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HOLIDAY TALES,

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TWO DOVES,

AND OTHER TALES.

       *       *       *       *       *

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

       *       *       *       *       *


  HUDSON, OHIO:
  SAWYER, INGERSOLL & CO.,

       *       *       *       *       *

1853.




THE TWO DOVES.


I will now tell you a story about two good little children, Marian and
Henry, who lived some time ago in Switzerland.

Marian was seven years old, and her little brother Henry was about
five. They were the hope and delight of their Mamma, who loved them
with the most tender affection. These good children had always lived
together, and so much pleasure did they take in each other's society,
that being together seemed their greatest happiness. Marian could
not be happy an instant away from her brother; Henry was never more
pleased than when with his sister. Whether walking in the fields, or
at play in their little room, at meal times or at study, they always
acted together; and this was partly the reason why they agreed so well.
You would see Marian's large doll beside Henry's little soldier, and
Henry's wooden horse close by the doll's cradle. On the same chair
would be lying together the doll's cap and the soldier's hat, a tiny
parasol, and a little sword. So we may be quite sure that whatever
belonged to one was used to amuse the other, and that the hearts of
Marian and Henry lived in unison. One day a friend of their Mamma sent
them a present of a pair of Doves, beautifully white, except that their
necks were encircled with a black ring. Henry and Marian could not make
enough of these Doves. They were so tame that they would perch on the
children's heads, or their shoulders, or their arms; they would peck
food from their hands, and sometimes even take it from their mouth.
"Ah, you pretty bird," said Marian, "nothing has ever pleased me so
much."

"They are always together as we are, they love one another so much,"
said Henry.

"We will do as they do, Henry, we will always be together."

"Always, dear sister," and the children embraced each other, while the
Doves fluttered upon their shoulders, seeming to feel as happy as the
children were.

The birds were taken great care of in their little house, and became
more and more beautiful, their feathers were white as snow, and they
strutted up and down, seeming to be quite proud of their habitation;
they enjoyed their liberty very often, for Marian and Henry would open
the door of their little house, and they would come out to be petted
by the children, and would seem thankful for the good fortune that had
placed them in such good hands. But their love to these birds gave rise
to a little jealousy between Henry and Marian; they would talk about
whose turn it was to open the door, and then about the right to feed
them, or give them fresh water. Marian would say, laughingly, that they
loved her brother more than herself; Henry would contradict that, and
say that he was sure they liked his sister better. This little jealous
feeling (as is often the case with much older people) turned out to
be the cause of much unhappiness to these little ones. They became
desirous that each Dove should have a separate house for itself. They
made this wish known to their good Mamma, who, without opposing or
approving their scheme, had two cages placed in Marian's room, and one
day she went with her brother to decide which bird each should have;
so they agreed that the door should be set open in the usual way, and
that the bird which perched first on Marian's head or arm should belong
to her, and the other to Henry. This was soon done, and Marian's Dove
was shut up in one cage and Henry's Dove in the other. The poor birds
soon became sad and still, their beautiful white feathers turned to a
dull yellow, they ceased to flap their wings, and their cooing was no
more heard. The best of wheat and beans, and the clearest water, were
given to them in abundance, but all were of no use; the Doves could not
endure being separate from each other. Each would sit on the highest
perch in its house, and long for the company of the other; or sometimes
they would weary themselves with trying to get through the bars,
and when quite tired out, each would return to its solitary perch.
Henry and Marian were very much afflicted at all this, and told their
distress to their dear mother, who, under the pretence that they might
give more attention to the birds, proposed that each should have one in
a separate room, and remain alone with it. The first day seemed rather
long to the children, but those who watched over them, and delighted in
seeing them together, were desirous of giving them experience, and so
they remained a second day; now this day was to both more dreary than
the first, and on the third day they found it quite unbearable.

"No play," said Henry; "Oh, this is very wearisome; I would give all my
playthings to be a little while with my sister."

"How can I," said Marian, "live without my brother? Without him there
is no play; I can not be happy away from him. Without him I care for
nothing; every thing is tedious; I can not bear it any longer."

The truth is, they could not be happy away from each other, so they
entreated their Mamma to allow them to be together again, as it was
impossible for them to live separately.

"So it is," said their mother, "with your young Doves. They came
from the same nest, they have been nourished and fed together, they
are accustomed to live with one another, and they feel it, as you
yourselves do, a painful thing to be parted, and will soon die of
grief."

At these words both the children started, and ran and released the
prisoners. Out flew the doves, rejoicing in their liberty, and caressed
each other with their beaks. They seemed by their cooing to thank those
who had released them. They soon became as healthy as before, and their
feathers also became as white as ever. Marian and Henry resolved never
to separate them again, but to attend them as they did at first; and
the two cages were taken away.

"My dear children," said their good mother to them, pressing them to
her bosom; "you have now learned that the ties of relationship bind
faster than chains; they give the greatest joy to our hearts, they
are our greatest happiness; may you long love one another and be
happy; forget not, that in the palace or in the humble cottage, in the
busy world, or the more retired life, the tongue speaks nothing more
pleasing, and the ear hears nothing more sweet, than the endearing
names--Brother and Sister; even with the oldest people, it gives joy to
remember when they lisped those words."




THE ANT-HOUSES.


Robert gave his cousin Richard, for a birth-day present, a nightingale,
in a beautiful green cage, and told him to feed it with meal-worms
and ants' eggs. The miller or the baker would supply him with the
meal-worms, but the ants' eggs he would be pretty sure to find in his
father's garden. He would only have to put a flower-pot, or a little
wooden tub, in some dry sunny place, and the ants would find their way
under the hedge, and lay their eggs there; for they are always careful
to put them where the rain can not come.

Richard bought some meal-worms, but they cost almost all his
pocket-money; and he must set about finding the ants' eggs, which would
cost him nothing. So he did as Robert had told him, and, to his great
delight, he found when he took up the flower-pot, on the next day, that
a whole colony of ants had crept under it; for the earth was thrown
up into little heaps, and looked fine, as if it had been sifted. Some
little ants were trotting about quickly, as if they were trying to find
out what had happened to make it so suddenly light.

Richard took a stick, and stirred the earth a little, and found a great
many little, long white eggs lying about. He stretched out his hand to
put the eggs into a little cup which he had brought with him, when,
to his great amazement, the little ants caught up the eggs in their
mouths, and ran away with them.

When Richard saw the kind motherly care of the ants, the tears came
into his eyes, and he said, "No, I can not be so cruel as to trouble
all these little creatures just to make one happy; and my little
nightingale would like much better to sing in the cool green trees
than in his close prison of a cage. I will go and let him fly where he
pleases."

He did so, and oh! how soon the nightingale darted off to the grove
near by, where his song was heard for many a long summer's evening
after; and how joyful, too, Richard's heart felt.

[Illustration]




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Transcriber's Note


  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Blank pages have been removed.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Two Doves, and Other Tales., by Anonymous