lessons.

“I can’t bear it any longer,” said Daffydowndilly to himself, when
he had been at school about a week. “I’ll run away and try to find
my dear mother; and, at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so
disagreeable as this old Mr. Toil!”

So, the very next morning, off started poor Daffydowndilly, and began
his rambles about the world, with only some bread and cheese for his
breakfast, and very little pocket-money to pay his expenses. But he had
gone only a short distance when he overtook a man of grave and sedate
appearance, who was trudging at a moderate pace along the road.

[Illustration: Mr. Toil]

“Good morning, my fine lad,” said the stranger; and his voice seemed
hard and severe, but yet had a sort of kindness in it. “Whence do you
come so early, and whither are you going?”

[Illustration]

Little Daffydowndilly had never been known to tell a lie in all his
life. Nor did he tell one now. He hesitated a moment or two, but
finally confessed that he had run away from school, on account of his
great dislike to Mr. Toil; and that he was resolved to find some place
in the world where he should never see or hear of the old schoolmaster
again.

“Oh, very well, my little friend!” answered the stranger. “Then we
shall go together; for I, likewise, have had a good deal to do with Mr.
Toil, and should be glad to find some place where he was never heard
of.”

Our friend Daffydowndilly would have been better pleased with a
companion of his own age, with whom he might have gathered flowers
along the roadside, or have chased butterflies, or have done many
other things to make the journey pleasant. But he had wisdom enough
to understand that he should get along through the world much easier
by having a man of experience to show him the way. So he accepted the
stranger’s proposal, and they walked on very sociably together.

They had not gone far when the road passed by a field where some
haymakers were at work, mowing down the tall grass, and spreading it
out in the sun to dry. Daffydowndilly was delighted with the sweet
smell of the new-mown grass, and thought how much pleasanter it must
be to make hay in the sunshine, under the blue sky, and with the birds
singing sweetly in the neighboring trees and bushes, than to be shut up
in a dismal schoolroom, learning lessons all day long, and continually
scolded by old Mr. Toil. But, in the midst of these thoughts, while he
was stopping to peep over the stone wall he started back and caught
hold of his companion’s hand.

“Quick, quick!” cried he. “Let us run away, or he will catch us!”

“Who will catch us?” asked the stranger.

“Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster!” answered Daffydowndilly. “Don’t you
see him amongst the haymakers?”

And Daffydowndilly pointed to an elderly man, who seemed to be the
owner of the field, and the employer of the men at work there. He had
stripped off his coat and waistcoat, and was busily at work in his
shirt-sleeves. The drops of sweat stood upon his brow; but he gave
himself not a moment’s rest, and kept crying out to the haymakers
to make hay while the sun shone. Now strange to say, the figure and
features of this old farmer were precisely the same as those of old
Mr. Toil, who, at that very moment, must have been just entering his
schoolroom.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the stranger. “This is not Mr. Toil the
schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who was bred a farmer; and the
people say he is the more disagreeable man of the two. However, he
won’t trouble you unless you become a laborer on the farm.”

Little Daffydowndilly believed what his companion said, but he was very
glad, nevertheless, when they were out of sight of the old farmer,
who bore such a singular resemblance to Mr. Toil. The two travellers
had gone but little farther, when they came to a spot where some
carpenters were erecting a house. Daffydowndilly begged his companion
to stop a moment; for it was a very pretty sight to see how neatly the
carpenters did their work, with their broad-axes and saws, and planes,
and hammers, shaping out the doors, and putting in the window-sashes,
and nailing on the clapboards; and he could not help thinking that he
should like to take a broad-axe, a saw, a plane, and a hammer, and
build a little house for himself. And then, when he should have a house
of his own, old Mr. Toil would never dare to molest him.

But, just while he was delighting himself with this idea, little
Daffydowndilly beheld something that made him catch hold of his
companion’s hand, all in a fright.

“Make haste. Quick, quick!” cried he. “There he is again!”

“Who?” asked the stranger, very quietly.

“Old Mr. Toil,” said Daffydowndilly, trembling. “There! He that is
overseeing the carpenters. ’Tis my old schoolmaster, as sure as I’m
alive!”

The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydowndilly pointed his finger;
and he saw an elderly man, with a carpenter’s rule and compass in his
hand. This person went to and fro about the unfinished house, measuring
pieces of timber, and marking out the work that was to be done, and
continually exhorting the other carpenters to be diligent. And wherever
he turned his hard and wrinkled visage, the men seemed to feel that
they had a task-master over them, and sawed, and hammered, and planed,
as if for dear life.

“Oh, no! this is not Mr. Toil the schoolmaster,” said the stranger. “It
is another brother of his, who follows the trade of carpenter.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” quoth Daffydowndilly; “but if you please,
sir, I should like to get out of his way as soon as possible.”

Then they went on a little farther, and soon heard the sound of a drum
and fife. Daffydowndilly pricked up his ears at this, and besought
his companion to hurry forward, that they might not miss seeing the
soldiers. Accordingly they made what haste they could, and soon met a
company of soldiers gayly dressed, with beautiful feathers in their
caps, and bright muskets on their shoulders. In front marched two
drummers and two fifers, beating on their drums and playing on their
fifes with might and main, and making such lively music that little
Daffydowndilly would gladly have followed them to the end of the world.
And if he was only a soldier, then, he said to himself, old Mr. Toil
would never venture to look him in the face.

“Quick step! Forward march!” shouted a gruff voice.

Little Daffydowndilly started, in great dismay; for this voice which
had spoken to the soldiers sounded precisely the same as that which he
had heard every day in Mr. Toil’s schoolroom, out of Mr. Toil’s own
mouth. And, turning his eyes to the captain of the company, what should
he see but the very image of old Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and
feather on his head, a pair of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a laced
coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist, and a long sword,
instead of a birch-rod, in his hand. And though he held his head so
high, and strutted like a turkey-cock, still he looked quite as ugly
and disagreeable as when he was hearing lessons in the schoolroom.

“This is certainly old Mr. Toil,” said Daffydowndilly, in a trembling
voice. “Let us run away, for fear he should make us enlist in his
company!”

“You are mistaken again, my little friend,” replied the stranger very
composedly. “This is not Mr. Toil the schoolmaster, but a brother
of his, who has served in the army all his life. People say he’s a
terribly severe fellow; but you and I need not be afraid of him.”

“Well, well,” said little Daffydowndilly, “but, if you please, sir, I
don’t want to see the soldiers any more.”

So the child and the stranger resumed their journey; and, by and by,
they came to a house by the roadside, where a number of people were
making merry. Young men and rosy-cheeked girls, with smiles on their
faces, were dancing to the sound of a fiddle. It was the pleasantest
sight that Daffydowndilly had yet met with, and it comforted him for
all his disappointments.

“Oh, let us stop here,” cried he to his companion; “for Mr. Toil will
never dare to show his face where there is a fiddler, and where people
are dancing and making merry. We shall be quite safe here!”

But these last words died away upon Daffydowndilly’s tongue; for,
happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, whom should he behold
again but the likeness of Mr. Toil, holding a fiddle-bow instead of
a birch-rod, and flourishing it with as much ease and dexterity as
if he had been a fiddler all his life! He had somewhat the air of a
Frenchman, but still looked exactly like the old schoolmaster; and
Daffydowndilly even fancied that he nodded and winked at him, and made
signs for him to join in the dance.

“Oh dear me!” whispered he, turning pale, “it seems as if there was
nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. Who could have thought of his playing
on a fiddle!”

“This is not your old schoolmaster,” observed the stranger, “but
another brother of his, who was bred in France, where he learned the
profession of a fiddler. He is ashamed of his family, and generally
calls himself Monsieur le Plaisir; but his real name is Toil, and those
who have known him best think him still more disagreeable than his
brothers.”

“Oh, take me back!--take me back!” cried poor little Daffydowndilly,
bursting into tears. “If there is nothing but Toil all the world over,
I may just as well go back to the schoolhouse!”

“Yonder it is,--there is the schoolhouse!” said the stranger; for
though he and little Daffydowndilly had taken a great many steps, they
had travelled in a circle instead of a straight line. “Come; we shall
go back to school together.”

There was something in his companion’s voice that little Daffydowndilly
now remembered, and it is strange that he had not remembered it sooner.
Looking up into his face, behold! there again was the likeness of old
Mr. Toil; so that the poor child had been in company with Toil all
day, even while he was doing his best to run away from him. Some people
are of opinion that old Mr. Toil was a magician, and possessed the
power of multiplying himself into as many shapes as he saw fit.

Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had learned a good lesson, and
from that time forward was diligent at his task, because he knew that
diligence is not a whit more toilsome than sport or idleness. And when
he became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to think that his
ways were not so very disagreeable, and that the old schoolmaster’s
smile of approbation made his face almost as pleasant as even that of
Daffydowndilly’s mother.

    --NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.




THE EARTH IS THE LORD’S

    The earth is the Lord’s and the fulness thereof;
    The world, and they that dwell therein.
    For he hath founded it upon the seas,
    And established it upon the floods.

    Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord?
    Or who shall stand in his holy place?
    He that hath clean hands and a pure heart;
    Who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity,
    And hath not sworn deceitfully.

    --_From the Book of Psalms._




THE SINGING LEAVES


    “What fairings will ye that I bring?”
      Said the King to his daughters three;
    “For I to Vanity Fair am bound,
      Now say what shall they be?”

    Then up and spake the eldest daughter,
      That lady tall and grand:
    “Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great,
      And gold rings for my hand.”

    Thereafter spake the second daughter,
      That was both white and red:
    “For me bring silks that will stand alone,
      And a gold comb for my head.”

    Then came the turn of the least daughter,
      That was whiter than thistledown,
    And among the gold of her blithesome hair
      Dim shone the golden crown.

    “There came a bird this morning,
      And sang ’neath my bower eaves,
    Till I dreamed, as his music made me,
      ‘Ask thou for the Singing Leaves’”

    Then the brow of the King swelled crimson
      With a flush of angry scorn:
    “Well have ye spoken, my two eldest,
      And chosen as ye were born;

    “But she, like a thing of peasant race,
      That is happy behind the sheaves;”
    Then he saw her dead mother in her face,
      And said, “Thou shalt have thy leaves.”

    He mounted and rode three days and nights
      Till he came to Vanity Fair,
    And ’twas easy to buy the gems and the silk,
      But no Singing Leaves were there.

    Then deep in the greenwood rode he,
      And asked of every tree,
    “Oh, if you have ever a Singing Leaf
      I pray you give it me!”

    But the trees all kept their counsel,
      And never a word said they,
    Only there sighed from the pine tree-tops
      A music of seas far away.

    Only the pattering aspen
      Made a sound of growing rain,
    That fell ever faster and faster,
      Then faltered to silence again.

    “Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page
      That would win both hose and shoon,
    And will bring to me the Singing Leaves
      If they grow under the moon?”

    Then lightly turned him Walter the page,
      By the stirrup as he ran:
    “Now pledge you me the truesome word
      Of a king and gentleman,

    “That you will give me the first, first thing
      You meet at your castle-gate,
    And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves,
      Or mine be a traitor’s fate.”

    The King’s head dropt upon his breast
      A moment, as it might be;
    ’Twill be my dog, he thought, and said,
      “My faith I plight to thee.”

    Then Walter took from next his heart
      A package small and thin,
    “Now give you this to the Princess Anne,
      The Singing Leaves are therein.”

    As the King rode in the castle-gate
      A maiden to meet him ran,
    And “Welcome, father!” she laughed and cried
      Together, the Princess Anne.

    “Lo, here the Singing Leaves,” quoth he,
      “And woe, but they cost me dear!”
    She took the packet, and the smile
      Deepened down beneath the tear.

    It deepened down till it reached her heart,
      And then gushed up again,
    And lighted her tears as the sudden sun
      Transfigures the summer rain.

    And the first Leaf, when it was opened,
      Sang: “I am Walter the page,
    And the songs I sing ’neath thy window,
      Are my only heritage.”

    And the second Leaf sang: “But in the land
      That is neither on earth nor sea,
    My lute and I are lords of more
      Than thrice this kingdom’s fee.”

    And the third Leaf sang, “Be mine! Be mine!”
      And ever it sang, “Be mine!”
    Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter,
      And said, “I am thine, thine, thine!”

    At the first Leaf she grew pale enough,
      At the second she turned aside,
    At the third, ’twas as if a lily flushed
      With a rose’s red heart’s tide.

    “Good counsel gave the bird,” said she,
      “I have my hope thrice o’er,
    For they sing to my very heart,” she said,
      “And it sings to them evermore.”

    She brought to him her beauty and truth,
      But and broad earldoms three,
    And he made her queen of the broader lands
      He held of his lute in fee.

    --JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.




THE CLOCKS OF RONDAINE


Centuries ago there stood on the banks of a river a little town called
Rondaine. The river was a long and winding stream which ran through
different countries. Sometimes it was narrow and swift and sometimes
broad and placid. Sometimes it hurried through mountain passes and
again it meandered quietly through fertile plains. In some places it
was of a blue color and in others of a dark and sombre hue. And so it
changed until it threw itself into the warm, far-spreading sea.

But it was otherwise with the little town. As far back as anybody
could remember, it had always been the same that it was at the time
of our story. And the people who lived there could see no reason to
suppose that it would ever be different from what it was then. It was
a pleasant little town and its citizens were very happy. So why should
there be any change in it?

If Rondaine had been famed for anything at all, it would have been for
the number of its clocks. It had many churches, and in the steeple of
each of these churches there was a clock. There were town buildings
which stood upon the great central square. Each of these had a tower,
and in each tower was a clock. Then there were clocks at street corners
and in the market-place; clocks over shop doors, and a clock at each
end of the bridge.

Many of these clocks were fashioned in some quaint and curious way. In
one of the largest a stone man came out and struck the hours with a
stone hammer, while a stone woman struck half hours with a stone broom;
and in another an iron donkey kicked the hours on a bell behind him.
It would be impossible to tell all the odd ways in which the clocks of
Rondaine struck.

It was very interesting to lie awake in the night and hear the clocks
strike. First would come a faint striking from one of the churches in
the by-streets, a modest sound; then from another quarter would be
heard a more confident clock striking the hour clearly and distinctly.
When they were quite ready, but not a moment before, the seven bells of
the large church on the square would chime the hour. The sound of these
bells seemed to wake up the stone man in the tower of the town building
and he struck the hour with his hammer. And when every sound had died
away, the iron donkey would kick out the hour on his bell.

The very last clock to strike in Rondaine was one belonging to a little
old lady with white hair, who lived in a little white house in one of
the prettiest and cleanest streets in the town. Her clock was in a
little white tower at the corner of her house. Long after every other
clock had struck, the old lady’s clock would strike quickly and with
a tone that said, “I know that I am right, and I wish other people to
know it.”

In a small house which stood at a corner of two streets in the town
there lived a young girl named Arla. Her room was at the top of the
house, and one of its windows opened to the west and another to the
south. Arla liked to leave these windows open so that the sound of the
clocks might come in. It was not because she wanted to know the hour
that she used to lie awake and listen to the clocks. She could tell
this from her own little clock in her room.

On the front of her clock, just below the dial, was a sprig of a
rosebush beautifully made of metal, and on this, just after the hour
had sounded, there was a large green bud. At a quarter past the hour
this bud opened a little, so that the red petals could be seen; fifteen
minutes later it was a half-blown rose, and at a quarter of an hour
more it was nearly full blown. Just before the hour the rose opened
to its fullest extent, and so remained until the clock had finished
striking, when it immediately shut up into a great green bud.

This clock was a great delight to Arla; for not only was it a very
pleasant thing to watch the unfolding of the rose, but it was a
satisfaction to think that her little clock always told her exactly
what time it was, no matter what the other clocks of Rondaine might say.

Arla’s father and mother were thrifty, industrious people. They were
very fond of their daughter, and wished her to grow up a thoughtful,
useful woman. In the early morning, listening to the clocks of
Rondaine, Arla did a great deal of thinking. It so happened on the
morning of the day before Christmas she began to think of something
which had never entered her mind before.

“How in the world,” she said to herself, “do the people of Rondaine
know when it is really Christmas? Christmas begins at twelve o’clock on
Christmas Eve; but as some of the people depend on one clock and some
upon others, a great many of them cannot truly know when Christmas Day
has really begun. Not one of the clocks strikes at the right time! As
for that iron donkey, I believe he kicks whenever he feels like it. And
yet there are people who go by him!” With these thoughts in her mind,
Arla could not go to sleep again. She heard all the clocks strike, and
lay awake until her own little clock told her that she ought to get up.

During this time she had made up her mind what she should do. There
was yet one day before Christmas, and if the people of the town could
be made to see in what a deplorable condition they were, they might
have time to set the matter right so that all the clocks should strike
the correct hour and everybody should know exactly when Christmas Day
began. Arla was sure that the citizens had never given this matter
proper thought.

When she went down to breakfast, she asked permission of her mother to
take a day’s holiday. Her mother was quite willing to give her the day
before Christmas in which she could do as she pleased. So Arla started
out gayly to attend to the business she had in hand. Everybody in
Rondaine knew her father and mother and a great many of them knew her,
so there was no reason why she should be afraid to go where she chose.
In one hand she carried a small covered basket in which she had placed
her rose clock.

The first place she visited was the church where she and her parents
always attended service. When she entered the dimly lighted church,
Arla soon saw the sexton. He was a pleasant-faced little man whom she
knew very well.

“Good morning, sir,” said she. “Do you take care of the church clock?”

“Yes, my little friend,” said he.

“Well, then,” said Arla, “I think you ought to know that your clock
is eleven minutes too fast. I came here to tell you so that you might
change it, and make it strike properly.”

The sexton’s eyes began to twinkle. He was a man of merry mood. “That
is very good of you, little Arla; very good indeed. And now that we
are about it, isn’t there something else you would like to change?
What do you say to having these stone pillars put to one side, so that
they may be out of the way of the people when they come in? Or what do
you say to having our clock tower taken down and set out there in the
square before the church door? Now tell me, shall we do these things
together, wise little friend?”

A tear or two came into Arla’s eyes and she went away. “I suppose,” she
said to herself, “that it would be too much trouble to climb to the
top of the tower to set the clock right. But that was no reason why he
should make fun of me. I don’t like him as well as I used to.”

She now made her way to the great square of the town, and entered the
building at the top of which stood the stone man with his hammer. She
found the doorkeeper in a little room by the side of the entrance. Arla
thought she would be careful how she spoke to him.

“If you please, sir,” she said with a courtesy, “I should like to say
something to you. And I hope you will not be offended when I tell you
that your clock is not right. Your stone man and your stone woman are
both too slow. They sometimes strike as much as seven minutes after
they ought to strike.”

The grave, middle-aged man looked steadily at Arla through his
spectacles. “Child,” said he, “for one hundred and fifty years the
open tower on this building has stood there. And through all these
years, in storm and in fair weather, by daylight or in the darkness of
the night, that stone man and that stone woman have struck the hours
and the half hours. And now you, a child, come to me and ask me to
change that which has not been changed in one hundred and fifty years!”

Arla could answer nothing with those spectacles fixed upon her.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, as she turned and hurried into the
street. She walked on until she came to the house of the little old
lady with white hair. She concluded to stop and speak to her about her
clock. “She is surely willing to alter that,” said Arla, “for it is so
very much out of the way.”

The old lady knew who Arla was and received her very kindly; but when
she heard why the young girl had come to her, she flew into a passion.
“Never since I was born,” she said, “have I been spoken to like this!
My great-grandfather lived in this house before me; that clock was
good enough for him! My grandfather lived in this house before me;
that clock was good enough for him! My father and mother lived in this
house before me; that clock was good enough for them! I was born in
this house, have always lived in it; that clock is good enough for me!
I heard its strokes when I was but a little child: I hope to hear them
at my last hour; and sooner than raise my hand against the clock of my
ancestors, I would cut off that hand!”

Tears came into Arla’s eyes; she was a little frightened. “I hope you
will pardon me,” she said, “for truly I did not wish to offend you. Nor
did I think your clock is not a good one. I only meant that you should
make it better; it is nearly an hour out of the way.”

The sight of Arla’s tears cooled the anger of the little old lady.
“Child,” she said, “you do not know what you are talking about, and I
forgive you. But remember this: never ask persons as old as I am to
alter the principles which have always made clear to them what they
should do, or the clocks which have always told them when they should
do it.” And kissing Arla, she bade her good-by.

“Principles may last a great while without altering,” thought Arla, as
she went away, “but I am sure it is very different with clocks.”

The poor girl now felt a good deal discouraged. “The people do not seem
to care whether their clocks are right or not,” she said to herself.

Determined to make one more effort, Arla walked quickly to the town
building, at the top of which was the clock with the iron donkey. This
building was a sort of museum. It had a great many curious things in
it, and it was in charge of an ingenious man who was very learned and
skilful.

When Arla had told the superintendent why she had come to him, he did
not laugh at her nor did he get angry, but he listened attentively to
all that she had to say. “You must know, Arla,” he said, “that our
iron donkey not only kicks out the hours, but five minutes before
doing so he turns his head around and looks at the bell behind him;
and then, when he has done kicking, he puts his head back into its
former position. All this action requires a great many wheels and cogs
and springs and levers. At noon on every bright day I set the donkey
right, being able to get the correct time from a sundial which stands
in the courtyard. But his works--which I am sorry to say are not well
made--are sure to get a great deal out of the way before I set him
again. But so far as I know, every person but yourself is perfectly
satisfied with our donkey clock.”

“I suppose so,” said Arla, with a sigh; “but it is really a great pity
that every striking clock in Rondaine should be wrong!”

“But how do you know they are all wrong?” asked the superintendent.

“Oh, that is easy enough,” said Arla, “when I lie awake in the early
morning, I listen to their striking, and then I look at my own rose
clock to see what time it really is.”

“Your rose clock?” said the superintendent.

“This is it,” said Arla, opening her basket and taking out her little
clock.

The superintendent took it into his hands and looked at it, outside and
inside. And then, still holding it, he stepped out into the courtyard.
When in a few moments he returned, he said, “I have compared your clock
with my sundial, and find that it is ten minutes slow!”

“My--clock--ten--minutes--slow!” exclaimed Arla, with wide-open eyes.

“Yes,” said the superintendent. “Such a clock as this--which is a very
ingenious and beautiful one--ought frequently to be compared with a
sundial, and set to the proper hour.”

Arla sat quiet for a moment and then she said: “I think I shall not
care any more to compare the clocks of Rondaine with my little rose
clock. If the people do not care to know exactly when Christmas
Day begins, I can do nobody any good by listening to the different
strikings and then looking at my own little clock.”

“Especially,” said the superintendent, with a smile, “when you are not
sure that your rose clock is right. But if you bring your little clock
and your key here on any day when the sun is shining, I shall set it to
the time shadowed on the sundial, or show you how to do it yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Arla, and she took her leave.

As she walked home she lifted the lid of the basket and looked at her
little rose clock. “To think of it!” she said, “that you should be
sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow! And worse than that, to
think that some of the other clocks have been right and you have been
wrong. I can hardly believe it of you.”

But the little clock never went to be compared with the sundial.
“Perhaps you are right now,” Arla would say to her clock each day when
the sun shone, “and I shall not take you until some time when I feel
very sure that you are wrong.”

Whether it was right or wrong Arla was satisfied that no other clock in
Rondaine was its equal. But she kept her thoughts to herself, and never
again attempted to regulate the affairs of others.--FRANK R. STOCKTON.

 _From “Fanciful Tales,” published by Charles Scribner’s Sons._




THE CAMEL’S NOSE


    Once in his shop a workman wrought,
    With languid hand and listless thought,
    When through the open window’s space,
    Behold! a camel thrust his face:
    “My nose is cold,” he meekly cried;
    “Oh, let me warm it by thy side!”

    Since no denial word was said,
    In came the nose, in came the head;
    As sure as sermon follows text,
    The long and scraggy neck came next;
    And then, as falls the threatening storm,
    In leaped the whole ungainly form.

    Aghast the owner gazed around,
    And on the rude invader frowned,
    Convinced, as closer still he pressed,
    There was no room for such a guest;
    Yet more astonished heard him say,
    “If thou art troubled, go away,
    For in this place I choose to stay.”

    --LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.




LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER


    A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
      Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry!
    And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
      To row us o’er the ferry.”

    “Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
      This dark and stormy water?”
    “Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s Isle,
      And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.

    “And fast before her father’s men
      Three days we’ve fled together,
    For should he find us in the glen,
      My blood would stain the heather.

    “His horsemen hard behind us ride;
      Should they our steps discover,
    Then who would cheer my bonny bride,
      When they have slain her lover?”

    Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
      “I’ll go, my chief--I’m ready:
    It is not for your silver bright,
      But for your winsome lady:

    “And, by my word! the bonny bird
      In danger shall not tarry;
    So, though the waves are raging white,
      I’ll row you o’er the ferry.”

    By this the storm grew loud apace,
      The water-wraith was shrieking;
    And, in the scowl of Heaven, each face
      Grew dark as they were speaking.

    But still, as wilder blew the wind,
      And as the night drew drearer,
    Adown the glen rode armèd men,
      Their trampling sounded nearer.

    “O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
      “Though tempests round us gather,
    I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
      But not an angry father.”

    The boat has left a stormy land,
      A stormy sea before her--
    When, oh! too strong for human hand,
      The tempest gathered o’er her.

    And still they rowed amidst the roar
      Of waters fast prevailing;
    Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore--
      His wrath was changed to wailing.

    For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
      His child he did discover:
    One lovely arm she stretched for aid,
      And one was round her lover.

    “Come back! come back!” he cried, in grief,
      “Across this stormy water;
    And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
      My daughter!--Oh! my daughter!”

    ’Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
      Return or aid preventing:
    The waters wild went o’er his child--
      And he was left lamenting.

    --THOMAS CAMPBELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Knowledge is proud that he has learnt so much;
    Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.




GOD SAVE THE KING


    God save our Lord the King,
    Long live our noble King,
      God save the King:
    Send him victorious,
    Happy and glorious,
    Long to reign over us;
      God save the King.

    Thy choicest gifts in store
    On him be pleased to pour;
      Long may he reign:
    May he defend our laws,
    And ever give us cause
    To sing with heart and voice,
      God save the King.


       *       *       *       *       *


Transcriber's Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Hyphenation
has been standardised, but other variations in spelling and punctuation
remain unchanged.


In the name of the author ZITKALA-S̈A, S̈ represents S surmounted by
a diaeresis.

Italics are represented thus _italics_.