Proofreaders’ 20th Anniversary.




THE EMERALD STORY BOOK




[Illustration: THE SPRING

Drawn by Maxfield Parrish]




                               THE EMERALD
                               STORY BOOK

                         _Stories and Legends of
                       Spring, Nature and Easter_

                               COMPILED BY
                             ADA M. SKINNER
                                   AND
                           ELEANOR L. SKINNER

                             [Illustration]

                                NEW YORK
                           DUFFIELD & COMPANY
                                  1915

                             Copyright, 1915
                          BY DUFFIELD & COMPANY




INTRODUCTION


There is no richer theme for children’s stories than the miracle of
Spring. The selections in “The Emerald Story Book” aim to serve the
young reader’s interest in three ways. Some of the myths and legends are
interesting or amusing because flowers, insects, or birds are presented
as personalities and emphasise human qualities or feelings. Some of
the stories and poems contribute to the child’s store of knowledge by
attracting his attention to some fact, beauty, or blessing in nature
which may have escaped his notice. Still others make an appeal by
suggesting or affirming the abiding hope symbolised in the thought, “See
the land her Easter keeping.”

The child’s heart is filled with the joy of spring,—with the rapture
expressed in the thrush’s song which Mrs. Ewing describes. “Fresh water
and green woods, ambrosial sunshine and sun-flecked shade, chattering
brooks and rustling leaves, glade and sward and dell. Lichens and cool
mosses, feathered ferns and flowers. Green leaves! Green leaves! Joy!
Joy!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The editors’ thanks are due to Mrs. Katherine Tynan-Hinckson for
permission to use her poem, “Sheep and Lambs”; Miss Lucy Wheelock for her
story, “A Little Acorn”; to Mr. Bliss Carman for “A Lyric of Joy”; Mr.
Clinton Scollard for “The Little Brown Wren”; Mr. James Whitcomb Riley
for the quotation from “Mister Hop-Toad”; Mrs. Agnes McClelland Daulton
and Rand, McNally & Co., for two stories, “A Great Family” and “Jolly
Little Tars”; Mr. Warren J. Brier for “Mr. Pine and Mr. Maple”; Mrs.
Margaret Deland for her poem, “Jonquils”; Miss Helen Keller for “Edith
and the Bees”; Mrs. Annie Trumbull Slosson for “A Child’s Easter”; and
Mr. Alfred Noyes for his poem “Little Boy Blue”; and to the following
publishers who have granted permission to reprint selections in this
collection from works bearing their copyright: to G. P. Putnam’s Sons
for “The Selfish Giant,” by Oscar Wilde; to Houghton Mifflin Co.,
for the poem, “Talking in Their Sleep,” by Edith M. Thomas; to the
_Atlantic Monthly_ and Silver Burdette Company for “The Maple Seed”;
to A. Flanagan and Co., of Chicago, for “The Promised Plant,” from
“Child’s Christ-Tales,” by Andrea Hofer Proudfoot, and “Pussy Willow,”
from “Little People’s Doings and Misdoings” by Kate Louise Brown; to
Doubleday, Page & Co., for “The House Wren,” from “Birds Every Child
Should Know,” by Neltje Blanchan, and “Briar Rose” from “The Fairy Ring,”
edited by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith; to Grace Duffield
Godwin for “An Eastern Legend,” from Houjon Songs, published by Sherman,
French & Co.; to Henry Holt & Co., for the selection, “Buz and Hum,” by
Maurice Noël; _The Churchman_ for “In the Garden: An Easter Prelude”;
Fleming H. Revell Co., for “When Thou Comest Unto Thy Kingdom”; to
_The Sunday School Times_ for the “Story of Blue-Wings” and “The Wind,
a Helper”; to _The Youth’s Companion_ and Miss Helen Keller for the
selection, “The Spirit of Easter”; to Messrs. Dodd, Mead and Co., and Mr.
Paul R. Reynolds, for the selection from “The Children’s Bluebird,” by
Maurice Maeterlinck.




CONTENTS


                                                             PAGE

                   SPRING STORIES AND LEGENDS

    APRIL                                                       2
        _Robert Browning_

    THE SPRING-MAIDEN AND THE FROST GIANTS (Norse Legend)       3
        _Eleanor L. Skinner_

    HOW THE BLUEBIRD WAS CHOSEN HERALD                         14
        _Jay T. Stocking_

    THE SPRINGTIME                                             32
        _Eugene Field_

    THE SELFISH GIANT                                          41
        _Oscar Wilde_

    THE PROMISED PLANT                                         50
        _Andrea Hofer Proudfoot_

    BRIER ROSE                                                 54
        _Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith_

    PICCIOLA (Adapted)                                         61
        _St. Saintine_

    ST. FRANCIS, THE LITTLE BEDESMAN OF CHRIST                 67
        _William Canton_

    PROSERPINA AND KING PLUTO (Greek Myth)                     71
        _Eleanor L. Skinner_

    THE WONDER—A PARABLE (From “Parables”)                     82
        _Friedrich Adolph Krummacher_

                   NATURE STORIES AND LEGENDS

    GREEN THINGS GROWING (Poem)                                86
        _Dinah Mulock Craik_

    THE STORY OF A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT                       87
        _May Byron_

    THE LITTLE ACORN                                          100
        _Lucy Wheelock_

    THE STORY OF TWO LITTLE SEEDS                             104
        _George MacDonald_

    HOW THE FLOWERS CAME (Selected)                           107
        _Jay T. Stocking_

    THE LEGEND OF TRAILING ARBUTUS (Indian Legend)            115
        _Eleanor L. Skinner_

    THE FAIRY FLOWER (Adapted from “Norwood”)                 120
        _Henry Ward Beecher_

    THE SNOWDROP                                              127
        _Hans Christian Andersen_

    WHAT THE DANDELION TOLD                                   131
        _Clara Maetzel_

    VERSE                                                     137
        _James Russell Lowell_

    A GREAT FAMILY                                            138
        _Agnes McClelland Daulton_

    THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET (Legend)                          142
        _Ada M. Skinner_

    A LYRIC OF JOY (Poem)                                     148
        _Bliss Carman_

                      AMONG THE TREE-TOPS

    ROBIN’S CAROL (From “Angler’s Reveille”)                  150
        _Henry van Dyke_

    HOW THE BIRDS CAME (Indian Legend)                        151
        _Ada M. Skinner_

    HOW THE BIRDS LEARNED TO BUILD NESTS                      154
        _James Baldwin_

    OUT OF THE NEST                                           158
        _Maud Lindsay_

    THE STORY OF BLUE-WINGS                                   164
        _Mary Stewart_

    AN EASTERN LEGEND (Poem)                                  170
        _Grace Duffield Goodwin_

    THE HOUSE WREN                                            171
        _Neltje Blanchan_

    THE LITTLE BROWN WREN                                     173
        _Clinton Scollard_

    THE CHILDREN OF WIND AND THE CLAN OF PEACE (A
      Christ-Legend) (Adapted)                                176
        _Fiona MacLeod_

                       IN MEADOW AND POND

    A SPRING LILT (Poem)                                      182
        _Unknown_

    HOW BUTTERFLIES CAME                                      183
        _Hans Christian Andersen_

    WHITE BUTTERFLIES (Poem)                                  184
        _Algernon Charles Swinburne_

    THE BUTTERFLY                                             185
        _Mrs. Alfred Gatty_

    THE WIND, A HELPER                                        196
        _Mary Stewart_

    THE SPRINGING TREE: WILLOWS                               203
        _Mrs. Dyson_

    PUSSY WILLOW                                              210
        _Kate Louise Brown_

    THE DRAGON FLY                                            212
        _Mrs. Alfred Gatty_

    THE CICADA’S STORY (Selected)                             220
        _Agnes McClelland Daulton_

    EDITH AND THE BEES                                        226
        _Helen Keller_

    THE LITTLE TADPOLES (From Stories in “Prose and Verse”)   230
        _Katharine Pyle_

    MISTER HOP-TOAD (Poem)                                    237
        _James Whitcomb Riley_

    BUZ AND HUM                                               238
        _Maurice Noël_

    THE STORY WITHOUT AN END. 1. In the Green Meadow.
      2. The Story of a Drop of Water                         246
        Translated by _Sarah Austin_ from the German of
          _A. Carove_

    LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT                               253
        _Ada M. Skinner_

    FOUR-LEAF CLOVER (Poem)                                   256
        _Ella Higginson_

    JOLLY LITTLE TARS                                         257
        _Agnes McClelland Daulton_

    MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE                                    275
        _Warren Judson Brier_

                   A GARDEN OF EASTER STORIES

    OLD ENGLISH VERSE                                         286

    THE EASTER RABBIT (German Legend)                         287
        _Eleanor L. Skinner_

    THE BOY WHO DISCOVERED THE SPRING                         295
        _Raymond MacDonald Alden_

    SHEEP AND LAMBS (Poem)                                    308
        _Katharine Tynan_

    ROBIN REDBREAST—A CHRIST-LEGEND (Adapted) (From
      Christ-Legends)                                         309
        _Selma Lagerlöf_

    THE MAPLE SEED                                            318
        From _The Atlantic Monthly_

    WHY THE IVY IS ALWAYS GREEN                               322
        _Madge Bingham_

    JONQUILS (Poem)                                           329
        _Margaret Deland_

    WHEN THOU COMEST INTO THY KINGDOM                         330
        _Mary Stewart_

    THE LEGEND OF THE EASTER LILY                             345
        _Ada M. Skinner_

    SONG                                                      346
        _Henry Neville Maughan_

    IN THE GARDEN: AN EASTER PRELUDE                          347
        _W. M. L. Jay_

    “SPIRIT” AND “LIFE”                                       352
        _Margaret Emma Ditto_

    A CHILD’S EASTER (Poem)                                   359
        _Annie Trumbull Slosson_

    THE SPIRIT OF EASTER                                      363
        _Helen Keller_

    THERE ARE NO DEAD                                         365
        _Maurice Maeterlinck_, adapted from “The Bluebird”
          by Madame Maeterlinck.

    LITTLE BOY BLUE (Poem)                                    370
        _Alfred Noyes_




THE EMERALD STORY BOOK




SPRING STORIES AND LEGENDS




APRIL


                The year’s at the spring
                And day’s at the morn;
                Morning’s at seven;
                The hillside’s dew-pearled;
                The lark’s on the wing;
                The snail’s on the thorn:
                God’s in his heaven—
                All’s right with the world!

    And after April, when May follows
    And the whitethroat builds and all the swallows!
    Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
    Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
    Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—
    That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
    Lest you should think he never could recapture
    The first fine careless rapture!
    And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
    All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
    The buttercups, the little children’s dower—
    —Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

                              _Robert Browning._




THE SPRING-MAIDEN AND THE FROST GIANTS


In their glittering palace of icebergs the Frost Giants were planning to
capture Iduna, the fair Spring-Maiden, and the rare treasure which she
guarded. Hoar-Frost, North-Wind, Sleet, Hail, and Blizzard were growing
restless, locked in their frozen waste-land of the North. They longed to
enter the valley of Spring and bring desolation to the fruitful fields.

“We are helpless unless we seize the Spring-Maiden and take from her the
casket of golden apples,” said Giant Hoar-Frost. “So long as she guards
this life-giving fruit all nature will rejoice; the birds will sing their
foolish jubilees; gay blossoms will flaunt in the meadows; robes of green
will bedeck the trees, and the people will enjoy everlasting youth and
vigour.”

“What you say is true,” said Giant North-Wind. “If once I could enter
the groves of the Spring-Maiden’s valley I’d howl so long and loud that
those tiresome birds would stop their endless singing.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Giant Blizzard. “You would need my help, I believe.
One of my early morning calls would turn the trembling dew-drops into
icicles, and change the smiling faces of the brooks and rills into frozen
images!”

“Especially if I went with you,” added Giant Sleet slyly.

“Oh, I should expect to be accompanied by you and your twin brother
Hail,” nodded Blizzard. “I know how easily you can lock the grass and
flowers in a casement of ice which they couldn’t break, and Hail has a
very clever, quick way of cutting off all the leaves. But the question
now is how shall we capture the Spring-Maiden whose apples keep the
valley fresh and fair and the people forever young!”

For a few moments the Frost Giants were silent. Many times they had tried
to entrap the fair Iduna and her treasure, but they had always failed.

“I have it,” said Hoar-Frost. “We must secure the help of Loki, the
Prince of Mischief. He lives in Asgard near the Spring-Maiden’s groves,
and people say he often visits Iduna in order to refresh himself with one
of her life-giving apples. Let us capture him first and then compel him
to help us. We giants are fast growing old! The magic apples would renew
our strength for years to come!”

“Agreed!” said North-Wind, Blizzard, Sleet, and Hail in one voice. “Loki
first and then Iduna!”

After much discussion it was decided that Blizzard should undertake to
capture Loki.

A short time after the council of the Frost-Giants, Loki, the Prince of
Mischief, was amusing himself with a great fire which he had built on one
of the hills just beyond the city of Asgard. Several times he stopped and
peered into the sky to see what caused the huge shadow which seemed to
hover near him. He could see nothing but a gigantic eagle whirling around
the summit of the hill. Loki left his fire to gather another bundle of
faggots. Suddenly the great bird swooped down very near him. He quickly
seized a long stake and struck the intruder across the back. To Loki’s
amazement one end of the stake stuck fast to the eagle’s plumage and the
Prince of Mischief could not loosen his hands from the end which he held.
The eagle spread its huge dark wings and flew away over rocks and hills
far to the North.

“Help! help!” screamed the terrified Loki, but although he struggled with
all his might he could not escape from his captor.

When they reached a very lonely spot the eagle alighted on a mountain
peak and from the black plumage stepped the Storm Giant, Blizzard, who
said:

“Loki, you are in my power and you shall not escape until you promise to
help the Frost Giants in a very difficult undertaking!”

“What is that?” gasped the bruised and terrified Loki.

“You must help us to capture Iduna, the Spring-Maiden, and the treasure
which she guards. We cannot enter the valley of Spring until Iduna is
made our captive.”

“Help you to capture the treasure which gives life and youth to all who
partake of it!” said Loki. “Impossible!”

“Then away to the North we will go,” declared the Storm Giant, putting on
his eagle plumage again.

“Stop! Stop!” cried Loki in terror. “Let me think a moment!”

After a short consideration Loki took an oath that he would betray Iduna
and her treasure into the hands of the Frost Giants. Then the Prince of
Mischief was freed, and back to the North sped Blizzard.

The next day late in the afternoon, Iduna, robed in a trailing garment of
green and crowned with a coronet of blossoms, was walking through one of
her loveliest groves. The leaves were dancing to the music of a gentle
breeze. A delicious fragrance of hyacinths and roses scented the valley.
She sat down near a cool fountain and placed her treasure-casket of
apples on the marble basin.

Presently a long shadow darkened the path near her, and looking up
quickly the Spring-Maiden saw Loki standing near.

“I have come for the refreshing gift of one of your apples, Iduna,” said
he. “A long journey has wearied my limbs and broken my spirit.”

“You are very welcome to one of them,” said Iduna, opening her box. “It
has been some time since you tasted a golden apple.”

Loki began to eat the precious gift, and Iduna watched him closely. She
was very proud of her refreshing fruit.

In a little while he put the half-eaten apple on the basin of the
fountain and said, “I am going to tell you a secret, Iduna. Not far away
from here I discovered a grove where a marvellous tree grows. It bears
fruit shaped like yours but larger and of a deep golden colour.”

“Oh!” laughed the Spring-Maiden, “the fruit may be larger and more
beautiful than mine, but I’m sure it has not the power to put youth and
life into those who partake of it.”

“I am afraid you are mistaken,” said the wily Loki. “People who have
eaten the fruit of this tree say that its refreshing power is wonderful.
If you wish, I will gladly guide you to the grove—it is not far away—and
then you can compare this fruit, which is attracting much attention, with
yours. Will you go?”

“Yes, I will indeed,” said Iduna, who could not believe that any other
apples were comparable with hers.

Loki led the way and Iduna, carrying her treasure, followed him eagerly.
She was a little surprised to find the grove Loki described so far away
from Asgard, but her desire to find fruit more wonderful than the magic
apples urged her on. Finally they reached a meadow bordered by a dense
forest.

“Look,” said Loki, pointing forward, “we shall soon reach the place.”

Suddenly a dark shadow fell across Iduna’s path. The Storm Giant,
disguised in eagle’s plumage, swooped down, caught the Spring-Maiden and
her golden apples in his talons, and sped away to the frozen North. There
the Frost Giants imprisoned the captive in one of their ice-palaces.

It was not long before the joyous valley of Spring felt the absence of
Iduna. The flowers drooped and faded; the grass became parched and
brown, and the tender green foliage turned to burnt orange, crimson, and
russet.

“What has become of Iduna?” cried the people. “See how the valley is
changing!”

Slowly but surely the Frost Giants were working their way toward the
valley of Spring. One night Hoar-Frost stalked along the outskirts of the
groves and withered the leaves and flowers with his icy breath. The next
morning the people heard the dismal howl of North-Wind. “We must find the
Spring-Maiden or we shall die,” they cried in alarm.

In their distress they begged Odin, the wise hero who governed Asgard, to
call a special council in order to determine how the secret of Iduna’s
disappearance could be discovered.

Odin called together his hero council and after earnest thought they
decided to question Loki, the Prince of Mischief. He had seldom been seen
in Asgard since the Spring-Maiden had left the valley. One of the heroes
declared that the last time he saw Iduna she was walking with Loki.

The Prince of Mischief was accordingly summoned to appear in the council
of heroes. His answers to the questions they asked him aroused suspicion.

“Tell us the truth about this matter,” said the hero Thor, in a voice
which shook like the roar of distant thunder.

Then the cowardly Loki confessed the plot which robbed the valley of the
Spring-Maiden and her magic apples.

“Loki,” said Odin sternly, “I command you to bring back Iduna. Let there
be no delay, for even the heroes of Asgard are suffering in her absence!”

Loki knew he dared not disobey this final command. He disguised himself
in falcon’s plumage and sped away to the desolate North where a dull
leaden sky overhung all the land. In circling about the icebergs he spied
the Storm-Giant, fishing from the top of a large rock. Loki descended
quickly, flew into one of the openings of the Giant’s ice-palace, and
made his way to the place where Iduna lay sleeping on a rough couch.
The Prince of Mischief stepped out of his disguise and awakened the
Spring-Maiden.

“False Loki,” she cried. “Have you come to do more mischief?”

“I have been sent by Odin to rescue you,” said he. “You can escape only
by the help of my magic.”

Then he transformed Iduna and the precious casket of apples, placed them
in a magic nutshell, put on his falcon plumage, and flew away toward
Asgard.

As he sped across the dull sky the Storm-Giant looked up and saw him.

“It is Loki disguised as a falcon,” he said. “He is taking the
Spring-Maiden back to Asgard. But he shall not escape me!” Instantly the
Storm-Giant put on his eagle plumage and flew after Loki.

How anxiously the people of Asgard watched for the return of Loki with
Iduna. They heaped great piles of chips around the walls of Asgard and
held torches ready to light the fires in case the Frost Giants came near.

On the third day after Loki’s departure from Asgard, the people saw two
great birds flying with lightning speed toward the city.

“It is the Storm Giant following Loki,” they cried. “What a furious
pursuit! See! See! The eagle is gaining on the falcon! Light the fires as
soon as Loki passes over! Ready! The fires!” Another moment of breathless
suspense! The falcon swept over the walls of Asgard. Instantly a blaze
burst forth all around the city. The falcon had won the mighty race. The
eagle whirled far above the flames and looked down into the city. He
dared not descend. With a cry of despair he sped back to the ice-bound
Northland.

“The joyous Spring-Maiden is ours again,” cried the happy people as they
gathered around Iduna. “Her presence fills us with life and hope. See,
the casket of golden apples is safe in her hands! Soon all nature will be
fair and beautiful. The Spring-Maiden is our joy.”




HOW THE BLUEBIRD WAS CHOSEN HERALD[1]

JAY T. STOCKING


Query Queer was the boy who loved the woods and asked so many questions.
The Wise-and-Wonder-Man was the spirit of the woods whom Query met one
day and who answered Query’s questions. Of course, as Query often went
to the woods it was quite certain that he should sometime meet the
spirit again. And so he did. It happened one day just as the snow was
disappearing and the sun was growing warm. Query had been taking his
first spring walk, and, as he was a bit tired, he sat down on the sunny
slope of a knoll. He was scarcely seated when down out of the green
boughs of a hemlock tree in front of him slid the Wise-and-Wonder-Man,
dressed in his light blue suit with every button a silver bell, and his
pointed cap to match, with its fringe of silver bells. At every move
he made, the bells went _tinkle-tankle, tinkle-tankle_. Query was so
surprised that he almost forgot to breathe.

“Good morning, Query,” said the Wise-and-Wonder-Man, “what are you
wondering about now?”

“I was just wondering,” said Query, nodding his head toward a bluebird
near by, “why the bluebird is the first bird of spring.”

“Why, he is the herald, you know.”

“But how did he come to be the herald? Do you know?”

“I have heard,” said the Wise-and-Wonder-Man.

“Who told you?”

“My grandmother. She said her grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother
told the story; and what her grandmother’s grandmother’s grandmother
said, my grandmother says is so.”

“Of course,” said Query. “Would you tell me the story?”

“Certainly; make yourself comfortable.”

Query lay down on one elbow and the Wise-and-Wonder-Man sat on a fresh,
clean chip, that the choppers had made, and talked.

“You know there are four spirits of the year, Springtime, Summer, Autumn,
and Winter. Some folks call them seasons, but they are _really_ spirits.
Of all four spirits, Springtime is the favourite. He had been coming to
the earth every year for a great many years, year after year, when he
got it into his head that it would be a fine thing and quite becoming
to his dignity to have a herald,—some one to carry his colours and play
the fife. At first he thought of the fragrant flowers, they could bear
his colours. But he reflected that they could not play the fife. Then he
thought of the buzzing bee; he might be taught to play the fife. But he
remembered that he would not do, because he could not carry the colours.
So he decided that he must have a bird.

“Springtime, being a very lively and practical spirit, called the birds
together that very morning. He asked them all to meet him by the Great
Rock under the Great Tree by the Great Bend of the Big River. They all
came—birds of every size and colour and description. He sat on the Great
Rock while the birds sat on the grass and listened with wide, round,
blinking eyes and with heads cocked to one side.

“He made a speech to them of some length. He told them that he desired a
herald to carry his colours and to play the fife. Of course, the bird to
be chosen should be handsome and musical. But he must be more than all
that. He wanted a bird of exceptionally good character, in fact, the very
best bird that could be found. He did not expect to find a perfect bird,
he said, but he desired a bird as nearly perfect as he could obtain. He
concluded his speech by saying that his herald should be:

    “‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good,
    And as modest as modest can be.
    The very best bird that flies in the wood,
    I would that my herald be he.’

The choice, he said, he would leave to the birds as they knew each other
thoroughly.

“The birds put their heads together and talked in at least forty
different languages. Finally, their spokesman told Springtime that they
were content to leave the selection to a committee of six whom he might
name. As Springtime wanted to be on good terms with all the birds, he
thought it not best that he should appoint the committee. He pulled a
handful of grass and held it tightly between his hands just so that the
ends would stick out, and then he asked the birds to come up, one by one,
and pull out a blade. The six who should draw out the shortest blades of
grass were to be the committee.

“They walked up one by one, and drew. Mr. Crow drew the shortest blade
and so was the chairman. Mr. Parrot came next, then Mr. Blue Jay, Mr.
Robin, Mr. English Sparrow, and Mr. Bluebird. It was a strange committee,
to be sure, of all sizes and kinds of birds.

“That very evening the six birds met in a corner of Mr. Farmer’s orchard
upon a dead branch of an old apple tree. They talked and talked and
talked. They discussed all the birds that they knew, spoke of their good
qualities and their bad ones.

“At last, as it grew late, very late, almost eight o’clock, and they had
come to no conclusion, Mr. Bluebird proposed that they should vote, and
all agreed. But how should they vote? That was the next question. Mr.
Bluebird suggested that each one, as his name was called, should stand up
and say which bird he thought was best fitted to be the herald. Mr. Crow
cleared his throat and said that he did not think this was the wisest
way. He thought it better, he continued, that each one should write the
name of his choice on the under side of a leaf. The other members of the
committee agreed with Mr. Crow. Each bird, therefore, took a leaf, and
wrote a name upon it, and Mr. Bluebird counted the votes. There was one
vote for Mr. Crow, one vote for Mr. Parrot, one for Mr. Blue Jay, one
for Mr. Robin, one for Mr. English Sparrow, and one for—I don’t remember
whether it was for Mr. Song Sparrow or Mr. Bobolink. Would you believe
it?—every bird except the bluebird had voted for himself. The bluebird
knew, because he knew the foot-writing of all the birds. He had seen it
in the soft sand by the water.

“It was certain that they were not going to be able to decide among
themselves who should be chosen, so Mr. Bluebird made another suggestion.

“‘I recommend,’ he said, ‘that we go and consult the old Wizard, Mr.
Owl, who holds court every night by the light of the moon in the hollow
of a great grey tree over the ridge. He is the wisest of birds and knows
everything. I have heard, too, that whenever there is a star with a
tail in the sky he can read your fortunes and your character. Now it so
happens that at this very time there is in the sky a star with a tail,
for I saw it this morning. Little Bluey, my eldest child, woke up very
early and I had to fly out to get him a worm to keep him quiet. Just as
I was starting, long before sunrise, I saw the comet. I propose that we
go at once and consult the Wizard and let him decide for us who should be
the herald.’

“‘It seems to me,’ said the crow, ‘that this is a most excellent
suggestion. The Wizard is certainly a very wise bird. I have heard of him
and doubtless he has heard of me. By all means, let us go.’

“It was decided then and there that they should go that very night, just
as soon as the comet rose. Mr. Bluebird was to give the signal because he
knew where to look for the comet.

“At the proper moment Mr. Bluebird shook them all by the wing and woke
them up, and they started, Mr. Crow going first, then Mr. Parrot, Mr.
Blue Jay, Mr. Robin, Mr. English Sparrow, and Mr. Bluebird.

“They flew and they flew and they flew, for it was a long way and a hard
way to find, and not one of the six had ever been out so late in his
life. When they reached the wood they were obliged to fly very carefully,
so that they should not bump their heads against the trees, and so that
they might be able to read the signs along the way. At length they spied
a great grey tree, with a dimly lighted window in it, far up the trunk.
Mr. Crow read the name on the door-plate and announced that they had
reached the right house. There was no door-bell so Mr. Crow scratched
three times,—scratch, scratch, scratch.

“‘Who-who?’ came from within.

“‘Friends,’ said the crow, ‘six friends come to consult the Wizard.’

“The latch was promptly lifted and the six birds walked solemnly in and
up the stairs.

“They found themselves in a little dark round room with seats against
the sides. Mr. Owl sat over on one side, his great fluffy coat turned
up at the neck and his fluffy hood pulled down to meet it. He had his
spectacles on and was reading by the light of his lamp,—that is, it
looked like a lamp, but Mr. Owl explained later that it was not a lamp
but the comet’s light which he caught through a knot-hole.

“The Wizard received them pleasantly and motioned to them to be seated.
Mr. Crow sat down in front of the Wizard at his right, then the others in
order, Mr. Bluebird sitting at the left.

“‘It is very late,’ observed the owl. ‘It must be most important business
that brings you to me at this hour of the night.’

“‘It is,’ replied the crow, ‘exceedingly important business, indeed.’

“Then in plain and emphatic words he told the Wizard what their errand
was. He repeated as nearly as he could the speech of Springtime,
especially the last words:

    “‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good,
    And as modest as modest can be.
    The very best bird that flies in the wood,
    I would that my herald be he.’

“He told the Wizard of their inability to decide who should be chosen and
of their conclusion to leave the choice to him. This was the reason of
their visit.

“Then the owl looked grave as a judge and remarked, ‘It seems to me in
this situation that the first thing to be done is to secure the opinion
of each of you as to who is the fittest bird to be chosen. Mr. Crow, will
you be so good as to give us your opinion?’

“Mr. Crow stood up, cleared his throat, and said, ‘To speak quite
frankly, it seems to me that I, myself, should be chosen. It is scarcely
possible to find a better bird.’

“‘What makes you think so?’ asked the owl dryly.

“‘My wife,’ said the crow. ‘Only to-day Mrs. Crow said to me, “Mr. Crow,
my dear husband, you are a perfect man, unless—”’

“‘Unless what?’ inquired the Wizard, raising his eyebrows.

“‘I don’t recollect,’ replied the crow, ‘in fact, I didn’t hear
distinctly, but I am sure it was something unimportant,’ and he sat down.

“‘Mr. Parrot,’ said the Wizard, ‘your opinion, if you please.’

“‘It is my opinion,’ said Mr. Parrot, ‘that I am the bird who should be
chosen. I have heard myself talk on many an occasion, and I am sure that
I speak both wisdom and wit. In modesty, I forbear to say more.’

“‘Mr. Blue Jay!’ called the Wizard.

“‘Since you ask me, Mr. Wizard, for my honest opinion I am bound to
say that I feel that I am the only bird for this position. I have been
looking in the glass to-day; in fact, I see myself in the glass very
often, and I have never yet observed a single fault in myself. There is
no bird who can say more.’

“‘Mr. Robin, if you please.’

“Mr. Robin arose with his fingers in his armholes: ‘I am quite
convinced, Mr. Wizard, from much observation, that I should be made the
herald. I am handsome and gifted, if I do say it myself. Besides, I live
in the best of society; I dwell in the Bishop’s orchard. This very day I
heard the Bishop say, “That robin is a fine, handsome bird,—as fine and
handsome as a Bishop.” I am sure that recommendation is enough.’

“‘Mr. English Sparrow.’

“‘I am sure, Mr. Wizard,’ said the sparrow, speaking very rapidly and
excitedly, ‘that while I am not so big as some of these who have spoken,
I have a better claim than any of them to this high office. For I have
long made it a practice to study carefully the faults and weaknesses of
all the other birds, and I know that I have none of these failings.’

“‘Mr. Bluebird,’ said the Wizard, ‘what have you to say?’

“‘Nothing, Mr. Wizard. I have not made up my mind. I leave the matter
entirely to your eminent wisdom and judgment.’ And he sat down.

“‘Well,’ said the owl, after a moment’s deliberation, ‘the next thing to
do under these circumstances seems to be to read your fortunes, that is,
your characters, in the light of the comet. I shall ask you, one by one,
to step up on this judgment-seat at my left, where the light of the comet
can fall on you and where I can see you plainly. Mr. Crow, will you be
the first?’

“Mr. Crow stepped up to the judgment-seat very confidently, while the
Wizard put on his spectacles and turned the lamp so that the light fell
full upon the glossy feathers of the large black bird. It was a revolving
seat, which the Wizard turned round and round slowly so that he could
see all sides of the bird. ‘A fine bird,’ he said, very deliberately, as
if thinking aloud, ‘a perfect bird, unless—unless what?—let me see—ah, a
slant in the left eye—in _both_ eyes—a _very decided_ slant—very sly—very
cunning—inclined to steal—very _much_ inclined to steal—a thief, in fact;
steals Mr. Farmer’s corn and peas—especially in the early morning when
nobody is around—a _very bad_ fault—one of the worst. I am quite sure,
Mr. Crow, that Springtime would not choose you for his herald—he could
not trust you. That will do. Mr. Parrot!’

“Mr. Parrot walked up very sedately and took his place on the
judgment-seat. The Wizard gazed at him gravely and stroked his back.
‘Fine feathers—green, red—yellow—fine feathers—rather small head—large
tongue—large tongue, small head—talks more than he thinks—talks _very
much_ more than he thinks—talks often _without_ thinking—says what he
hears others say. Tongue rather harsh, too—and blisters at the end—bad
words! bad words! I am sorry to say, Mr. Parrot, that I cannot recommend
you as herald. People would not be glad to see you year after year. That
will do. Mr. Blue Jay!’

“The blue jay stepped up very jauntily and took the seat.

“The Wizard looked at him admiringly, for he was clad in a beautiful
tailor-made suit that fitted him to perfection. ‘A handsome bird,’ he
said, ‘a handsome bird,—that is, handsome clothes. Eye very good, too—a
little slant, a little slant—but on the whole a good eye. Let me see,
what is this on the back of the head? these long feathers?—oh, a crest!
I see. Just for decoration. A vain bird, vain as a peacock—and like all
vain people, hard to get along with—and very unfriendly—likes to flock
alone—other folks not quite good enough. I regret to inform you, Mr. Blue
Jay, that Springtime would not desire you as his herald. That will do.
Mr. Robin!’

“The robin hopped up on the seat in his fine dress suit and red
shirt-front, his chest inflated and his eyes shining. The Wizard
looked at him intently for some time, then he began, ‘You are the
Bishop’s friend, you say. Let me see—a bright red spot on your bill—the
Bishop’s cherries, I should say—but we’ll let that pass. Eye very
suspicious—_very_ suspicious—always looking even among your best friends,
to see if somebody isn’t going to harm you—cannot pull a worm out of the
Bishop’s garden without looking around suspiciously all the time. A very
unhappy frame of mind to be in—unhappy for you—unhappy for others. You
would hardly do for the herald. That will do. Mr. English Sparrow!’

“The English sparrow fluttered up noisily and took his place. ‘You say,’
began the Wizard, ‘that you have not the faults of the other birds.’

“‘Yes,’ said the sparrow, talking very fast, ‘I am not as mean as the
crow, and I don’t talk such nonsense as old Polly, and I’m not so stuck
up as the jay, and I am not suspicious as the Bishop’s friend is. I
haven’t any of the faults of the other birds.’

“The Wizard pushed his spectacles up on his brow, turned the light away,
and looked at him, ‘I see,’ he said, ‘I do not need the comet light at
all. I could see you in the dark. Sharp bill—sharp tongue—sharp claws,
in a continual state of bad temper—very quarrelsome—very unpleasant
neighbour; in fact, a common nuisance. That will do, Mr. Bluebird!’

“‘I am sure, Mr. Owl,’ said the bluebird, rising, ‘that I need not take
your time. I am not the bird to be chosen, for I know that I am far from
being a perfect bird. I have many faults. There are many nobler birds
than I from whom Springtime may choose his herald.’

“But the Wizard was quite insistent that the bluebird should come forward
where he could read his fortune.

“‘You say that you have many faults,’ remarked the Owl. ‘That may be, but
I see by the light of the comet that they are small, very faint indeed.
Besides, the ability to see one’s faults and the desire to correct them
is the greatest of virtues. There may be better birds, but I am frank
to say that I am not acquainted with them. I have no hesitation, Mr.
Bluebird, in saying that it is my judgment that you should be the herald
of the Spring, for, if you will permit me to say it, it seems that you are

    “‘Both handsome and happy, gifted and good,
    And as modest as modest can be,’

whereat Mr. Bluebird blushed painfully, while in his heart he was very
happy.

“Springtime agreed with Mr. Owl, and posted notices on every tree by the
water’s edge that Mr. Bluebird should henceforth be his herald, the
first bird of the spring.

“There is one now on the branch of that old tree,” said the
Wise-and-Wonder-Man. “He is carrying the colours and playing the fife.”

“What is he saying?” asked Query.

“Well,” said the Wise-and-Wonder-Man, “it always sounds to me as if he
were saying, ‘Pur-i-ty, pur-i-ty,’ but I asked him one day and he said it
was only, ‘Spring-is-here, spring-is-here.’”




THE SPRINGTIME[2]

EUGENE FIELD


A child once said to his grandsire: “Gran’pa, what do the flowers mean
when they talk to the old oak-tree about death? I hear them talking every
day, but I cannot understand; it is all very strange.”

The grandsire bade the child think no more of these things; the flowers
were foolish prattlers,—what right had they to put such notions into a
child’s head? But the child did not do his grandsire’s bidding; he loved
the flowers and the trees, and he went each day to hear them talk.

It seems that the little vine down by the stone wall had overheard the
South Wind say to the rosebush: “You are a proud, imperious beauty now,
and will not listen to my suit; but wait till my boisterous brother comes
from the North,—then you will droop and wither and die, all because you
would not listen to me and fly with me to my home by the Southern sea.”

These words set the little vine to thinking; and when she had thought for
a long time she spoke to the daisy about it, and the daisy called in the
violet, and the three little ones had a very serious conference; but,
having talked it all over, they came to the conclusion that it was as
much of a mystery as ever. The old oak-tree saw them.

“You little folks seem very much puzzled about something,” said the
oak-tree.

“I heard the South Wind tell the rosebush that she would die,” exclaimed
the vine, “and we do not understand what it is. Can you tell us what it
is to die?”

The old oak-tree smiled sadly.

“I do not call it death,” said the old oak-tree; “I call it sleep,—a
long, restful, refreshing sleep.”

“How does it feel,” inquired the daisy, looking very full of astonishment
and anxiety.

“You must know,” said the oak-tree, “that after many, many days we all
have had such merry times and have bloomed so long and drunk so heartily
of the dew and sunshine and eaten so much of the goodness of the earth
that we feel very weary and we long for repose. Then a great wind comes
out of the North, and we shiver in its icy blast. The sunshine goes away,
and there is no dew for us nor any nourishment in the earth, and we are
glad to go to sleep.”

“Mercy on me!” cried the vine, “I shall not like that at all! What, leave
this smiling meadow and all the pleasant grass and singing bees and
frolicsome butterflies? No, old oak-tree, I would never go to sleep; I
much prefer sporting with the winds and playing with my little friends,
the daisy and the violet.”

“And I,” said the violet, “I think it would be dreadful to go to sleep.
What if we never should wake up again!”

The suggestion struck the others dumb with terror,—all but the oak-tree.

“Have no fear of that,” said the old oak-tree, “for you are sure to
awaken again, and when you have awakened the new life will be sweeter
and happier than the old.”

“What nonsense!” cried the thistle. “You children shouldn’t believe a
word of it. When you go to sleep you die, and when you die there’s the
last of you!”

The old oak-tree reproved the thistle; but the thistle maintained his
abominable heresy so stoutly that the little vine and the daisy and the
violet were quite at a loss to know which of the two to believe,—the old
oak-tree or the thistle.

The child heard it all and was sorely puzzled. What was this death, this
mysterious sleep? Would it come upon him, the child? And after he had
slept awhile would he awaken? His grandsire would not tell him of these
things; perhaps his grandsire did not know.

It was a long, long summer, full of sunshine and bird-music, and the
meadow was like a garden, and the old oak-tree looked down upon the grass
and flowers and saw that no evil befell them. A long, long play-day it
was to the little vine, the daisy, and the violet. The crickets and the
grasshoppers and the bumblebees joined in the sport, and romped and made
music till it seemed like an endless carnival. Only every now and then
the vine and her little flower friends talked with the old oak-tree about
that strange sleep and the promised awakening, and the thistle scoffed at
the old oak-tree’s cheering words. The child was there and heard it all.

One day the great wind came out of the North. Hurry-scurry! back to
their warm homes in the earth and under the old stone-wall scampered
the crickets and bumblebees to go to sleep. Whirr, whirr! Oh, but how
piercing the great wind was; how different from his amiable brother who
had travelled all the way from the Southern sea to kiss the flowers and
woo the rose!

“Well, this is the last of us!” exclaimed the thistle; “we’re going to
die, and that’s the end of it all!”

“No, no,” cried the old oak-tree; “we shall not die; we are going to
sleep. Here, take my leaves, little flowers, and you shall sleep warm
under them. Then, when you awaken, you shall see how much sweeter and
happier the new life is.”

The little ones were very weary indeed. The promised sleep came very
gratefully.

“We would not be so willing to go to sleep if we thought we should not
awaken,” said the violet.

So the little ones went to sleep. The little vine was the last of all to
sink to her slumbers; she nodded in the wind and tried to keep awake till
she saw the old oak-tree close his eyes, but her efforts were vain; she
nodded and nodded, and bowed her slender form against the old stone wall,
till finally she, too, had sunk into repose. And then the old oak-tree
stretched his weary limbs and gave a last look at the sullen sky and at
the slumbering little ones at his feet; and with that, the old oak-tree
fell asleep too.

The child saw all these things, and he wanted to ask his grandsire about
them, but his grandsire would not tell him of them; perhaps his grandsire
did not know.

The child saw the Storm King come down from the hills and ride furiously
over the meadows and over the forest and over the town. The snow fell
everywhere, and the North Wind played solemn music in the chimneys. The
Storm King put the brook to bed, and threw a great mantle of snow over
him; and the brook that had romped and prattled all the summer and told
pretty tales to the grass and flowers,—the brook went to sleep too. With
all his fierceness and bluster, the Storm King was very kind; he did not
awaken the old oak-tree and the slumbering flowers. The little vine lay
under the fleecy snow against the old stone-wall and slept peacefully,
and so did the violet and the daisy. Only the wicked old thistle thrashed
about in his sleep as if he dreamt bad dreams, which, all will allow, was
no more than he deserved.

All through that winter—and it seemed very long—the child thought of the
flowers and the vine and the old oak-tree, and wondered whether in the
springtime they would awaken from their sleep; and he wished for the
springtime to come. And at last the springtime came. One day the sunbeams
fluttered down from the sky and danced all over the meadow.

“Wake up, little friends!” cried the sunbeams,—“wake up, for it is
springtime!”

The brook was the first to respond. So eager, so fresh, so exuberant was
he after his long winter sleep, that he leaped from his bed and frolicked
all over the meadow and played all sorts of curious antics. Then a little
bluebird was seen in the hedge one morning. He was calling to the violet.

“Wake up, little violet,” called the bluebird. “Have I come all this
distance to find you sleeping? Wake up, it is the springtime!”

That pretty little voice awakened the violet.

“Oh, how sweetly I have slept!” cried the violet; “how happy this new
life is! Welcome, dear friends!”

And presently the daisy awakened, fresh and beautiful, and then the
little vine, and, last of all, the old oak-tree. The meadow was green,
and all around were the music, the fragrance, the new, sweet life of the
springtime.

“I slept horribly,” growled the thistle. “I had bad dreams. It was sleep,
after all, but it ought to have been death.”

The thistle never complained again; for just then a four-footed monster
stalked through the meadow and plucked and ate the thistle and then
stalked gloomily away; which was the last of the sceptical thistle,—truly
a most miserable end!

“You said the truth, dear old oak-tree!” cried the little vine. “It was
not death,—it was only a sleep, a sweet, refreshing sleep, and this
awakening is very beautiful.”

They all said so,—the daisy, the violet, the oak-tree, the crickets, the
bees, and all the things and creatures of the field and forest that had
awakened from their long sleep to swell the beauty and the glory of the
springtime. And they talked with the child, and the child heard them. And
although the grandsire never spoke to the child about these things, the
child learned from the flowers and trees a lesson of the springtime which
perhaps the grandsire never knew.




THE SELFISH GIANT

OSCAR WILDE


Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go
and play in the Giant’s garden.

It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over
the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach
trees that in the spring time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink
and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees
and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order
to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.

One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish
ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years
were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was
limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived
he saw the children playing in the garden.

“What are you doing there?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the
children ran away.

“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any one can understand
that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a
high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board—

    +-----------------+
    |   TRESPASSERS   |
    |     WILL BE     |
    |   PROSECUTED    |
    +-----------------+

He was a very selfish giant.

The poor children had nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road,
but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not
like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were
over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.

“How happy we were there,” they said to each other.

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms
and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still
winter. The birds did not care to sing in it, as there were no children,
and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head
out from the grass, and when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for
the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off
to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost.
“Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here
all the year around.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white
cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the
North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he
roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. “This is
a delightful spot,” he said; “we must ask the Hail on a visit.” So the
Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle
till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the
garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath
was like ice.

“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the
Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white
garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit
to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too
selfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind,
and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely
music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the
King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing
outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in
his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the
world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind
ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open
casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant, and he
jumped out of bed and looked out.

What did he see?

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the
children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the
trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And
the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had
covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently
above the children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering
with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass
and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still
winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing
a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches
of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor
tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was
blowing and roaring above it. “Climb up! little boy,” said the Tree, and
it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have been!”
he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put
that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down
the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and
ever.” He was really very sorry for what he had done.

So he crept down-stairs and opened the front door quite softly, and
went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so
frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again.
Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that
he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant strode up behind him and
took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree
broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the
little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s
neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the
Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came
the Spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and
he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were
going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the
children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to
bid him good-bye.

“But where is your little companion?” he said; “the boy I put into the
tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

“We don’t know,” answered the children. “He has gone away.”

“You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,” said the Giant.
But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had
never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with
the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again.
The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first
little friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he
used to say.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not
play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the
children at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful
flowers,” he said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of
all.”

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did
not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely Spring asleep,
and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It
certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden
was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were
all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood
the little boy he had loved.

Down-stairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He
hastened across, and came near to the child. And when he came quite
close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound
thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two
nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may
take my big sword and slay him.”

“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”

“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he
knelt before the little child.

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once
in your garden; to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is
Paradise.”




THE PROMISED PLANT

ANDREA HOFER PROUDFOOT


There was once a promise made to all the people of the world, and every
one was waiting and had been waiting long for it to be kept.

No one could remember who had made the promise, but the little children
were told that it was made by a great King who knew everything that had
ever happened, and all things that would ever be.

And this was the promise:

A wonderful flower was to grow in a certain garden that would bring to
the one who owned the garden all the good things in the world.

Every one waited and waited for the flower to come. Years and years they
had waited—summer after summer; each new little boy and girl that came
into the world was told of the great promise, and among the very first
things they did was to go about seeking the flower and asking questions
about it.

But no one could tell them anything except to repeat the promise that
a beautiful gift-plant would some day grow upon the earth, which only
people with loving hearts could see, and they should be greatly blessed.

Every one in the whole world went about looking for this flower; even
though they did a great deal of work, and thought of other things, yet
they never quite forgot the wonderful promise.

Many of them prepared the soil and made beautiful gardens to receive it.
Some sought far and wide for rare seeds and bulbs which they planted and
watered, but only such plants grew as every one had seen before, and so
they still waited and searched.

Many others wished and wished, and some prayed and prayed, but the
precious seed did not come.

The rich men of the land had great parks laid out; the ground was tilled
and everything kept ready for the plant to find root. Many gardeners and
watchers were hired to stay there and watch for this wondrous flower and
guard it—but it did not come.

Yet no one ever doubted the promise, for every one wished very much to
have all the good things which were to come with this flower.

Among all these people there was one very kind woman, who did many good
deeds. She loved and cared for little children who had no one to help
them. One night when she came home from her work what did she see in a
little broken flower-pot that stood in her window?

A tiny plant which she had never noticed before! She watered it and it
grew and grew, and she learned to love it.

One day while she was looking at the tiny plant she remembered the
promise, and said quietly to herself: “Can it be that this is the
beautiful flower the whole world is waiting for! I think it is, for it
has made me so happy.”

And it was the flower.

She knew the promise had come because it made her so happy.

Every one, far and near, came to see it; and they begged pieces and seeds
to plant. And though the good woman gave of her plant, it grew larger
and larger, and she became happier and happier.

One day it blossomed wide and beautiful.

The rich men who had made great parks and gardens for the flower would
not believe the woman had received the real promised plant. They shook
their heads and laughed at it all, and went on seeking after other seeds
and plants.

But the people who believed because they saw how happy it made the woman
to whom the flower came, brought rich gifts to her and begged for the
seed, and they took it home and planted it everywhere, that the whole
world might be filled with joy and peace.




BRIER ROSE

KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN AND NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH


A long time ago there lived a king and a queen, who said every day, “If
only we had a child”; but for a long time they had none.

It fell out once, as the Queen was bathing, that a frog crept out of the
water on to the land and said to her: “Your wish shall be fulfilled;
before a year has passed you shall bring a daughter into the world.”

The frog’s words came true. The Queen had a little girl who was
so beautiful that the King could not contain himself for joy, and
prepared a great feast. He invited not only his relations, friends and
acquaintances, but the fairies, in order that they might be favourably
and kindly disposed toward the child. There were thirteen of them in the
kingdom, but as the King had only twelve golden plates for them to eat
off, one of the fairies had to stay at home.

The feast was held with all splendour, and when it came to an end the
fairies all presented the child with magic gifts. One gave her virtue,
another beauty, a third riches, and so on, with everything in the world
that she could wish for.

When eleven of the fairies had said their say, the thirteenth suddenly
appeared. She wanted to revenge herself for not having been invited.
Without greeting any one, or even glancing at the company, she called out
in a loud voice, “The Princess shall prick herself with a distaff in her
fifteenth year and shall fall dead”; and without another word she turned
and left the hall.

Every one was terror-stricken, but the twelfth fairy, whose wish was
still unspoken, stepped forward. She could not cancel the curse, but
could only soften it, so she said: “It shall not be death, but a deep
sleep lasting a hundred years, into which your daughter shall fall.”

The King was so anxious to guard his dear child from the misfortune that
he sent out a command that all the distaffs in the whole kingdom should
be burned.

All the promises of the fairies came true.

The Princess grew up so beautiful, modest, kind, and clever that every
one who saw her could not but love her. Now it happened that on the very
day when she was fifteen years old the King and Queen were away from
home, and the Princess was left alone in the castle. She wandered about
over the whole place, looking at rooms and halls as she pleased, and at
last she came to an old tower. She ascended a narrow winding staircase
and reached a little door. A rusty key was sticking in the lock, and when
she turned it the door flew open. In a little room sat an old woman with
a spindle busily spinning her flax.

“Good day, Granny,” said the Princess; “what are you doing?”

“I am spinning,” said the old woman, and nodded her head. “What is the
thing that whirls round so merrily?” asked the Princess; and she took the
spindle and tried to spin too.

But she had scarcely touched it before the curse was fulfilled, and she
pricked her finger with the spindle. The instant she felt the prick she
fell upon the bed which was standing near, and lay still in a deep sleep
which spread over the whole castle.

The King and Queen, who had just come home and had stepped into the hall,
went to sleep, and all their courtiers with them. The horses went to
sleep in the stable, the dogs in the yard, the doves on the roof, the
flies on the wall; yes, even the fire flickering on the hearth grew still
and went to sleep, and the roast meat stopped crackling; and the cook,
who was pulling the scullion’s hair because he had made some mistake, let
him go and went to sleep. And the wind dropped, and on the trees in front
of the castle not a leaf stirred.

But round the castle a hedge of brier roses began to grow up; every year
it grew higher, till at last it surrounded the whole castle so that
nothing could be seen of it, not even the flags on the roof.

But there was a legend in the land about the lovely sleeping Brier Rose,
as the King’s daughter was called, and from time to time princes came
and tried to force a way through the hedge into the castle. But they
found it impossible, for the thorns, as though they had hands, held them
fast, and the princes remained caught in them without being able to free
themselves.

After many, many years a prince came again to the country and heard an
old man tell of the castle which stood behind the brier hedge, in which
a most beautiful maiden called Brier Rose had been asleep for the last
hundred years, and with her slept the King, Queen, and all her courtiers.
He knew also, from his grandfather, that many princes had already come
and sought to pierce through the brier hedge, and had remained caught in
it and died a sad death.

Then the young Prince said: “I am not afraid; I am determined to go and
look upon the lovely Brier Rose.”

The good old man did all in his power to dissuade him, but the Prince
would not listen to his words.

Now, however, the hundred years were just ended, and the day had come
when Brier Rose was to wake up again. When the Prince approached the
brier hedge it was in blossom, and was covered with beautiful large
flowers which made way for him of their own accord and let him pass
unharmed, and then closed up again into a hedge behind him.

In the courtyard he saw the horses and dappled hounds lying asleep, on
the roof sat the doves with their heads under their wings, and when he
went into the house the flies were asleep on the walls, and near the
throne lay the King and Queen; in the kitchen was the cook, with his hand
raised as though about to strike the scullion, and the maid sat with the
black fowl before her which she was about to pluck.

He went on farther, and all was so still that he could hear his own
breathing. At last he reached the tower, and opened the door into the
little room where Brier Rose was asleep. There she lay, looking so
beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her; he bent down and gave
her a kiss. As he touched her, Brier Rose opened her eyes and looked
quite sweetly at him. Then they went down together; and the King and
Queen and all the courtiers woke up, and looked at each other with
astonished eyes. The horses in the stable stood up and shook themselves,
the hounds leaped about and wagged their tails, the doves on the roof
lifted their heads from under their wings, looked around and flew into
the fields; the flies on the walls began to crawl again, the fire in
the kitchen roused itself and blazed up and cooked the food, the meat
began to crackle, and the cook boxed the scullion’s ears so soundly that
he screamed aloud, while the maid finished plucking the fowl. Then the
wedding of the Prince and Brier Rose was celebrated with all splendour,
and they lived happily till they died.




PICCIOLA

ADAPTED FROM ST. SAINTINE


Many years ago a good man, who lived in France, was thrown into prison
because the King suspected him of having plotted against the government.

Within four grey stone walls, with only one small window through which
the little stream of sunshine came, the poor man was kept captive for
months and years. He was not allowed to speak to a living soul except
his jailer who at best was but a cross old fellow. He had no work to do.
There were no books to read, and his only source of amusement during many
long tedious hours was drawing pictures with a bit of charcoal on the
bare stone walls of his prison cell.

Fortunately, however, the poor captive was permitted to leave his cell
for one hour each morning and go up a narrow winding stairway which led
him into a small courtyard on all sides of which rose high, strong
prison walls. There was no roof overhead. Here the prisoner could breathe
the fresh air and feel the warm sun and by looking up he could see a bit
of the blue sky above.

Day after day the prison life went on in the same round without any
change or hope of change. The bitterness and loneliness of the poor
man’s lot grew upon him as months and years passed without a word from
his family or friends and without hope of ever seeing one of them again.
And by and by a time came when he could no longer even find amusement in
sketching upon the walls of his cell, for not one vacant spot was left
in all that space where he could draw a picture. He was a very unhappy
man indeed, and it is hard to say how it might have ended. But one day a
new interest came into his life—an interest which changed the poor fellow
from an unhappy bitter man who had come to hate everybody and everything,
into one who forgot all wrong and who learned to see only the good and
the beautiful in all around him. And this interest came about through the
growing up of a tiny stray seed which had been blown into the courtyard
by the wind and had taken root between two of the great stones with which
the courtyard was paved.

It happened that one day as the prisoner was taking his daily walk his
eyes caught sight of the bright green of the little seedling just in time
to save it from being crushed beneath his foot. He stopped and looked
closer. Then he saw how a little plant had sent down its rootlets into
the crevice between the stones and had struggled to push its head up
where its green leaves might catch what they could of the scant sunshine.
He thought how wonderful it was that the little seed had found courage
to take root and struggle for life in the dark and gloomy courtyard of
the prison. “Brave little plant,” he said. “You deserve to live. I shall
watch over you and guard you, for the wind and the hail are hard enemies.”

Day by day he noticed how bravely it grew higher and higher and unfolded
one leaf after another to the dull sunshine. He became more and more
interested in the little nursling which in time was like a dear friend
and companion to him. He called it Picciola, which means, “little one,”
and before many days had passed, it had taken root and grown in his own
heart so that there was no longer room for bitterness or memory of any
wrongs.

At one time when a great hailstorm sent its cruel hail into the
courtyard, the prisoner bent over Picciola to protect it and the driving
hailstones fell upon his own head until the storm was over.

“My poor little Picciola,” he said, “I shall not always be here to guard
you from harm. Much can happen to my little plant when I am in my cell. I
will build a little fence around you, then the wind cannot blow you down
nor the hail cut you with sharp stones.”

The cross jailer, too, took an interest in Picciola when he saw how happy
the prisoner had become and he was glad to help take care of the little
plant. Somehow, the jailer did not seem to be such a cross fellow as
before; indeed he seemed to be quite a gentle and kind hearted man.

Now the prisoner was very happy and the days were no longer weary and
without interest for Picciola was always waiting for him in the courtyard
and he was sure to see something new about the little plant each morning
he visited it. And Picciola grew and grew and in time put forth two
beautiful blossoms and sent perfume to make glad the heart of her friend.

But one morning alas! when the prisoner went to look at Picciola he
found that, in spite of all his care, she had begun to droop and wither.
What could be the matter? In a moment he was on the ground examining
the little plant to find out what was causing all the trouble. He soon
discovered that Picciola had grown so large that there was no longer room
enough for it to grow in the crevice between the stones. The sharp edges
of the stones cut into the delicate stem and the poor prisoner could see
that his little companion would die unless the stones could be lifted.

He was in great distress. He tried with all the strength he had to lift
the stones himself; but he could not move them. He begged the jailer to
help him.

“I can do nothing for you,” said the jailer. “You must ask the King; he
alone has the power to say that the stones should be lifted.”

“But the King is far away,” said the prisoner. “There is but one way to
reach him—I must write.”

The poor fellow in despair sent a letter to the King begging him to save
the life of his little friend, Picciola. The letter was written on a
white handkerchief with a bit of charcoal. He begged the King, not for
his own freedom and life, but for the life of Picciola. As soon as the
King finished reading the prisoner’s letter he said:

“This man is not really wicked at heart or he could not care so much
for a little plant. The stones shall be raised that the little plant
may live, and I will pardon this prisoner because of his great love and
sacrifice for so helpless a thing as Picciola.” So the prisoner was
released and when he left his lonely prison cell he took Picciola with
him, for she had been the beginning for him of a new happiness.




ST. FRANCIS, THE LITTLE BEDESMAN OF CHRIST[3]

WILLIAM CANTON


To all living things on earth and air and water St. Francis was most
gracious and loving. They were all his little brothers and sisters, and
he forgot them not, still less scorned or slighted them, but spoke to
them often and blessed them, and in return they showed him great love
and sought to be of his fellowship. He bade his companions keep plots
of ground for their little sisters the flowers, and to these lovely and
speechless creatures he spoke, with no great fear that they would not
understand his words. And all this was a marvellous thing in a cruel
time, when human life was accounted of slight worth by fierce barons and
ruffling marauders.

For the bees he set honey and wine in the winter, lest they should feel
the nip of the cold too keenly; and bread for the birds, that they all,
but especially “my brother Lark,” should have joy of Christmastide; and
when a youth gave St. Francis the turtle-doves he had snared, the Saint
had nests made for them, and there they laid their eggs and hatched them,
and fed from the hands of the brethren.

Out of affection a fisherman once gave him a great tench, but he put it
back into the clear water of the lake, bidding it love God; and the fish
played about the boat till St. Francis blessed it and bade it go.

“Why dost thou torment my little brothers the Lambs,” he asked of a
shepherd, “carrying them bound thus and hanging from a staff, so that
they cry piteously?” And in exchange for the lambs he gave the shepherd
his cloak. And at another time seeing amid a flock of goats one white
lamb feeding, he was concerned that he had nothing but his brown robe to
offer for it; but a merchant came up and paid for it and gave it him, and
he took it with him to the city and preached about it so that the hearts
of those hearing him were melted.

Fain would I tell of the coneys that took refuge in the folds of his
habit, and of the swifts which flew screaming in their glee while he was
preaching; but now it is time to speak of the sermon which he preached
to a great multitude of birds in a field by the roadside. Down from the
trees flew the birds to hear him, and they nestled in the grassy bosom
of the field, and listened till he had done. And these were the words he
spoke to them:

“Little birds, little sisters mine, much are you holden to God your
Creator; and at all times and in every place you ought to praise Him.
Freedom He has given you to fly everywhere; and raiment He has given you,
double and threefold. More than this, He preserved your kind in the Ark,
so that your race might not come to an end. Still more do you owe Him for
the element of air, which He has made your portion. Over and above, you
sow not, neither do you reap; but God feeds you, and gives you streams
and springs for your thirst; the mountains He gives you, and the valleys
for your refuge, and the tall trees wherein to build your nests. And
because you cannot sew or spin God takes thought to clothe you, you and
your little ones. It must be, then, that your Creator loves you much,
since He has granted you so many benefits. Be on your guard then against
the sin of ingratitude, and strive always to give God praise.”

And when the Saint ceased speaking, the birds made such signs as they
might, by spreading their wings and opening their beaks, to show their
love and pleasure; and when he had blessed them, they sprang up, and
singing songs of unspeakable sweetness, away they streamed in a great
cross to the four quarters of heaven.




PROSERPINA AND KING PLUTO


Little Proserpina and Mother Ceres lived in the beautiful valley of Enna
where the warm sun shone all the year round. Mother Ceres had plenty
of work to do. Each day she made a journey to the meadows, orchards,
and fields all over the earth. Indeed it was through her watchful care
that the grass grew, and flowers bloomed, that the fruit ripened, and
the precious crops of barley, wheat, and rye brought forth a bountiful
harvest.

One day at dawn a shining car and a pair of restless winged dragons
stood waiting to take Mother Ceres on her daily journey. The dragons
were impatient to start, for they knew how much work had to be done each
day. Very soon Ceres glided forth and mounted her splendid car. She was
clothed in flowing robes of the softest grey and on her head she wore a
crown of scarlet poppies and golden wheat.

“Farewell, little daughter,” she called. “I shall come back before the
dew falls. Do not venture out of the valley to-day. Farewell!” Off sped
the winged dragons with Mother Ceres. Little Proserpina did not mind
being left in the valley for she found a good deal of amusement there.
Her friends the naiads—beautiful water nymphs—sported about in the cool
fountains. Proserpina loved to spend a quiet hour with these gentle
maidens. She often played a merry game with Echo, a nymph who lived on a
far-off wooded hillside; sometimes she danced in the sunshine with her
little playmates.

Mother Ceres’ shining car soon disappeared and little Proserpina ran to
some of her companions and said, “Come, come! I hear Pan, the shepherd
boy, playing the sweetest music on his reed-pipes! Let us dance in the
sunshine! Come!”

In her gayest mood she led the dance to the very edge of a deep wood
which bordered the valley. Then the train of little maidens stopped
suddenly and listened. Peals of boisterous laughter broke the silence. In
the depths of the forest the queerest youths were rollicking about. They
had snub noses, hairy ears, and tiny sprouting horns; their hips were
covered with shaggy hair and their feet were exactly like a goat’s.

“Hush,” whispered Proserpina, “the madcap satyrs are dancing too. Let us
hasten away.”

“We will gather flowers and make garlands,” said one of the maidens.

They slipped quietly away from the noisy wood and ran about in all
directions to search for fragrant blossoms,—lilies and violets, hyacinth
bells and pinks. The little maidens soon filled their arms with flowers
and sat down on a mossy bank to weave garlands.

In her eagerness to find the loveliest blossoms Proserpina had sauntered
off a long way from her companions. She could hear the faint echo of
their merry voices in the distance.

“Oh, I have wandered out of the valley,” she thought. “I must hasten back
with these lovely flowers. What beauties I have found!”

She turned to run toward the bank where her companions were sitting, when
she heard a queer rumbling noise. What could it be! It sounded exactly
like distant thunder, yet there was not a cloud in the blue sky overhead.
There was another rumbling. Was it coming nearer? The earth beneath her
feet quivered! Then in breathless fear she saw a great crack in the
field! She was too frightened to move or speak. The flowers she had
gathered dropped from her trembling hands. Out of the great cavity which
seemed to widen every moment Proserpina saw dashing toward her four jet
black horses with flashing eyes and quivering nostrils. At their heels
whirled a wonderful golden chariot with jewelled wheels. Standing in this
splendid car was a dark-browed man whose iron-crown was studded with
precious stones of many colours. In one hand he lightly held the reins
and guided the fiery steeds; in the other, he held a two-pronged fork.

“King Pluto!” gasped Proserpina. In a twinkling the King of the
Underworld leaped from his chariot, seized Proserpina in his arms,
mounted his chariot again and sped away over the hills.

Proserpina’s low cry of “Help! help! Mother! Mother Ceres!” was too faint
to reach the ears of the merry companions who were very busy with their
flowers.

“What has become of Proserpina?” cried one of them when she had finished
her garland.

They looked in the direction where but a moment ago Proserpina was
gathering flowers, but they could not see her.

“I wonder where she has gone,” said another. “Surely she has not wandered
out of the valley!”

“Proserpina! Proserpina!” called the little companions becoming alarmed.

But no answer could come from the captured maiden who was whirling along
beyond the distant hills. In vain did the dark-browed King try to calm
his captive by declaring that no harm should come to her. In vain did he
promise that she should share his throne and his riches.

“I want to go home to Mother Ceres,” sobbed Proserpina.

But King Pluto was deaf to her pleading; he urged his horses to go faster
and faster until finally they came to the River Cyane whose waters began
to seethe and foam in a very threatening manner. Little Proserpina knew
the waters of this river were angry because she was made a captive.
Quickly she loosened her girdle and flung it into the raging flood. Now
King Pluto was afraid to risk his fiery steeds in the angry stream, so
he determined to plunge at once into the depths of his kingdom. With his
two-pronged fork he struck a mighty blow on the earth. Instantly a great
crevice opened and gave him passage to the Underworld.

Phœbus Apollo had almost finished his day’s journey and was driving his
beautiful sun-car down the steep slope of the western sky. Mother Ceres’
winged dragons were hastening to the valley of Enna. Proserpina always
bounded forth with a cry of welcome, so when Mother Ceres missed her
little daughter’s joyous words she called, “Proserpina! Proserpina!”
There was no answer. What could be the matter! Mother Ceres’ heart beat
fast! She sought the little maidens of the valley who were her daughter’s
playmates and listened in trembling fear to the story they told about
Proserpina’s sudden disappearance. Ceres lighted a torch and continued
her search all night. At dawn the distracted mother was in despair, for
she could find no trace of her lost child. She questioned the Naiads, the
Nymphs, Pan, the shepherd boy, and Echo, but not one of them could give
her tidings of Proserpina. For a long time the poor mother continued her
wanderings from dawn until eventide all the world over.

One day she happened to wander near the River Cyane and there floating
near the water’s edge she saw Proserpina’s girdle. Eagerly she grasped
it in her hands and stood in breathless silence. A low murmuring sound
reached her ears. Did it come from a nearby fountain? Ceres listened very
carefully. “Proserpina! King Pluto!” whispered a voice from the cool
depths of the clear water. In a moment Mother Ceres knew the truth about
her little daughter’s disappearance. She had been captured by the King
of the Underworld! Ceres could take no comfort in this knowledge for she
knew King Pluto would do all in his power to keep his captive. In despair
the poor mother withdrew to a dark cave to nurse her grief.

“Until Proserpina is returned to me no vegetation shall grow on the
earth,” vowed Mother Ceres.

The gentle rain no longer refreshed the grass and drooping flowers; the
withered leaves dropped from the trees; the fruit became parched and dry,
and the precious grain failed to ripen! Alas! Famine spread throughout
the land!

“Mother Ceres,” cried the people, “we implore you to give us your aid.
Bring back the flowers and the fruit, and the grain. We shall starve
without your help.”

“Not until my child is returned to me,” answered Ceres.

Finally Jupiter’s heart was touched by the distress of the people. He
sent for Mother Ceres and said, “If your daughter Proserpina has refused
to eat any of King Pluto’s pomegranate seeds during her stay in the
underworld she shall return to the earth and never again disappear. My
swift-footed messenger Mercury shall go at once to Pluto’s palace and
state my will in this matter.”

Mercury put on his wonderful cap and winged sandals and sped away to
deliver Jupiter’s message. At first King Pluto was angry when he heard
that his merry little companion was to be taken from him, but of course
he could not disregard Jupiter’s command, so Proserpina was led back into
the sunlight.

How happy Mother Ceres was! She could not keep back tears of joy.

“Now the fields shall be covered with verdure; the soft showers shall
fall and earth shall bring forth a bountiful harvest!” she declared.
“Proserpina, my child, you shall never again leave me. King Pluto cannot
demand your return unless you have eaten some of his pomegranate seeds.”

Then little Proserpina looked up into her mother’s face and said, “Mother
dear, I must tell you the truth. A little while before Mercury came with
his message I ate six of King Pluto’s pomegranate seeds. I was very, very
hungry, mother.”

“Alas! Alas!” cried Ceres, feeling alarmed again. She hastened to Jupiter
and asked him what could be done. Jupiter looked very serious, and
finally decreed that for each pomegranate seed which Proserpina had eaten
she should spend one month of each year in King Pluto’s Kingdom.

“Six months of each year my child must spend in that dark underworld! It
is dreadful!” declared Ceres.

“Do not grieve, mother,” said Proserpina cheerily. “At first the
dark-browed King frightened me very much but I soon found that he is kind
and gracious. Let us be happy because I am to spend six months of each
year here with you. During my stay with King Pluto you shall take a long
rest from your hard work in the fields.”

So it happened that Proserpina spent half of each year in the dark
underworld. But every springtime when the warm sun gladdened the earth,
Mercury was sent to bring Proserpina back to Mother Ceres. And at the
coming of the joyous little maiden the grass leaped forth in the brown
fields, flowers gay brightened the meadows and from the tops of the
budding trees the birds carolled songs of welcome.




THE WONDER—A PARABLE

FRIEDRICH ADOLPH KRUMMACHER


One day in the springtime, a youth was sitting under the palm trees in
the garden of his father, the King. He was deep in thought. There came to
him Nathan, the Prophet, saying, “Prince, why musest thou so earnestly
under the palm trees?”

The Prince lifted his head and answered, “Nathan, I would see a wonder.”

The Prophet smiled and answered: “The same wish had I also in the days of
my youth.”

“And was it fulfilled?” asked the King’s son, hastily.

“A Man of God came to me,” said Nathan, “having a pomegranate seed in
his hand. Behold,’ he said, ‘what will come from this seed.’ Then with
his finger he made a hole in the earth, planted the seed and covered it.
When he withdrew his hands the clods parted one from another and I saw
two small leaves coming forth. But scarcely had I beheld them, when they
joined together and became a round stem wrapped in bark, and the stem
increased before my eyes and grew higher and thicker. Then the Man of
God said to me, ‘Give heed!’ And as I looked, I saw many branches spread
forth from the stem like great arms. I marvelled but the Man of God
motioned me to keep silence. ‘Give heed,’ he said, ‘new creations begin.’

“Then he took water in the hollow of his hand from the rivulet by the
wayside, and sprinkled the branches three times, and, lo, the branches
were covered with green leaves, so that a cool shade spread over us and
sweet odours filled the air.

“‘From whence comes this perfume and this reviving shade?’ cried I.

“‘Dost thou not see,’ said the Man of God, ‘these crimson flowers
bursting from among the green leaves and hanging in clusters?’ I was
about to speak but a gentle breeze moved the leaves, scattering the
flowers among us, as when snow descendeth from the clouds. Scarcely had
the falling flowers reached the ground when I saw the ruddy pomegranates
hanging between the leaves like the almonds on Aaron’s rod. Then the Man
of God left me lost in wonder.”

“What is the name of this Man of God? Is he yet alive?”

“Son of David,” answered the Prophet, “I have spoken to thee of a vision.”

When the Prince heard these words he was grieved in his heart.

“How couldst thou deceive me thus?” he asked.

But the Prophet replied, “I have not deceived thee. Behold in thy
father’s garden thou mayest see in reality what I have told thee. Dost
not this same wonder happen to the pomegranate trees and all the other
trees in the garden?”

“Yes,” answered the Prince, “but you cannot see it, and it comes to pass
through a long time.”

“Is it less wonderful because it cometh to pass in silence and unheeded?
Learn to know nature and her workings, then wilt thou long no more for a
wonder performed by the hand of man.”




NATURE STORIES AND LEGENDS




GREEN THINGS GROWING


    Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing,
    The faint sweet smell of the green things growing!
    I should love to live, whether I smile or grieve,
    Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.

    Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing,
    How they talk to each other, when none of us are knowing.
    In the wonderful white by the weird moonlight,
    Of the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing.

    I love them so—my green things growing,
    And I think they love me without any knowing;
    For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,
    With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.

                                   _Dinah Mulock Craik._




THE STORY OF A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT[4]

MAY BRYON


Once upon a time there was a little grain of Wheat. It was a tiny brown
thing, quite hard and dry. It looked like somebody who had wrapped
himself up in a cloak and gone to sleep, with his head and feet and all
covered up. That was really what had happened. The grain of Wheat was
fast asleep.

It lay outside a farm-yard gate, and a little black ant came along and
saw it. “Dear me!” said the little black ant, “that will do nicely for
my dinner.” He was carrying it off—which was hard work, because it was
nearly as big as he was—when another little black ant came along.

“I’ll help you to carry that if you’ll give me half,” said the second
ant. “Shan’t!” said the first. Then, I am sorry to say, they fought
about it.

While they were biting and kicking, and the grain of Wheat was rolling
about between them, a third person came along.

The third person was a little Elf-man. He was looking about for winter
lodgings: and he had just found a capital place in a hollow tree at the
edge of a field.

“Shocking! shocking!” said he to the two fighting ants. “Do stop, for
goodness’ sake!” But they did not take the least notice of him.

Then the little Elf-man thought, “If I take that grain of Wheat away,
they won’t have anything left to quarrel about!” And so he did.

       *       *       *       *       *

The little Elf-man took the grain of Wheat very carefully home to his
hollow tree. But when he arrived, it was all dark, because his tame
glow-worm, that he kept for a candle, had felt lonely and gone out for a
walk. He bumped his head trying to find things in the dark, and dropped
the grain of Wheat; and it rolled out of the tree and down into a tiny
chink of the earth.

The little Elf-man was dreadfully sorry at losing it, and scolded the
glow-worm when it came home. He spent many hours searching for the grain
next morning.

“What are you looking for?” said his friend the Dormouse. The Dormouse
lived in a hole in the hedge-bank.

“For a grain I’ve lost,” said the Elf.

“There’s a Barley grain under that loose sod,” remarked the Dormouse.

“That’s not it, thank you,” said the Elf-man. And he went on hunting; but
he had no success. It was ever so deep down.

A good many days went by, and several things happened,—rain, and wind,
and sunshine, and more rain, and snow, and frost, and rain again.

They all came down to where the little grain lay underground; and its
nice brown cloak did not remain smooth and dry. It became damp and sodden
and dirty. Its appearance was certainly not improved.

Now, if you got all wet and cold while you were asleep, supposing the
wind and rain blew in on you, it would wake you up, most likely. So it
fell out to the little grain of Wheat.

It woke up one day, inside its wet ragged cloak, and thrust out its small
white feet. They were not like your feet, they were more like little
roots—but they did very well for the Wheat. Its legs grew longer, week by
week, and it grew more and more awake every day.

The more it waked, the less it liked being down there in the dark and
cold. It thought, “Really, I can’t stay here all my life! There’s nothing
to look at!”

But whenever it wanted to poke its head up and peep out, the wind made
it shiver and feel miserable. So it stayed where it was, and tried to be
contented. One can always _try_, anyhow.

Meanwhile the little Barley-corn under the loose sod was getting on
rather badly. You see, it had not been tucked cosily into the soil like
the Wheat. It was like a poor little vagrant with no proper place to
sleep in. It grew, but very slowly.

“Hullo! is that you?” said the Dormouse, peeping in one day under the
sod; “are you awake?”

“I don’t think I’ve been properly to sleep,” said the Barley-corn.

“Make haste and grow a little faster, and come out of that,” said the
Dormouse. “I should be rather fond of you if I thought you were taking
trouble to get on.”

“I think if any one were fond of me,” whispered the Barley-corn, “I
_should grow_.”

But the Dormouse was not listening.

       *       *       *       *       *

At last a sunbeam came along the field—several sunbeams, in fact. They
were quite bright and warm, and the little Elf-man, who had kept close
indoors all the bad weather, opened his door and sat on the threshold
basking. Then the sunbeams burrowed right down into the earth, and said:
“Hurry up! Is anybody here for out-of-doors?”

You could not have heard them; their voices were not like ours. But the
grain of Wheat heard them. At once it threw off the last rags of its
tattered old cloak; and it was as clean and white as possible underneath.
Then it pushed up its little green head, with a two-horned peaked cap on,
and looked out curiously upon the world.

Everything was clear, and warm, and sunny, and perfectly delightful. And
there was the little Elf-man sitting on his threshold, in a _one_-horned
peaky green cap.

“Well, I never!” said the Elf-man. “Who’s this?”

“My name’s Wheat,” said the little green head.

“Then you’ve changed very much, let me tell you,” said the Elf-man; “you
are not a bit like what you were; but ever so much better.”

“I hope I shall go on improving,” said the Wheat politely. And that is
just what it actually did.

But the poor Barley-corn was only beginning to push through under the
loose sod by the time the Wheat was six inches high. It was thin and
stunted, just as you would be if you had no proper food, and nobody to
be fond of you.

The Wheat took no notice of it. But the Dormouse came now and then and
said, “How slow you are!” The little Elf-man was rather sorry for it, but
it did not occur to him to say so.

       *       *       *       *       *

The little Elf-man came out every day, and talked to the Wheat while it
grew. Very soon it was much bigger than he was; but this did not make him
conceited.

“Did you have nice dreams while you were down below there?” he asked it.

“I only had one dream,” said the Wheat, “but that went on all the time. I
dreamed I was very tall and golden-yellow, and lived along with a crowd
of brothers and sisters.”

“Oh, but you didn’t,” said the Elf-man; “I found you all by yourself. You
were a poor little lonely brown thing.”

“I can’t help it,” said the Wheat: “that was my dream. And I have it now,
sometimes, if I shut my eyes.”

The little Elf-man was greatly puzzled: but the Wheat was now so tall
that he did not like to contradict.

As for the little Barley-corn, nobody took the least interest in _his_
dreams. He had very delightful ones, too. But they were the kind that
never come true.

The summer went on, and all sorts of friends came and talked to the
Wheat—birds, bees, and butterflies. He enjoyed himself more and more. The
taller he grew, the better view he had of the rest of the world.

He had very pretty green clothes, which grew bigger as he did. This was
a really useful arrangement: he never required to be measured for a new
suit.

One day he said to the little Elf-man, “Do your clothes change colour?”

“No,” replied the Elf-man, “I always wear green. Even in the winter I can
find some blades of grass to weave together, or a few leaves to stitch up
into a coat.”

“You don’t understand me,” said the Wheat. “I mean, do they turn to a
different colour while you’re wearing them?”

“Not that I know of,” said the Elf-man.

“Well, mine do,” said the Wheat. “Just look!”

Sure enough, his green clothes were turning yellow, and he was changing
colour all over, too. He was very much altered altogether. It was most
surprising.

“Goodness me!” said the little Elf-man.

“That’s exactly what I think,” said the Wheat.

       *       *       *       *       *

About a month after this, the Elf-man was getting his breakfast ready,—an
acorn-cup full of dew, and a drop of wild honey,—when he heard a loud,
eager voice calling him. It was the Wheat, very much excited.

“I’ve had that dream several times lately,” said the Wheat, rocking to
and fro, “and now it has come true!”

“How do you mean?” asked the Elf-man.

“Can’t you see?” said the Wheat. “I’ve turned golden-yellow from head to
foot. And I have a whole family of children. They’re not _my_ brothers
and sisters, of course, but they’re each other’s,—so it comes to the
same thing. Dear, dear, how happy I do feel!” And it rocked more than
ever.

“How many are there?” asked the Elf.

“About twenty, I should think,” answered the Wheat, “but I can’t count
them without cricking my neck.”

“Well, well!” said the little Elf. “It’s a large family to look after. It
reminds me of a little rhyme I once heard, about an old woman who lived
in a shoe.”

“The more the merrier,” said the Wheat. “Hush, children! Don’t all talk
at once!” But the little grains would not stop talking all at once; and
although _you_ could not have heard them—their voices were too tinkly and
tiny—it was perfectly deafening to any one who could.

The Elf-man went back into his house and shut the door. Presently he had
to put some cotton-willow-wool in his ears. The Wheat tried to sing its
children to sleep with lullabies; but it did not know any.

“I shall never have a merry family like that, I’m afraid,” said the
Barley-corn to the Dormouse. The Barley-corn had hardly grown two inches
since the spring. In fact, he was so little, you would hardly have known
he was there.

“Never mind,” said the Dormouse. “You have me to talk to you, haven’t
you?”

       *       *       *       *       *

By and by the Wheat got very tired. Just think, if your mother had more
than twenty children, who never stopped talking all day and all night!
Anyhow, the Wheat could endure it no longer. So it called to the little
Elf-man, and said, “Kindly fetch me the Dormouse. I can see him now, on
the bank at the end of the field. He’s beginning to get sleepy, too, so
please make haste.”

“What do you want me for?” said the Dormouse, when he was fetched. He
and the Elf stood staring up at the tall Wheat. The little grains were
quieter now. They had said nearly all they had to say.

“It’s like this,” said the Wheat in weary tones. “I can’t rock these
children to sleep up here. It’s too light, and too draughty. They must
be put to bed in the earth, as I was. I’m sure it’s the proper place
for them.” As the Wheat spoke, all the little grains fell suddenly fast
asleep.

“Well, I’m not a nurse,” said the Dormouse, rather grumpily, because he
had been disturbed. “And I can’t climb your stalk and fetch them down,
either.”

“You must bite my stalk right through,” said the Wheat, “so that we can
all lie down together.”

“Oh, that will hurt you dreadfully!” cried the little Elf-man.

“Then it will have to hurt, that’s all,” said the Wheat. “It’s the only
thing to do. Be quick!”

The little Elf-man threw his arms round the Wheat’s yellow-stalk, and
wept. But the Dormouse, with his sharp little teeth, bit through the
stalk, just where it came out of the ground. The Wheat gave one great
rock—and one sigh—and SNAP!—down it came. All the little grains tumbled
out of their cradles, and rolled into chinks of the soil.

The tall Wheat, as it lay in the earth, said “Thank you!” in a husky
voice to the Dormouse, and “Good-bye!” to the little Elf-man. The wind
blew it away that night, and nobody ever saw it again.

“Where’s the Barley?” asked the Dormouse next day. But the poor Barley
was quite shrivelled up.

The little Elf-man was sad for nearly a week. But when all the little
grains woke up the following spring, he had a jollier time than ever.




THE LITTLE ACORN

LUCY WHEELOCK


It was a little acorn that hung on the bough of a tree. It had a tender
green cup and a beautifully carved saucer to hold it. The mother oak fed
it with sweet sap every day, the birds sang good-night songs above it,
and the wind rocked it gently to and fro. The oak leaves made a soft
green shade above it, so the sun could not shine too warm on its green
cover, and it was as happy as an acorn could be.

There were many other acorns on the tree, and I am sure the mother often
whispered loving words to all her babies.

The summer days were so bright and pleasant that the acorn never thought
of anything but sunshine and an occasional shower to wash the dust off
the leaves.

But you know that summer ends and the autumn days come. The green cup of
the acorn turned to a brown cup, and it was well that it grew stiffer
and harder, for the cold winds began to blow.

The leaves turned from green to golden brown, and some of them were
whisked away by the rough wind. The little acorn began to grow uneasy.

“Isn’t life all summer?” it said.

“No,” whispered the mother oak, “the cold days come and the leaves must
go and the acorns too. I must soon lose my babies.”

“Oh! I could never leave this kind bough,” said the frightened acorn. “I
should be lost and forgotten if I were to fall.”

So it tried to cling all the closer to its bough; but at last it was
alone there. The leaves were blown away, and some of them had made a
blanket for the brown acorns lying on the ground.

One night the tree whispered this message to the lonely acorn: “This tree
is only your home for a time. This is not your true life. Your brown
shell is only the cover for a living plant, which can never be set free
until the hard shell drops away, and that can never happen until you are
buried in the ground and wait for the spring to call you into life. So
let go, little acorn, and fall to the ground, and some day you will wake
to a new and glorious life.”

The acorn listened and believed, for was not the tree its sheltering
mother? So it bade her farewell, and, loosing its hold, dropped to the
ground.

Then, indeed, it seemed as if the acorn were lost. That night a high wind
blew and covered it deep under a heap of oak leaves. The next day a cold
rain washed the leaves closer together, and trickling streams from the
hillside swept some earth over them. The acorn was buried. “But I shall
wake again,” it said, and so it fell asleep. It might have been cold; but
the frost fairies wove a soft, white snow blanket to cover it, and so it
was kept warm.

If you had walked through the woods that winter, you would have said the
acorn was gone, but then you could not have seen the life slumbering
within the brown cover. But spring came and called to all the sleeping
things underground to waken and come forth. The acorn heard and tried to
move, but the brown shell held it fast. Some raindrops trickled through
the ground to moisten the shell, and one day the pushing life within was
set free. The brown shell was of no more use and was lost in the ground,
but the young plant was to live. It heard voices calling it upward. It
must arise. “A new and glorious life,” the mother oak had said.

“I must arise,” the acorn said, and up the living plant came, up to the
world of sunshine and beauty. It looked around. There was the same green
moss in the woods, the same singing brook.

“And I shall live and grow,” it said.

“Yes,” called the mother oak, “you are now an oak tree. This is your real
life.”

And the tiny oak tree was glad and tried to stretch higher towards the
sun.




THE STORY OF TWO LITTLE SEEDS

GEORGE MACDONALD


Long, long ago, two seeds lay beside each other in the earth, waiting. It
was cold, and rather wearisome and, to beguile the time, the one found
means to speak to the other.

“What are you going to be?” said the one.

“I don’t know,” answered the other.

“For me,” rejoined the first, “I mean to be a rose. There is nothing like
a splendid rose. Everybody will love me then.”

“It’s all right,” whispered the second; and that was all he could say;
for somehow when he had said that, he felt as if all the words in the
world were used up. So they were silent again for a day or two.

“Oh, dear!” cried the first, “I have had some water. I never knew till it
was inside me. I’m growing! I’m growing! Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!” repeated the other, and lay still; and waited more than ever.

The first grew and grew, pushing itself straight up, till at last it
felt that it was in the open air, for it could breathe. And what a
delicious breath that was! It was rather cold, but so refreshing. The
flower could see nothing, for it was not quite a flower yet, only a
plant; and they never see till their eyes come, that is, till they open
their blossoms,—then they are flowers quite. So it grew and grew, and
kept its head up very steadily, meaning to see the sky the first thing,
and leave the earth quite behind as well as beneath it. But somehow or
other, though why it could not tell, it felt very much inclined to cry.
At length it opened its eye. It was morning, and the sky _was_ over its
head but, alas! itself was no rose,—only a tiny white flower. It felt
more inclined to hang down its head and to cry but it still resisted, and
tried hard to open its eye wide, and to hold its head upright, and to
look full at the sky.

“I will be a star of Bethlehem, at least!” said the flower to itself.

But its head felt very heavy and a cold wind rushed over it, and bowed it
down towards the earth. And the flower saw that the time of the singing
of birds was not come, that the snow covered the whole land, and that
there was not a single flower in sight but itself. And it half-closed
its leaves. But that instant it remembered what the other flower used
to say; and it said to itself, “It’s all right; I will be what I can.”
And thereon it yielded to the wind, dropped its head to the earth, and
looked no more on the sky, but on the snow. And straightway the wind
stopped, and the cold died away, and the snow sparkled like pearls, and
diamonds; and the flower knew that it was the holding of its head up that
had hurt it so; for that its body came of the snow, and that its name
was Snow-drop. And so it said once more, “It’s all right!” and waited
in perfect peace. All the rest it needed was to hang its head after its
nature.




HOW THE FLOWERS CAME[5]

JAY T. STOCKING


Ever so many centuries ago the world was bare and grey as the street. The
Earth King grew very tired of it, and covered the earth with a beautiful
carpet of green. We call it grass. For years and years there was nothing
but green, until the Earth King grew as tired of the green as he had
grown of the grey. He decided that he must have more colours. So one
day he took his royal retinue and journeyed to a hillside where he knew
there grew the very finest grasses in all the kingdom. At a blast of
the King’s bugler the grasses assembled, and the King addressed them in
simple words: “My faithful grasses. It is many years since I placed you
here. You have been faithful. You have kept true green. It now pleases
me to announce to you that I am about to reward a certain number of you
and make you to be lords and ladies of the field. To-morrow I shall come
hither at this same hour. You are to assemble before me, and the fairest
of your number and the most pleasing I will honour with great and lasting
honour. Farewell.”

Then what a whispering and putting of heads together there was among the
grasses, as the breeze crept up the hillside. They arose next morning
before the sun, that they might wash their ribbons in the gleaming pearls
of dew. What prinking and preening! What rustling of ruffles and sashes!
What burnishing of armour and spears! At length the King’s bugle rang out
that called them to the grand assembly. Full of excitement, they stood
before the King, each hoping that he might be chosen for one of the great
honours.

The King greeted them as on the previous day, and told them again of the
high honour that he was about to bestow. “But,” said he, “in this Court
of Judgment I must have willing servants to assist me. First, I must have
a keeper of the gate so that no outsider may enter. Which one of this
host will be keeper of the gate?”

Not a man-grass stirred in his tracks, for each feared that if he became
a servant of the King, he would lose his chance to be made a lord.

“Which one?” asked the King again; “which one will volunteer to keep the
gate for me?”

At this moment a sturdy grass was seen coming down the hillside. He was
not handsome, but he was strong, his shoulders were broad, and his chest
was deep, and he was armed to the teeth. Spear points stuck from every
pocket, arrows filled his belt, and in each hand he carried a lance sharp
as lightning. “Let these wait for their honours,” thought he, as he said,
“_I_ will serve the King.”

“So be it,” said the King; “take your station at the gate. And now,”
continued the King, “I must have a herald to announce my awards and my
commands. Who will be my herald?”

Again there was silence among the man-grasses, till at last one of them
was seen to advance. He was short and round and smiling, as happy a
grass as grew on the hill. He came before the King as fast as his short
legs could carry him. “So it please the King, I’ll be his royal herald.”

“So be it,” replied the King. “Stand here at my feet.”

“Two torch-bearers I need,” said the King; “two torch-bearers, tall
and comely, to hold the lights on high. Who will serve the King as
torch-bearers?”

And now there was silence and stiffness among the lady-grasses, as each,
fearing to lose her chance to be made a lady, waited for the others. At
length two slender maidens advanced with glowing faces and hesitant step.
They were not as beautiful, it must be said, as some of their sisters.
Their ribbons were few and some of them frayed. They scarcely knew
whether the King would accept them, but they meekly offered themselves.
“We, O King, will be your torch-bearers.”

The King looked pleased enough as he replied, “So be it, indeed. Stand
here on either hand.”

“And now,” continued the King, “I must have an incense bearer, to swing
my censer over the meadows. Who will be my incense bearer?”

For a moment there was silence again among the lady-grasses, but only a
moment, for out stepped one of the daintiest of them all. She tripped
quickly and quietly down the hill to the King, saying modestly as she
approached, “I will be your incense bearer.”

“Let it be so,” said the King. “Await my commands.”

“Yet one more willing servant,” said the King; “one more. Who will ring
the chimes? Man or maid, who among all these loyal subjects will ring the
chimes?”

Scarcely had the King’s words left his lips, when one of the noblest
grasses of all, her broad green ribbons rustling as she moved, left the
crowded ranks of the ladies and eagerly advanced before the King. “If it
please Your Majesty, I will ring the chimes.”

Then the King looked around satisfied upon his eager and expectant
audience, and spoke a few brief words to them. He had come, he said,
fearing that the task was almost too great even for a king—to choose
among so many and so beautiful subjects. But they had chosen for
themselves, and he had now only to award the honours.

“Keeper of the gate,” he commanded, “stand before the King!”

The keeper of the gate came awkwardly forward, pricking all who brushed
against him as he passed.

“Because you have been willing to serve the King,” said the monarch, “I
reward you with distinguished honour.” Then, taking from the hand of a
page a great velvet cap of purplish red, he placed it upon the head of
the Gate-Keeper, saying as he did so, “I dub you: My Lord, the Thistle.”

“Let the King’s herald stand forth!”

The little round happy herald obeyed and knelt before the King. The King
took a great golden coronet from the hand of a page and placed it upon
his head, saying as he did so, “Because of your readiness to serve your
King, I create you a noble of the field, and dub you: My Lord, the
Dandelion. And I give you this trumpet on which to blow.”

“Let the torch-bearers stand forth!”

Then the two shy maidens from either side of the King bowed before him.
On the head of each the King placed a shining crown, one all gold, and
one gold rimmed with white, that they might not be confused, and he said
to them, “Because of your generous deed I dub you: Lady Buttercup and
Lady Daisy.”

“My incense bearer!”

The dainty maiden courtesied at his feet and, blushing, bowed her head.

The King beckoned to a page, who brought him a tiny hood of most becoming
blue. This the King placed upon her head, saying the while: “The King is
grateful for your service. I dub you: Lady Violet.”

“The ringer of the royal chimes, let her appear.”

The beautiful grass with the broad, shining ribbons stood proudly before
him, and bowed her head in salute. The King took a silver bell and gave
it to her, saying as he did so, “This shall be the sign of your royal
office. I dub you: Lady Lily-of-the-Field.”

The King then charged his new-made lords and ladies that they should be
faithful to their offices and never cease, year by year, to beautify the
earth. Then the assembly was dissolved, but not until the whole host of
grasses on the hillside had applauded what the King had done. They were
disappointed and grieved, it is true, but they were not too jealous to
know that the bravest and truest and most beautiful had been crowned with
honour due.




THE LEGEND OF TRAILING ARBUTUS


The bleak wind swept across the great lakes and piled snow-drifts all
around a wigwam which stood at the edge of a pine forest. An Indian
pulled aside a curtain of wolf-skin and stood listening in the doorway
of his rude house. His dark eyes were fixed on the richly-tinted western
sky. Long hair white as the frost fell about his bent shoulders and
framed a thin dark face deeply lined with wrinkles.

“I thought I heard footsteps,” he muttered in a weak voice. He drew a
deerskin mantle close about his shoulders, turned from the doorway and
sat down on a mat of beaver fur which lay before a few dying embers. A
shiver ran through his gaunt figure. He stirred the smouldering ashes and
threw some dried sticks into the small flame.

“How weak and weary I am to-night,” he thought. “What has become of the
hunter’s game? I could find none in the forest to-day.” His head drooped
forward and he fell asleep.

At sunrise he was aroused by a flood of light in the wigwam. He looked
up and saw standing in the doorway a beautiful maiden, clad in a robe
of sweet-grass and ferns. Her moccasins were made of velvet mosses, and
the fairest blossoms were entwined in her long dark hair. She carried an
armful of budding twigs.

“Who art thou?” cried the old man.

“I am the Spring Manito,” she answered, merrily.

“Then thou wilt perish here,” said the old man, “for alas! I have no
cheer to offer thee!”

“Art thou the great Winter Manito?” asked the maiden.

“I am the great Winter Manito! Thou hast no doubt heard of my power. At
my command the North Wind rushes madly through the forest and the giant
trees bow before him as he twists and tears their branches.”

“Cruel Manito,” sighed the maiden, but the old man did not hear her.

“I cover the pine-trees with sleet and drive the birds southward. With my
sceptre of ice I silence the brooks and rivers. My breath turns the dew
into frost. I shake my locks and a face-cloth of snow covers the withered
leaves and blossoms. Mighty is the Winter Manito!”

“Mighty is the Winter Manito,” repeated the Maiden, sadly. “But my power
is greater than his!”

“What meanest thou?” asked the old man quickly.

“At my call the soft breezes from the South caress the trees and heal the
wounds the Winter Manito has made. My warm breath turns the frost into
dew; my golden wand melts the frozen streams and their waters flow again
toward the sea. I shake my tresses and the gentle rain falls; then the
velvet buds burst forth and the birds hasten back to build their nests
and to sing in the leafy branches. Where I walk in the fields and meadows
the grass and blossoms spring forth to greet me. The children of the red
men rejoice in the beauty which I bring to gladden the earth. The Winter
Manito is mighty but his is the power of cruelty; the Spring Manito is
strong, and hers is the strength of kindness. The Winter Manito’s sceptre
is the biting frost; his rule brings pain and death; the Spring Manito
bears the golden wand of sunshine and her hand-maidens bring joy and
life.”

As she spoke the maiden noticed that the old man grew weaker and weaker
until he finally sank down on the floor of his lodge. A flood of sunshine
filled the wigwam. The Winter Manito grew smaller and smaller until he
disappeared. Then the old man’s tent faded away and left the maiden
standing under a tree. The sunshine had melted the snowdrifts, and a warm
breeze was blowing.

The maiden stooped down and brushed away the dried leaves which had lain
all winter under the snow. Then she enamelled the brown earth about her
feet with star-like blossoms, pink and white, and shining green leaves.

“My precious Arbutus,” she whispered, bending low, “thou art born to
bring joy to the children of the red men and thou shalt trail after me
through the pine-forest and over the distant hilltops.”

She moved quickly through the woods and across the meadows. “Spring has
come,” whispered the trees and flowers. “Spring has come,” sang the
birds. Wherever she stepped the lovely Arbutus trailed after her on its
delicate rosy vine and scented the air with sweetest fragrance.




THE FAIRY FLOWER[6]

HENRY WARD BEECHER


Once there was a little girl whose name was Clara. She had a very kind
heart; but she was an only child and had been petted so much that she was
becoming very selfish. Too late the mother lamented that she had indulged
her child, and strove to repair the mischief by trying to make Clara
think of other people’s happiness, not solely of her own.

On some days, no one could be more charming than Clara. She was gentle
and obliging. She sang all day long, and made every one who came near
her happy. Then everybody admired her, and her mother and aunt were sure
that she was cured of her pettish disposition. But the very next day all
her charming ways were changed. She wore a moody face. She was no longer
courteous, and every one who came near her felt the chill of her manner.

One summer’s night, Clara went to her room. The moon was at its full,
and was shining through the window so brightly that she needed no other
light. Clara sat at the window feeling very unhappy. She was thinking
over her conduct through the day, and was trying to imagine how it could
be that on some days she was happy and on others so wretched.

As she mused, she laid her head back on the easy chair. No sooner had she
shut her eyes than a strange thing happened. A feeble old man, carrying a
basket, came into the room. In his basket, which he seemed hardly able to
bear, were a handful of flowers and two great stones.

“My daughter,” said the old man, “will you help me for I am too old to
carry this load; please lighten it.” Clara looked at him, pouting, and
exclaimed, “Go away!”

“But I am weak and suffering,” he said; “will you not lighten my load?”
At last Clara took the flowers out of his basket. They were very
beautiful and she laid them in her lap.

“My daughter,” said the old man, “you have not lightened my basket; you
have taken only the pleasant things out of it, and have left the heavy
stones. Please lift one of them out of the basket.”

“Go away!” exclaimed Clara angrily. “I will not touch those dirty stones!”

No sooner had she said this than the old man began to change before
her and to become so bright and white that he looked like a column of
crystal. He took one of the stones and cast it out of the window, and
it flew and flew, and fell on the eastern side of a grove where the sun
shone first every morning.

Then the crystal old man took the flowers out of Clara’s lap. They were
wet with dew, and he shook them over her head and exclaimed, “Change into
a flower! Go and stand by the stone till your shadow shall be marked upon
it.”

In a second, Clara was growing by the side of the wide, flat stone, and
the moon cast upon it her shadow,—the shadow of a beautiful flower with
a long and slender stem. All night she was very wretched. In the morning,
she could not help looking at herself in a brook which came close up to
the stone; then she recognised the beautiful flower and knew that her
name was now Columbine.

All day her shadow fell upon the stone, but when the sun went away, the
shadow, too, went away. At night her faint shadow lay upon the stone but
when the moon went away, her shadow, also, went away. And the stone lay
still all day and all night, and did not care for the flower nor feel its
shadow.

Clara longed to be a little girl again. She asked the stone to tell her
how, but the hard stone would not answer. She asked the brook, but the
brook whispered, “Ask the Bobolink!” She asked the Bobolink, but he
merely alighted upon the flower and teetered up and down. She could not
learn from the Bobolink how to make her shadow stay upon the stone.

Then she asked a spider and he spun a web from her bright blossoms,
fastened it to the stone, bent her over, and tied her up, till she
feared she could never get loose. But all his nice films did her no good;
her shadow would not stay upon the stone.

She asked the wind to help her. The wind swept away the spider’s web, and
blew so hard that the flower lay its whole length upon the stone; but
when the wind left her and she rose up, there was no shadow marked upon
the stone.

“What is beauty worth,” thought Clara, “if it grows by the side of a
stone that does not feel it, nor care for it?”

She asked the dew to help her. And the dew said, “How can I help you! I
live contentedly in darkness, I put on my beauty only to please others. I
let the sun come through my drops, though I know it will consume me.”

“I wish I were dew,” said Clara, “for then, I, too, could do some good.
Now my beauty does no good, and I am wasting it every day upon a stone.”
When Clara breathed this kind wish, there were glad flutters and whispers
all around.

The next day a beautiful child came that way. She was gathering ferns,
and mosses, and flowers. Whenever she saw a tuft of moss, she would ask,
“Please, dear moss, may I take you?” And when she saw a beautiful branch
with scarlet leaves, she would ask, “Dear bush, may I take these leaves?”

When she saw the beautiful columbine growing by the side of a stone, she
asked, “Oh, sweet Columbine, may I pluck you?” And the fairy flower said,
gently, “I must not go till my shadow is fastened upon the stone.”

Then the girl took from her case a pencil and in a moment traced the
shadow of the columbine upon the stone. When she had done this, she
reached out her hand, took the stem low down, and broke it off.

At that moment Clara sprang up from her chair by the window, and there
stood her mother saying, “My dear daughter, you should not fall asleep
by an open window, not even in summer. How damp you are! Come, hasten to
bed.”

It was many days before Clara could persuade herself that she had only
dreamed. It was months before she told the dream to her mother. And when
she told it, her mother said:

“Ah, Clara, would that all little girls might dream, if only it made them
as good as your dream has made you.”




THE SNOWDROP

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN


A deep snow covered the ground for it was winter time. The air was cold
and the sharp wind blew, but in one tiny house all was snug and warm.
There under earth and snow in its bulb lay a little flower.

One day when the rain fell, little drops trickled through the snow
coverlet down into the earth and told the flower bulb about the light
above. And presently a sunbeam, pointed and slender, pierced its way
through the ground and tapped on the little bulb.

“Come in,” said the flower.

“I cannot,” said the sunbeam. “I am not strong enough to lift the latch.
I shall be stronger when spring comes.”

“When will it be spring?” asked the flower.

Soon many other little sunbeams tapped on the door of the brown house and
the flower asked each of them,

“When will it be spring?”

But the ground was covered with snow and every night there was ice on the
water. Spring seemed so far away that the little flower sighed and said
impatiently:

“How long it is! How long it is! I feel quite cribbed and cramped. I
_must_ stretch out a little. I _must_ rise up; lift the latch and look
out. Then I shall say merrily to the spring, ‘Good morning!’”

Now the walls of the flower’s house had been softened by the rain, warmed
by the earth and snow and tapped upon by the sunbeams. So when the flower
within pushed and pushed against the walls they gently gave way. Then up
from under the earth shot the flower with a pale green bud on its tender
stalk and long slender leaves that curled around it for a screen. The
glittering snow was very cold but easier to push through than the solid
brown earth.

“Welcome, welcome!” sang the evening sunbeam. “Welcome, sweet little
blossom.”

The flower lifted its head above the snow into the world of light; the
sunbeams cheered it with kisses until it unfolded itself white as the
snow and decked with green stripes.

“Thou art a little too early,” said the wind and the weather. “We still
hold sway. It is entirely too cold for thee.”

“Beautiful flower,” sang the sunbeams, “how lovely thou art in thy
white purity. Thou art the herald of Spring,—our first flower. Thy fair
white bell shall ring the glad tidings of Spring over towns and fields.
The snow shall melt, the bitter wind shall be driven away. Now earth
shall send forth all her lovely blossoms and thou shalt have beautiful
fellowship. Welcome!”

The words of the sunbeams gave deep delight to the flower. It bowed its
head in gladness and humility. The weather was cold enough to freeze it
to pieces—such a delicate little flower—but it was stronger than any one
knew. It was strong in its glad faith in the spring and the message of
the sunbeams. And so with patient hope it stood in its white dress in the
white snow, bowing its head when the snow flakes fell and courageously
lifting it again when the sunbeams scattered the clouds.

“A snowdrop,” shouted the children who came running into the garden.
“There it stands so pretty, so beautiful—the first, the only one. It is
spring’s messenger.

“Spring’s messenger,” echoed from the keen morning air.




WHAT THE DANDELION TOLD

CLARA MAETZEL


Mother Earth and the little flower fairies had been very busy indeed
getting ready for their great Spring opening. For weeks and weeks they
had been preparing all the little flower children so that they would be
ready to respond to the call of the robin and to the caresses of the sun
and the soft west wind.

First of all, Snowdrop had been made ready because she was one of the
very first to venture out into the world. And she and her many little
sisters, very prim and neat in their white starched frocks, sat quite
near the door. Sometimes Snowdrop would not wait for the robin and
the sun to call her, but she would slip out quietly at the first warm
shower. Nearby sat a whole row of happy Crocuses, gay and pretty in their
bell-shaped dresses of white and purple and gold. Violets, nestling in
their soft green coats, were there, and “Daffy-down-dilly dressed in a
green petticoat and a new gown” was quite ready to “come to town.” Then
there was dainty Spring Beauty and the proud and flaming Tulip and all
the other dear, early flowers that make the world so beautiful after ice
and snow are gone.

Yes,—every one was very busy and very happy,—every one,—except one poor,
forlorn, little flower that sat, or rather lay, all alone in one corner.
He did not look spick and span like the others, but his green coat hung
about him quite wilted and soiled and his golden head drooped. He seemed
very unhappy indeed.

“Come, come, Dandelion,—do tell us what has happened; you look quite
crushed,” exclaimed one of the fairies, stopping long enough in her task
of mixing colours to notice the dejected little flower.

“Yes, Dandelion, do tell us,” cried Crocus who was all ready to push his
little flower face out into the open air and who was waiting for the
first opportunity to do so.

“Dandelion will tell us what has happened,” softly whispered Violet as
she came closer to what was left of poor Dandelion.

“Well,—since all of you seem so interested I will tell you what happened.
It certainly took all the conceit out of me,—I still feel weak and pale.
You know that we Dandelions are bold and venturesome folks and some of us
make our appearance in warm and sunny places long before any of the rest
of you have the courage to come out. Indeed it has long been a matter of
pride with us to have some person find us even before Snowdrop makes her
appearance.”

Snowdrop looked hurt at this, but said nothing and Dandelion continued:

“And so it happened that several of us slipped out and sprouted quietly
and happily in Farmer Brown’s front yard. It was such a nice place,—the
sun shone brightly and coaxed us to put our best blossoms—they were so
large and yellow that I am sure they must have looked almost as fine as
Chrysanthemum.”

Several of the flowers cast startled looks into the dark corner where the
Chrysanthemum brothers and sisters were sleeping. But their slumbers
were so sound, since they would not wake until autumn, that they did not
hear Dandelion’s boastful remark.

“We made a beautiful spot of yellow on the lawn,” continued Dandelion.
“Well, yesterday Farmer and Mrs. Brown were out in the garden and they
saw us.

“‘Oh, see the dandelions! How early they are this year. I shall have to
call the children.’”

“With that Mrs. Brown went into the house to call her little boy and girl
who came out and greeted us joyfully.

“‘Let me see, Jack, if you like butter,’ said Ruth, as she held one of
my blossoms under her brother’s chin. It surely looked quite yellow by
reflection and of course this was a sure sign that he liked butter.

“‘Come, Ruth, let’s see if we can get enough stems to make a chain for
you,’ cried Jack, and they found enough of my hollow stems to make a
chain to go around Ruth’s little white throat.

“By this time I felt we were doing much to make the children happy and I
lifted my head proudly and whispered to my companions that surely we were
useful as well as beautiful. Just then Mrs. Brown called the children
into the house and we were left alone in the garden.

“But not for long—Alas! Farmer Brown who had gone away while the children
were with us now returned with a strange, sharp and shining tool in his
hand. He came straight to where we were growing so happily and said:

“‘Now we’ll see whether this new weeding knife won’t kill these pesky
dandelions. Every year they spread more and more so that by and by
there’ll not be any grass. Perhaps by starting in early to weed them out
we can get rid of the pests!’ With that he dug the instrument deep into
the ground and pulled up all my lovely little brothers and sisters. I
alone remained, but even I was badly bruised as you can see, and I have
come back to tell you how cruelly I have been treated. Wasn’t it an
unkind thing? I had always thought that people loved us,—for we make the
fields and meadows glow with the sun’s own colour.” And poor Dandelion
drooped his golden head and was as sad as it is possible for a golden
headed flower to be.

All the other flower children had looked very solemn and sympathetic
during Dandelion’s story and when he had finished, they crowded about him.

“It’s just a shame,” murmured Crocus; “I hope no one will treat me so
rudely.”

“Yes indeed,” whispered Snowdrop, “it would certainly be a painful
misfortune to have one’s roots cut to pieces by a patent weeder,” and she
shuddered so violently that her stiff little petticoats fairly shook.

But Mother Earth and the fairies only smiled and said nothing, for they
knew quite well that it would take many, many farmers and more weeders
than they could ever hope to buy to get rid of Dandelion and his numerous
brothers and sisters.

And the little fairy who was Dandelion’s particular friend laid her tiny
hand on his tousled golden head as she whispered, “Never mind, Dandelion
dear, you are the children’s friend and companion and good old Mother
Earth will never let you perish. She sends forth more of your kind than
any other; she has made you so sturdy and strong that you can thrive
almost anywhere—and I truly think that she loves you best.”




    We may shut our eyes
    But we can’t help knowing
    That skies are blue,
    And the grass is growing.

       _James Russell Lowell._




A GREAT FAMILY

AGNES MACLELLAN DAULTON


It was a lovely day in May, and the Dandelion family that lived near
the big gate were lifting their pretty golden heads to greet the sun.
Here and there a grandfather or grandmother Dandelion stood crowned with
silver, and, let us whisper it softly, one or two were quite bald, for a
playful little breeze had sent their hair a-sailing, and he chuckled at
his joke, the naughty breeze.

Now one grandmother stood upon a little knoll, and so was much taller
than the rest. Indeed, she was the chief grandmother of the family, and
much respected for her wisdom. And she was very handsome and stately,
holding her graceful silver head high above the others.

“A story, a story,” coaxed her grandchildren, turning their eager faces
toward her. Some of them were tiny buds, but they all begged for a story.

“No, children, no,” she replied, in a sweet, grandmotherly tone. “Really,
my dears, you have had far more stories than are good for you, and I must
not let you grow up uneducated. I think we will have a short lesson in
family history.”

The little Dandelions sighed.

“Now,” she went on, “how many of you know why we are called Dandelions?”

And—will you believe it?—not one stupid little Dandelion could answer!

“That is just what I expected,” said grandmother, sternly, eyeing them
over her glasses. “My, my! this is very sad!”

Then one little Dandelion, prompted by his mother, said he supposed it
had something to do with dandies, while another bright little thing
lisped out that she guessed it was because they were as fierce as lions.

“No, no!” and grandmother shook her head so briskly a silver hair went
flying.

“Look at your leaves,” she said kindly, “and observe the edges. Learn to
notice, florets; learn to notice.”

“The edges are pointed like sharp teeth, please, grandmother,” half
whispered one bashful little fellow.

“Exactly,” said grandmother, proceeding learnedly; “our name is from the
Latin, _dens leonis_, meaning lion’s tooth, but our botanical name is
Taraxacum.”

“Oh, my!” sighed the little buds, for they didn’t understand a word of it.

“Our roots have healing properties, and they are employed in making
medicine, while our leaves are used in the spring for food; so we are
useful as well as ornamental.” And the grandmother beamed with pride.

“But, children, you must also know that we belong to the great and noble
family of _Compositæ_.”

“Oh, dear!” gasped the little Dandelions.

“Now you know composite means made up of many parts; that is, each
blossom is made up of many little florets. Study each other’s heads and
you will understand my meaning. Now in this great family of _Compositæ_
there are many, many flowers besides the Dandelions. In fact, my
children, we have over nine thousand relatives. Sunflowers, marigolds,
asters, goldenrod, boneset, tansy, lettuce, and the daisy—all these
belong to our family. Not only are we many, but we have the famous and
the great among us—the thistle, royal flower of Scotland; the cornflower
of Germany; the chrysanthemum, the emblem of brave little Japan—all these
are composite flowers, our royal relatives.”

The Dandelion family wildly applauded, and grandmother graciously bowed
her acknowledgment.

“But, my children,” she went on, “I would not have you forget we have
also black sheep in the family—Spanish needles, ragweed, bitterweed, and
beggar ticks; these, too, we must own, even though we bow our heads in
shame. But so it is in all great families.”

Just at this moment the gardener came whirring along with the lawn mower,
and alas and alack, not a single Dandelion was left to tell the tale!

But the little winged seeds from grandmother’s silver crown sailed away,
carrying wisdom, I doubt not, to many another Dandelion family.




THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET

A LEGEND


The raindrops were kept busy one morning in the garden of the fairies.
There were many flowers to be washed clean of the dust that had dulled
their beautiful colours, and the green of the trees must be made bright
once more; and to leave without a gambol with the little waves of the
brook was not to be thought of. So the raindrops fell early in the
morning, but in the afternoon the sky became clear and there was promise
in the beautiful rainbow that the raindrops’ work was done, for that day
at least.

“Isn’t our garden beautiful after a shower?” said one fairy to another
sitting beside her.

“Yes, the dust covers the colours of the flowers almost as soon as we
have painted them. But see the gold of those daffodils! I like the reds
and blues of the other flowers, too. They seem brighter than ever to-day.
Sometimes I sit all day and look at them.”

“Oh! we have a rainbow this afternoon. It always looks to me like a great
garden of flowers stretched in bands across the sky. I like to think that
its yellow and red and blue are made up of flowers like these in our
garden here.”

“Do you see that colour next to the green? I love it; it is so dark and
deep. Many times I have wished we might have a flower on earth just like
it.”

“Surely you, Fairy Artist, would have no trouble to make a colour like
that; at least, it would do no harm for you to try.”

The fairy artist sat with her eyes turned toward the rainbow until it had
faded from sight, and long after the sun had sunk to rest, she sat alone
under the trees, thinking.

One morning she called all the fairies to her. “Dear fairies,” she said,
“I am going to try to make a colour like that dark one in the rainbow.
It may take me a long, long while, but one cannot give the children a
greater joy than to add a new colour to the flowers on earth.”

No one knew better than she that a great task lay before her. Many days
and weeks she tried. Sometimes the mixture was lighter than the colour in
the rainbow, and sometimes it seemed too dark—never quite what she wished
it to be.

Once, as she stood before the large bowl, mixing and stirring
patiently—she stopped, and the fairies in the garden heard a shout of
joy: “I have it! the beautiful colour! the beautiful colour!”

They hurried to the place where she always stood with her bowl and brush.

“See, it is the colour, indeed,” they said; but, as they looked into the
bowl, the beautiful colour began to fade, and soon it was not at all like
the colour she had longed for.

“Ah, I see,” said the artist fairy, sadly, “it is of no use to mix
together these paints that I have been using. We must gather my material
from all the colours of earth. My dear fairies, you must all help.” Many
were sent far and wide to bring from the earth clays of every colour they
could find. The artist fairy worked on faithfully and patiently.

One day when she had worked harder and longer than usual, she heard one
say, “Surely, Artist Fairy, you do not mean to work all the evening? See,
the sun is ready to sink.”

“Just a little longer; I feel sure that the colour will come before
sunset. Look, does it not begin even now to change?”

The fairies looked into the bowl and all exclaimed at once, “The colour
at last! It is indeed the deep colour of the rainbow!”

“Let us carry the bowl to the top of the bank and at moonlight we will
rejoice over the new joy that has come to us.”

It was a small bank that overlooked a little brook. Flowers had never
grown there and sometimes the fairies felt sad when they looked upon that
bare spot in their garden. Perhaps the great tree that spread out its
branches took more than its share of the sunshine, but the fairies loved
this bank. Moonbeams always seemed to lie so still there. “It’s just the
place for our moonlight revel!” said one.

All the creatures of the fairies’ garden came to the rejoicing. The night
was glorious. The moon sent down her silvery beams earlier than usual,
although the fireflies insisted that there was no need of her shining
so brightly, and that she might throw all her beams to the waves in
the brook, for they looked so beautiful with a silver covering. Not a
grasshopper went to bed, and the frog made the music for the dance, at
which the cricket felt sad, for she knew her voice could not be heard
above his. The flowers sang their sweetest songs about the new colour
that was to come among them. It was not late when the fairies joined
hands and danced around the bowl. Perhaps this moonlight revel would have
lasted many hours longer, but as the fairies were finishing the dance,
one of them touched the precious bowl and alas! the next moment they saw
the beautiful colour flow in tiny dark streams down the hillside. For a
little while it glistened beneath the rays of the moon, and then it sank
into the dark earth. The fairies stood and watched it, helpless.

“It is all lost. It is all gone in a moment,” said the Artist Fairy, as
she turned for comfort to the rest.

“No, no, my dear Fairy. What you have once done you can do again.”

“I do not remember how it was made. No, I cannot get it again. It is gone
forever.”

“Do not say that, I beg of you. Have you not heard it said that ‘nothing
is lost’?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Once more the raindrops visited the garden, and the fairies worked all
day long and all night long before everything was done.

“It is so refreshing when the garden has been washed clean again of its
dust.”

“See,” cried one. “See our bank this morning.”

“It is covered with a carpet of purple! Come, let us look closer,” called
another.

“It is the colour! It is the colour!” said the Artist Fairy, as she
hastened toward the bank. “Nothing is lost,” she added, softly as she
looked closer. For purple violets had been born that morning while the
raindrops fell.

    God does not send us strange flowers every year.
    When the spring winds blow o’er the pleasant places,
    The same dear things lift up the same fair faces.
    The violet is here!

    It all comes back; the odour, grace and hue;
    Each sweet relation of its life repeated.
    No blank is left, no looking-for is cheated:
    It is the thing we knew.




A LYRIC OF JOY

BLISS CARMAN


    Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune,
    I saw the white daisies go down to the sea;
    A host in the sunshine, a snowdrift in June,
    The people God sends us to set our hearts free.

    The bob-o-links rallied them up from the dell,
    The orioles whistled them out of the wood;
    And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well,”
    And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good.”




AMONG THE TREE-TOPS




ROBIN’S CAROL[7]


    This is the carol the Robin throws
      Over the edge of the valley;
    Listen how boldly it flows,
      Sally on sally:

            Tirra-lirra,
            Early morn,
            New born!
            Day is near,
              Clear, clear.
            Down the river
              All a-quiver,
            Fish are breaking;
            Time for waking.
            Tup, tup, tup!
            Do you know?
              All clear—
              Wake up!

                      _Henry van Dyke._




HOW THE BIRDS CAME

AN INDIAN LEGEND


“Many years ago,” says the old Indian Grandmother, “the Great Spirit
visited the earth. As he walked over valley and hill he said, ‘It is all
beautiful and good. But the Great Spirit loves the trees best. See how
they make the hills and valleys radiant with their green. Earth would be
fairer still,’ said the Great Spirit, ‘if there were trees everywhere.
I would have great forests cover the mountain sides. I would see trees
as far as my eye can reach across the land. I would have a tree spring
up wherever my foot touches the earth!’ And it was as the Great Spirit
wished. As he wandered up and down the mountains and valleys and across
the plains, little trees sprang up in his footsteps, until the whole
earth, like the hills and valleys, was radiant in green. ‘The Great
Spirit loves the little trees best,’ he said, when he looked upon them.
‘Little trees, I will watch over you and guard you. I will send gentle
rains that you may have water to drink. I will send my warm sun to shine
upon you. And you must grow and grow and grow.’ All summer long the Great
Spirit cared for them, and when the first summer had passed and the
winter came, the little trees had grown until they spread their branches
far and wide.

“But one autumn day a great change came over the radiant green. All the
leaves on the trees turned to beautiful colours—red, yellow, brown, gold.
‘They are beautiful, beautiful,’ said the Great Spirit. ‘My trees have
never been so beautiful before.’

“As he spoke a gentle wind stirred the branches and the Great Spirit saw
the leaves drop from the trees, flutter through the air and fall to the
ground.

“‘See,’ he exclaimed, ‘the leaves of my trees fall to the earth where
they will wither and die. This shall not be. Behold, my leaves, I am the
Great Spirit. I will give you breath and strength. You shall not die—you
shall live forever.’

“He breathed softly upon the coloured leaves. In a moment hundreds of
leaves moved, then fluttered, then flew away—a flock, of beautiful birds.
The red-brown oak leaves became robins; all the yellow and gold leaves
became yellow birds. The red-maple leaves flew away beautiful red birds,
while the withered brown leaves scattered around, sprang up sparrows and
larks.”

The Indian Grandmother says that is how we got our first birds, and that
is why the birds love the trees and always live among them.




HOW THE BIRDS LEARNED TO BUILD NESTS[8]

JAMES BALDWIN


There is an old story which says that the magpie was the first bird to
build a nest.

One day all the birds came to her and said, “Mrs. Magpie, won’t you teach
us how to make pretty nests like your own?”

“Oh, yes,” said the magpie, kindly. “I will show you just how it is
done.” Then she told them to sit around her, and she would build a nest
while they were looking on. She said, “You have only to notice what I do.”

She brought some mud from the side of the brook and made it into a kind
of round cake. The birds sat very still, and watched her until the cake
was finished. Then the thrush cried out, “Oh, I see how the nest is
built! You first make a cake of mud and then pat it down in the middle.”
And she flew away to try for herself; and no thrush has learned anything
about nest-building since.

The magpie next took some twigs, and laid them round the cake of mud.
“Say no more!” cried the blackbird. “I understand it all.” Away he flew
to the green thickets by the river; and that is how blackbirds build
their nests to this very day.

Then the magpie put a thin layer of mud on the twigs, and smoothed it a
little with her beak. “Oh, that is all that I need to know,” said the
wise owl. “Who—who—who would have thought it so simple a thing?” He flew
to the top of a great oak tree, where he sat for a long time, looking at
the moon and saying, “Who—who—who!”

Then the magpie took some long, slender twigs, and twined them round the
outside. “That is just the thing!” cried the song sparrow, and off he
went. And song sparrows still make their nests by twining twigs.

After this, the magpie took some feathers and fine moss, and lined the
nest until it was a very comfortable place indeed.

“That suits me!” said the starling, and off he flew. And everybody knows
that starlings have built well-lined nests ever since.

The magpie kept on working and working. But every bird, when he had
learned a little about nest-building, flew away without waiting to the
end of the lesson. At last no one was left but the turtledove. It had
paid no attention to what the magpie was doing, and so had not learned
anything at all.

It sat on a branch above the magpie’s nest, and kept saying over and over
again, “Take two, two, two, two!” But it was looking far away toward the
blue mountains in the west, and its thoughts were all with its dear mate
whom a cruel hawk had lately snatched away.

“Take two, two, two, two,” mourned the dove. The magpie heard this just
as she was twining a slender twig around the top of her nest. So, without
looking up, she said, “One will be enough.”

But the dove kept on saying, “Take two, two, two, two.” This made the
magpie angry, and she said, “Don’t I tell you that one will be enough?”

“Take two, two, two, two!” still cried the turtledove. At last the magpie
looked up and saw that no bird was near her but the silly dove.

“I’ll never give another lesson in nest building!” she cried. And she
flew away and left the dove alone in the tree.

It was no use, after that, for any bird to ask the magpie how to make a
nest; and, from that day to this, no bird has learned anything new about
its trade.

All the blackbirds, the thrushes, the owls, and the doves, still build
just as they did a thousand years ago. None of them seem to want better
nests; and I doubt if any could learn how to make them now, even though
the magpie should try to teach them again.




OUT OF THE NEST.[9]

MAUD LINDSAY


Once upon a time a mother bird and father bird built a nest in a tree. It
was made of straw and leaves and all sorts of wonderful things, and even
had lace trimmings on it.

Soon after the nest was finished, the mother bird put two eggs in it,
and then she and the father bird thought of nothing but keeping those
eggs safe and warm. Mother bird sat on them day and night; and even when
father bird would say, “You really must fly about a little and let me
take care of the eggs,” she did not like to leave them.

After a while two little birds came out of the shells, which was just
what she had been hoping for all the time. The baby birds were both so
weak and small that they could do nothing at all for themselves but open
their mouths very wide and call, “Peep, peep! mother, dear, peep!”
Mother bird and father bird were busy all day getting them something to
eat. By and by they began to grow, and then they had soft feather clothes
to wear, which are the best clothes in the world for baby birds.

Mother bird said to them one day, “You are almost ready to learn to fly”;
and then they felt very large. That same day mother bird and father bird
flew away together to get something for dinner; and while they were gone
the little birds heard a very queer noise which seemed to come from a
pond near the tree. This is the way it sounded: “Kerchunk! Kerchunk!”

“Oh! what can it be?” said the sister bird. “I’ll peep over the side of
the nest and see,” said her brother. But when he put his head out he
could see nothing although he heard the sound very plainly: “Kerchunk!
Kerchunk!” Then he leaned out a little farther and a little farther, till
his head was dizzy. “Peep, peep! You’ll fall!” cried the sister bird;
and, sure enough, she had scarcely said it before he tumbled out of the
nest, down, down to the ground! He was not hurt, but, oh, how frightened
he was! “Peep, peep! mother, dear, peep!” he cried. “Peep!” cried the
sister bird up in the nest, but the mother and father were too far away
to hear their calls.

The brother bird hopped about on the ground and looked around him. He was
near the pond now, and the sound was very loud: “Kerchunk! Kerchunk!”
“Peep, peep, peep!” called the birdie, and in a moment up hopped a big
frog. This was an old school-teacher frog, and he had been teaching all
the little frogs to sing. “Kerchunk! Kerchunk!” said he. “How can I teach
my frogs to sing when you are making such a noise?”

“Peep, peep! I want my mamma,” said the baby bird. Then the frog saw how
young the birdie was, and he was very sorry for him. “Come with me,” he
said, “and I will teach you to sing.” But the baby bird cried louder than
ever at this, and a mother dove, who was singing her babies to sleep in a
neighbouring tree, flew down to see what could be the matter.

“I can’t begin to get my children to sleep in all this fuss,” she said to
the frog, but when she saw the little bird she was just as sorry as the
frog had been. “Poor, dear baby,” she cried. “I will fly right off and
find your mamma for you.” So she told her children to be good and quiet,
and then away she flew. Before long she met the father and mother, and
they all came back in a great hurry. Then they tried to get the baby bird
into the nest again.

“He is entirely too young to be out of the nest,” cried his mother, “and
he must get in again at once.” “Spread your wings and fly, as I do,” said
the father bird. So the baby bird spread his wings and tried to fly; but,
try as he would, he could not reach the nest in the tree.

“Put him into my school, and I will teach him to swim,” said the frog;
“that is better than flying, and a great deal easier to learn, I am
sure.” This was so kind of the frog that the mother bird thanked him;
but she said she had to be very careful with her children, and that she
was afraid the water might give the little bird a cold. While they were
talking, they heard somebody coming along, whistling the jolliest tune!

“Dear me! Dear me!” cried the birds. “There comes a boy!” “He’s apt to
have stones in his pocket,” said the frog. “He will carry my darling off
and put him in a cage! Oh, fly! fly!” begged the mother bird. But before
the baby bird even had time to say, “Peep!” the boy came in sight.

Then the father bird flew over the boy’s head and the mother bird down in
front of him. The frog croaked and the dove cooed, but none of them could
hide the little bird from him. “If you hurt him, I’ll peck your eyes
out!” cried the poor mother, who hardly knew what she was saying; but the
boy picked the little bird up, just as if he did not hear her. “Oh, what
shall I do?” cried the mother bird.

Then the boy looked at her and at the tree where the nest was. “Coo, coo,
coo! I think I know what he is going to do,” said the dove. “There’s no
telling,” croaked the frog; and they all watched and wondered, while the
boy put the bird in his pocket and began to climb the tree. He swung
himself from branch to branch, climbing higher all the time, until at
last he reached the pretty nest where the sister bird waited for her
mother to come home.

Mother bird and father bird flew to the top of the tree to watch the boy.
“Suppose he should take her, too,” said the mother bird. But what do you
think he did? Yes, indeed. He put the brother bird back in the nest, as
well as the mother bird could have done it herself.

“Thank you! Thank you!” sang the mother and father as the boy scrambled
down again. “Peep, peep! Thank you!” called the little birds from the
nest. “Coo, coo! I knew,” cried the dove. “Kerchunk! Kerchunk! I should
like to have him in my school,” said the frog, as he hopped away to his
pond.




THE STORY OF BLUE-WINGS

MARY STEWART


There was once an old apple-orchard. It was full of beautiful things. In
the spring the trees were covered with pink and white blossoms, while the
soft green grass was sprinkled with dandelions. In the autumn the fruit
was scarlet, and beneath the trees the grass, which had grown high and
feathery, waved in the wind.

But there was something else in the orchard which was more wonderful
than the grass or the dandelions, the blossoms or the fruit. Sometimes
early in the spring there was a sudden flash of blue wings above the
trees, then a bird’s song, so clear and sweet and joyous that it made us
think of blue skies and of dancing blue waves. It came from the owner of
those splendid blue wings, and we knew that the king of the orchard had
returned from his winter’s trip, the bluebird had come home.

High up in an old tree there was a little hole and there the bluebird
made his nest. From the outside the hole looked dark and hard, but inside
it was as soft and cosy as the prettiest nest in the world. It was lined
with bits of feathers and down and it was quite big, plenty big enough
for the bluebird and his wife. Her feathers were not as bright as his nor
her song as beautiful, but she could do something even more marvellous
than wearing bright feathers or singing joyous songs. She could lay eggs.

And so she laid five small, bluish eggs in that cosy home. Then she sat
on them, keeping them warm with her soft little body, while the father
bird flashed his splendid wings back and forth through the orchard,
bringing food to the little mother bird and singing his happy song,
happier than ever now that he could tell of those precious eggs.

At last the shells went “crack,” and five little baby birds opened their
big bills very wide and chirped for food. Then how busy their father and
mother were kept!

I have not time to tell you all that happened during the summer, when
the young ones learned to fly, learned too a few notes of that song which
makes us think of the sky and the sea. None of them were as beautiful as
their father, none of their songs were as perfect, but their mother told
them to have patience, to try hard to fly straight, and to sing clearly,
and then, perhaps, after their winter in the warm South, they would come
back to the orchard with wings that would flash, and with a song that
would be like the first joyous call of the spring time.

And so, when the first cold weather came, four of the young birds flew
away with their mother and father. But one was left behind! Poor little
bird, I do not know whether he had fallen from a tree or been hit by
a stone. I only know that one wing was broken, and he lay on the hard
ground, his blue feathers dull, his eyes dim.

There a little girl found him, and she lifted him tenderly and carried
him through the orchard to the white farm house beyond. She laid the poor
little creature in a big wooden cage, and fed him with bread crumbs
soaked in water until his eyes grew brighter and he tried to lift his
wings. But when he found that he could not, because one was broken, you
know, he gave a chirp of pain and huddled down forlornly on the floor of
the cage. But soon, with all this care, he grew strong again, even if he
could not fly, and he and the little girl had nice times together. The
door of the cage was always open and Blue-wings, that is the name the
child gave him, although his feathers were not so very blue, would hop
down to the table and around the room, always ending by lighting on the
little girl’s shoulder. He would eat from her hand, and sometimes he gave
little chirps which meant “thank you.”

He had never sung since the day when he had tried to raise his wings
and had dropped them in pain. Sometimes he dreamed of the orchard, of
flying swiftly through the trees and of singing joyous songs to greet
the sunshine. Then he would open his eyes and see the cosy kitchen and
his dear little girl friend, and he would hop down sadly and sit on her
shoulder, trying to forget his longings, trying to chirp cheerfully when
she gave him crumbs.

As the winter passed and the days grew warm and bright, Blue-wings found
himself dreaming of his old free life most of the time, and between the
dreams the longing to fly and sing was stronger than ever. One day the
window next his cage was left wide open and through it the soft south
wind brought the fragrance of the apple blossoms, and the whir and hum
of the little creatures who were busy greeting the spring time. Suddenly
Blue-wings felt as if he must fly and sing or his heart would break. And
then—was it a dream, he wondered—he lifted his wings and flew right out
of the window. Through the orchard he darted, above the blossoming trees,
his blue wings flashing in the sunshine. Even his father’s wings were not
as splendidly blue as his, and they were so strong!

It was no dream now, he knew; it was all true. And as he mounted higher
and higher he sang a song so clear and sweet and joyful that the farmer
ploughing in the field stopped, and listened with tears in his eyes.
Blue-wing’s song made him think of the tossing sea he had lived beside
when he was a boy. And the little girl heard it, as she stood at the
farm-house door, and she stood smiling up into the blue sky with thoughts
of angels in her heart.

“Did Blue-wings ever come back to the little girl,” you ask? He never
came back to the cage or the farm-house kitchen, but he lived in the
orchard and had a nest there. And whenever the child saw a wonderfully
blue glimmer through the branches, or heard a most beautiful bird’s song,
she knew that Blue-wings was near. And she remembered that it was through
her love and her care that he had lived and grown strong, able to take
his place as king of the orchard, able by his song to bring into people’s
hearts happiness too great for words.




AN EASTERN LEGEND

GRACE DUFFIELD GOODWIN


    There’s a tender eastern legend,
        In a volume old and rare
    Of the Christ Child in his garden,
        Walking with the children there.

    And it tells—this strange, sweet story—
        (True or false, ah, who shall say?)
    How a bird with broken pinion
        Dead within the garden lay.

    And the children, children cruel,
        Lifted it by shattered wing,
    Shouting, “Make us merry music,
        Sing, you lazy fellow, sing.”

    But the Christ Child bent above it,
        Took it in his gentle hand,
    Full of pity for the suffering
        He alone could understand.

    Whispered to it—oh, so softly!
        Laid his lips upon its throat,
    And the song life, swift returning,
        Sounded out in one glad note.

    Then away, on wings unwearied,
        Joyously it sang and soared,
    And the little children kneeling
        Called the Christ Child, “Master-Lord!”




THE HOUSE WREN

NELTJE BLANCHAN


When you are sound asleep some April morning, a tiny brown bird, just
returned from a long visit south, will probably alight on the perch in
front of one of your boxes, peep in the doorhole, enter—although his pert
little cocked-up tail has to be lowered to let him through—look about
with approval, go out, spring to the roof and pour out of his wee throat
a gushing torrent of music. The song seems to bubble up faster than he
can sing. After the wren’s happy discovery of a place to live, his song
will go off in a series of musical explosions all day long, now from the
roof, now from the clothes posts, the fence, the barn, or the woodpile.
There never was a more tireless, spirited, brilliant singer. From the
intensity of his feelings, he sometimes droops that expressive little
tail of his, which is usually so erect and saucy.

With characteristic energy, he frequently begins to carry twigs into the
house before he finds a mate. The day little Jenny Wren appears on the
scene, how he does sing! Dashing off for more twigs, but stopping to sing
to her every other minute, he helps furnish the cottage quickly, but,
of course, he overdoes—he carries in more twigs and hay and feathers
than the little house can hold, then pulls half of them out again. Jenny
gathers, too, for she is a bustling housewife and arranges matters with
neatness and despatch. Neither vermin nor dust will she tolerate within
her well-kept home. Everything she does to suit herself pleases her
ardent little lover. He applauds her with song; he flies about after her
with a nervous desire to protect; he seems beside himself with happiness.
Let any one pass too near his best beloved, and he begins to chatter
excitedly: “_Chit-chit-chit-chit_,” as much as to say, “Oh, do go away;
go quickly! Can’t you see how nervous and fidgety you make me?”

If you fancy that Jenny Wren, who is patiently sitting on the little
pinkish, chocolate spotted eggs in the centre of her feather bed, is a
demure, angelic creature, you have never seen her attack the sparrow,
nearly twice her size, that dares put his impudent head inside her door.
Oh! how she flies at him! How she chatters and scolds! What a plucky
little shrew she is, after all! Her piercing, chattering, scolding notes
are fairly hissed into his ears until he is thankful enough to escape.

    There’s a little brown wren that has built in our tree,[10]
    And she’s scarcely as big as a big bumble-bee;
    She has hollowed a house in the heart of a limb,
    And made the walls tidy and made the doors trim
    With the down of the crow’s foot, and tow, and with straw
    The cosiest dwelling that you ever saw.

    The little brown wren has the brightest of eyes
    And a foot of very diminutive size.
    Her tail is as big as the sail of a ship.
    She’s demure, though she walks with a hop and a skip;
    And her voice—but a flute were more fit than a pen
    To tell of the voice of the little brown wren.

    One morning Sir Sparrow came sauntering by
    And cast on the wren’s house an envious eye;
    With a strut of bravado and toss of his head,
    “I’ll put in my claim here,” the bold fellow said;
    So straightway he mounted on impudent wing,
    And entered the door without pausing to ring.

    An instant—, and swiftly that feathery knight
    All towsled and tumbled, in terror took flight,
    While there by the door, in her favourite perch,
    As neat as a lady just starting for church,
    With this song on her lips, “He will not call again
    Unless he is asked,” sat the little brown wren.

If the bluebirds had her courage and hot, quick temper, they would never
let the sparrows drive them away from their boxes. Unfortunately a
hole large enough to admit a bluebird will easily admit those grasping
monopolists; but Jenny Wren is safe, if she did but know it, in her house
with its tiny front door. It is amusing to see a sparrow try to work his
shoulders through the small hole of an empty wren house, pushing and
kicking madly, but all in vain.

What rent do the wrens pay for their little houses? No man is clever
enough to estimate the vast numbers of insects on your place that they
destroy. They eat nothing else, which is the chief reason why they are
so lively and excitable. Unable to soar after flying insects because
of their short, round wings, they keep, as a rule, rather close to the
ground which their finely barred brown feathers so closely match. Whether
hunting for grubs in the wood-pile, scrambling over the brush heap after
spiders, searching among the trees to provide a dinner for their large
families, or creeping, like little feathered mice, in queer nooks and
crannies among the outbuildings on the farm, they are always busy in your
interest which is also theirs. It certainly pays, in every sense, to
encourage the wrens.




THE CHILDREN OF WIND AND THE CLAN OF PEACE

A CHRIST LEGEND

FIONA MACLEOD


It was the last month of the last year of the seven years’ silence and
peace. When would that be, you ask?

Surely what other would it be than the seven holy years when Jesus the
Christ was a little lad.

It was a still day. The little white flowers that were called Breaths of
Hope and that we now call Stars of Bethlehem were so hushed in quiet that
the shadows of the moths lay on them like the dark motionless violet in
the hearts of pansies. In the long swords of tender grass the multitude
of the daisies were white as milk faintly stained with flusht dews fallen
from roses. On the meadows of white poppies were long shadows blue as the
blue lagoons of the sky among drifting snow white moors of cloud. Three
white aspens on the pastures were in a still sleep; their tremulous
leaves made no rustle; ewes and lambs were sleeping and yearling kids
opened and closed their eyes among the garths of white clover.

It was Sabbath and Jesus walked alone. When He came to a little rise
in the grass He turned and looked back at the house where His parents
dwelled. Suddenly He heard a noise as of many birds and turned and looked
beyond the low upland where He stood. A pool of pure water lay in the
hollow, fed by a ceaseless wellspring and round it and over it circled
birds whose breasts were grey as pearl and whose necks shone purple and
grass green and rose. The noise was of their wings, for though the birds
were beautiful they were voiceless and dumb as flowers.

At the edge of the pool stood two figures like angels, but the child did
not know them. One He saw was beautiful as Night, and one beautiful as
Morning.

He drew near.

“I have lived seven years,” He said, “and I wish to send peace to the far
ends of the world.”

“Tell your secret to the birds,” said one.

“Tell your secret to the birds,” said the other.

So Jesus called the birds.

“Come,” He cried, and they came.

Seven came flying from the left, from the side of the angel beautiful
as Night. Seven came flying from the right, from the side of the angel
beautiful as Morning.

To the first He said: “Look into my heart.”

But they wheeled about Him, and with new found voices mocked, crying,
“How could we see into your heart that is hidden ...” and mocked and
derided, crying, “What is Peace! ... leave us alone. Leave us alone.”

So Christ said to them: “I know you for the birds of Evil. Henceforth ye
shall be black as night, and be children of the winds.”

To the seven other birds which circled about Him, voiceless, and brushing
their wings against His arms, He cried:

“Look into my heart.”

And they swerved and hung before Him in a maze of wings, and looked into
His pure heart: and, as they looked, a soft murmurous sound came from
them—drowsy, sweet, full of peace—and as they hung there like a breath in
frost they became white as snow.

“Ye are the Doves of the Spirit,” said Christ, “and to you I will commit
that which ye have seen. Henceforth shall your plumage be white and your
voices be the voices of peace.”

The young Christ turned, for He heard Mary calling to the sheep and
goats, and knew that dayset was come and that in the valleys the gloaming
was already rising like smoke from the urns of the twilight. When he
looked back he saw that seven white doves were in the cedar beyond the
pool, cooing in low ecstasy of peace and awaiting through sleep and
dreams the rose-red pathways of the dawn. Down the long grey reaches of
the ebbing day He saw seven birds rising and falling on the wind black
as black water in caves, black as the darkness of night in old pathless
woods.

And that is how the first doves became white, and how the first crows
became black and were called by a name that means the clan of darkness,
the children of wind.




IN MEADOW AND POND




A SPRING LILT


    Through the silver mist
      Of the blossom-spray
    Trill the orioles: list
      To their joyous lay!

    “What in all the world
      In all the world,” they say,
    “Is half so sweet, so sweet,
      Is half so sweet as May?”

    “June! June! June!”
      Low croon
    The brown bees in the clover.
      “Sweet! sweet! sweet!”
          Repeat
    The robins, nestled over.

                    _Unknown._




HOW BUTTERFLIES CAME

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN


One day the flowers begged the fairies to let them leave their stalks and
fly away into the air.

“We have to sit here in the same place from morning till night, fairies!
Do let us go!”

“Go then, dear flowers,” said the fairies. “But you must promise that you
will return to your stalks before the sun goes down.”

“We promise,” called out the flowers as they flew away, red, yellow, and
white, over the grass, out of the garden to the great wide meadow beyond.
The fairies’ garden seemed, suddenly, to have taken wings.

As the sun began to set the flowers flew quietly back to their stalks,
and when the fairies came, they found each flower again in its place.

“Well done, well done!” exclaimed the fairies. “To-morrow you may fly
away again to the meadows.”

As the sun rose the next morning there was a flutter of red and yellow
and white as, from every stalk, a pair of coloured wings rose and
flapped, then took flight once more over the meadows and fields. And by
and by a day came when the petals of the flowers became wings—_real_
wings, for the flowers themselves had become beautiful butterflies—red,
yellow and white.




WHITE BUTTERFLIES

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE


    Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,
    Frail, pale wings for the wind to try,
    Small white wings that we scarce can see,
                    Fly.

    Some fly light as a laugh of glee,
    Some fly soft as a long, low sigh;
    All to the haven where each should be,
                    Fly.




THE BUTTERFLY

MRS. ALFRED GATTY


“Let me hire you as a nurse for my poor children,” said a Butterfly
to a quiet Caterpillar, who was strolling along a cabbage-leaf in her
odd lumbering way. “See these little eggs,” continued the Butterfly;
“I don’t know how long it will be before they come to life, and I feel
very sick and poorly, and if I should die, who will take care of my baby
butterflies when I am gone? Will _you_, kind, mild, green Caterpillar?
But you must mind what you give them to eat, Caterpillar!—they cannot,
of course, live on _your_ rough food. You must give them early dew, and
honey from the flowers; and you must let them fly about only a little
way at first; for, of course, one can’t expect them to use their wings
properly all at once. Dear me, it is a sad pity you cannot fly yourself!
But I have no time to look for another nurse now, so you will do your
best, I hope. Dear, dear! I cannot think what made me come and lay my
eggs on a cabbage-leaf! What a place for young butterflies to be born
upon! Still you will be kind, will you not, to the poor little ones?
Here, take this gold-dust from my wings as a reward. Oh, how dizzy I am!
Caterpillar, you will remember about the food—”

And with these words the Butterfly drooped her wings and was gone; and
the green Caterpillar, who had not had the opportunity of even saying
Yes or No to the request, was left standing alone by the side of the
Butterfly’s eggs.

“A pretty nurse she has chosen, indeed, poor lady!” exclaimed she, “and
a pretty business I have in hand! Why, her senses must have left her, or
she never would have asked a poor crawling creature like me to bring up
her dainty little ones! Much they’ll mind me, truly, when they feel the
gay wings on their backs, and can fly away out of my sight whenever they
choose! Ah! how silly some people are, in spite of their painted clothes
and the gold-dust on their wings!”

However, the poor Butterfly was gone, and there lay the eggs on the
cabbage-leaf; and the green Caterpillar had a kind heart, so she resolved
to do her best. But she got no sleep that night, she was so very anxious.
She made her back quite ache with walking all night round her young
charges, for fear any harm should happen to them; and in the morning says
she to herself—

“Two heads are better than one. I will consult some wise animal upon the
matter, and get advice. How should a poor crawling creature like me know
what to do without asking my betters?”

But still there was difficulty—whom should the Caterpillar consult?
There was the shaggy Dog who sometimes came into the garden. But he was
so rough!—he would most likely whisk all the eggs off the cabbage-leaf
with one brush of his tail, if she called him near to talk to her, and
then she should never forgive herself. There was the Tom Cat, to be
sure, who would sometimes sit at the foot of the apple-tree, basking
himself and warming his fur in the sunshine; but he was so selfish and
indifferent!—there was no hope of his giving himself the trouble to think
about butterflies’ eggs. “I wonder which is the wisest of all the animals
I know,” sighed the Caterpillar, in great distress; and then she thought,
and thought, till at last she thought of the Lark; and she fancied that
because he went up so high, and nobody knew where he went to, he must be
very clever, and know a great deal; for to go up very high (which she
could never do) was the Caterpillar’s idea of perfect glory.

Now in the neighbouring corn-field there lived a Lark, and the
Caterpillar sent a message to him, to beg him to come and talk to her,
and when he came she told him all her difficulties, and asked him what
she was to do to feed and rear the little creatures so different from
herself.

“Perhaps you will be able to inquire and hear something about it the next
time you go up high,” observed the Caterpillar, timidly.

The Lark said, “Perhaps he should;” but he did not satisfy her curiosity
any further. Soon afterwards, however, he went singing upwards into the
bright blue sky. By degrees his voice died away in the distance till the
green Caterpillar could not hear a sound. It is nothing to say she could
not see him, for, poor thing, she never could see far at any time, and
had a difficulty in looking upwards at all, even when she reared herself
up most carefully, which she did now; but it was of no use, so she
dropped upon her legs again, and resumed her walk round the Butterfly’s
eggs, nibbling a bit of the cabbage-leaf now and then as she moved along.

“What a time the Lark has been gone!” she cried, at last. “I wonder where
he is just now! I would give all my legs to know! He must have flown up
higher than usual this time, I do think! How I should like to know where
it is that he goes to, and what he hears in that curious blue sky! He
always sings going up and coming down, but he never lets any secret out.
He is very close!”

And the green Caterpillar took another turn round the Butterfly’s eggs.

At last the Lark’s voice began to be heard again. The Caterpillar almost
jumped for joy, and it was not long before she saw her friend descend
with hushed note to the cabbage bed.

“News, news, glorious news, friend Caterpillar!” sang the Lark; “but the
worst of it is, you won’t believe me!”

“I believe everything I am told,” observed the Caterpillar, hastily.

“Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what these little creatures
are to eat”—and the Lark nodded his beak towards the eggs. “What do you
think it is to be? Guess!”

“Dew, and the honey out of flowers, I am afraid,” sighed the Caterpillar.

“No such thing! Something simpler than that. Something _you_ can get at
quite easily.”

“I can get at nothing quite easily but the cabbage-leaves,” murmured the
Caterpillar, in distress.

“Excellent! my good friend,” cried the Lark, exultingly; “you have found
it out. You are to feed them with cabbage-leaves.”

“_Never!_” cried the Caterpillar, indignantly. “It was their mother’s
last request that I should do no such thing.”

“Their mother knew nothing about the matter,” persisted the Lark; “but
why do you ask me, and then disbelieve what I say? You have neither faith
nor trust.”

“Oh, I believe everything I am told,” said the Caterpillar.

“Nay, but you do not,” replied the Lark; “you won’t believe me even about
the food, and yet that is but a beginning of what I have to tell you.
Why, Caterpillar, what do you think those little eggs will turn out to
be?”

“Butterflies, to be sure,” said the Caterpillar.

“_Caterpillars!_” sang the Lark; “and you’ll find it out in time;” and
the Lark flew away, for he did not want to stay and contest the point
with his friend.

“I thought the Lark had been wise and kind,” observed the mild green
Caterpillar, once more beginning to walk round the eggs, “but I find
that he is foolish and saucy instead. Perhaps he went up _too_ high this
time. Ah, it’s a pity when people who soar so high are silly and rude
nevertheless! Dear! I still wonder whom he sees, and what he does up
yonder.”

“I would tell you if you would believe me,” sang the Lark, descending
once more.

“I believe everything I am told,” reiterated the Caterpillar, with as
grave a face as if it were a fact.

“Then I’ll tell you something else,” cried the Lark; “for the best of my
news remains behind. _You will one day be a Butterfly yourself._”

“Wretched bird!” exclaimed the Caterpillar, “you jest with my
inferiority—now you are cruel as well as foolish. Go away! I will ask
your advice no more.”

“I told you you would not believe me,” cried the Lark.

“I believe everything that I am told,” persisted the Caterpillar; “that
is”—and she hesitated—“everything that is _reasonable_ to believe. But
to tell me that butterflies’ eggs are caterpillars, and that caterpillars
leave off crawling and get wings, and become butterflies!—Lark! you
are too wise to believe such nonsense yourself, for you know it is
impossible.”

“I know no such thing,” said the Lark, warmly. “Whether I hover over the
cornfields of earth, or go up into the depths of the sky, I see so many
wonderful things, I know no reason why there should not be more. Oh,
Caterpillar! it is because you crawl, because you never get beyond your
cabbage-leaf, that you call _any_ thing _impossible_.”

“Nonsense!” shouted the Caterpillar, “I know what’s possible, and what’s
not possible, according to my experience and capacity, as well as you do.
Look at my long green body and these endless legs, and then talk to me
about having wings and a painted feathery coat.”

“You would-be-wise Caterpillar!” cried the indignant Lark. “Do you
not hear how my song swells with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the
mysterious wonder-world above? Oh, Caterpillar; what comes to you from
thence, receive, as I do, upon trust.”

“That is what you call—”

“Faith,” interrupted the Lark.

“How am I to learn Faith?” asked the Caterpillar.

At that moment she felt something at her side. She looked round—eight or
ten little green caterpillars were moving about, and had already made a
show of a hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had broken from the Butterfly’s
eggs!

Shame and amazement filled our green friend’s heart, but joy soon
followed; for, as the first wonder was possible, the second might be so
too. “Teach me your lesson, Lark!” she would say; and the Lark sang to
her of the wonders of the earth below and of the heaven above. And the
Caterpillar talked all the rest of her life to her relations of the time
when she should be a Butterfly.

But none of them believed her. She nevertheless had learnt the Lark’s
lesson of faith, and when she was going into her chrysalis, she said—

“I shall be a Butterfly some day!”

But her relations thought her head was wandering, and they said, “Poor
thing!”

And when she was a Butterfly, and was going to die again, she said—

“I have known many wonders—I have faith—I can trust even now for what
shall come next!”




THE WIND, A HELPER

MARY STEWART


A little girl was once standing in a dark, narrow street playing with
some bits of coloured paper she had found in an ash-can. Suddenly a gust
of wind came around the street-corner. It blew the coloured scraps right
out of the child’s hand and carried them up over her head, then higher
still, over the house-tops, until they were out of sight.

Janie, that was the little girl’s name, watched them fly away, with tears
in her eyes. Her busy mother had given her this day for a holiday, she
had no toys to play with, and she loved those gay bits of paper. As she
looked after the scraps up into the little patch of blue sky, which was
all she could see between the high houses, she saw a small, white cloud
scudding along, just the way the papers had flown.

“What makes the cloud fly so fast?” thought Janie, and as if in answer
another gust of wind came blowing down the street. “Oh, wind, blow me,
too,” cried Janie, “take me up in the sky with the cloud,” and she held
out her little petticoat.

The wind filled it and blew her—well, it didn’t quite blow her into the
sky, but it did a kinder thing. It blew her down the dark, narrow street,
through other streets, each getting wider and cleaner, until at last it
blew her right into the country. There she found herself racing over
green fields, with the sky overhead so big and so blue that the clouds
looked like a flock of little sheep. There for a moment the wind left
her—he had other things to do—and Janie stood looking around her happy
and surprised. It was a spring day and the grass, which was waving in
the wind, was soft and green and full of buttercups and daisies. “Far
prettier than my scraps of paper,” thought Janie. The trees were covered
with new, green leaves, some of them were dressed in pink and white
blossoms, and their branches swayed in the wind as if they were waving a
welcome to the little girl. But she didn’t have long to stand and look.
Back came the wind, bringing new scents of blossoms and other sweet
spring things with him, and off the child ran again.

Presently she saw in front of her a shining blue line, and when she
reached it she found it was the sea. If any one of us has ever seen the
sea on a clear windy day we can never forget it, and that is just the way
Janie felt. The waves were high and blue, but they wore great white caps
which broke against the wind, and he scattered them into splendid foamy
bits of spray, while the waves came dashing over the beach.

It was all so beautiful that Janie took a long, deep breath of wind, and
suddenly her cheeks grew pink and her eyes bright, and you never would
have known she was the pale, sad little Janie who stood in the dark
street watching her scraps of paper blow away.

She was standing on the beach gazing out to sea in astonishment. For
there, on the blue water, was something which looked like a great bird
with its wings outspread, only it was far bigger than any bird, and as
it skimmed over the water she saw men moving upon it. Can you guess
what it was? It was a splendid ship; but as Janie had never seen one
before, except in pictures, she was much puzzled. “What makes it fly so
fast?” she wondered, and for an answer the wind blew her along the beach,
through a garden, and almost into a little white cottage, where a woman
was standing with a baby in her arms.

She didn’t seem to mind a bit when she saw a strange little girl come
flying down the garden path to her house. She just laughed and cried,
“This is another trick of my friend the wind.” Then she laid the baby
down in a cradle and took both Janie’s hands, making her sit on the door
step where the wind had dropped her.

“Please, ma’am,” said Janie, when she could get her breath, “can you tell
me what makes the boat sail?” The woman laughed again and answered, “Why,
this beautiful wind blows her along, of course; that is only one of the
hundreds of things the wind does for us. He can blow so hard that the
great ships are just driven before him, and he can blow so softly that
my baby is rocked to sleep. Look at the cradle now.” Janie looked, and
there in the light wind which seemed to be full of the scent of blossoms,
the cradle was rocking so gently that the baby had fallen asleep. Then
the mother brought Janie a bowl of bread and milk, and while she ate it
they talked about the wind.

“He blows away the dead leaves with such fury,” said the mother, “that
they tear along in front of my window like a flock of frightened birds.
But when he finds a little flower beneath the leaves he blows on its
petals so softly that it feels as if its mother were kissing it.

“Sometimes, when it comes from the North, it brings snow and hail and the
beautiful frosts of winter. But when it comes from the South it brings
sweet scents and soft, warm air. The East Wind often brings rain and
mist, and some people don’t like it, but the ground needs the rain, the
flowers love it, and the East Wind is a gift from God, just as the others
are. The West Wind is blowing to-day, and that is why the world looks so
fresh and shining.”

So they talked most of the afternoon, the mother and Janie, until when
the sun began to sink and the ship came sailing homeward, Janie turned
again toward the city.

Very gently this time the wind blew her along, beside orchards where the
trees were rustling their leaves like lullabies, and through meadows
where, like sleepy children, the flowers were nodding their heads for
good-night to the dear West Wind.

And although she was leaving it all, Janie was very happy. The woman in
the cottage by the sea had told her to come back on her next holiday. And
she knew that although she could not always see the dancing trees and
flowers and waves and ships, she would remember that they were waiting
for her every time she heard the wind rattling the window or blowing
among the chimneys.

Just before she went to sleep she looked out of her tiny window through
which a patch of sky could be seen. It was a dark, cloudy patch, and
Janie was just turning away from it when the clouds began to move. The
wind was still at work, in an instant the clouds had been blown away, and
through that tiny window Janie saw a bright, clear star shining down
upon her. “Thank you, dear wind,” she whispered. And then, as she cuddled
down to sleep she seemed to hear the wind, or was it the star, singing
softly, “Thank God, thank God.”




THE SPRINGING TREE: WILLOWS

MRS. DYSON


The willow is one of the greatest of Mother Nature’s puzzles. It will
give you years of pleasure before you have fully found out all its
secrets. What is the puzzle? Perhaps you say, We all know a willow. Do
you? Let us see how much you know. It is a weeping tree; its branches and
leaves drop to the ground. That is true sometimes, not always. It grows
by the water side. Neither is that always true. In early spring it has
buds like soft pussy-cats, which you love to gather, and stroke against
your faces, and in summer it has long narrow leaves.

Yes, but if you look at all the pussy-cats you can find, you will see
that they are very different from one another. The willow has two kinds
of tails growing on different trees. One tree has flowers made of
stamens, another tree has flowers containing seed-bags, and even of
these two kinds you will find many different sorts. Then if you will look
at the same trees when the leaves come out, you will perhaps be surprised
to see that they have not all leaves of the same sort. Some are long,
narrow and pointed, but some are broad and rounded; some are white and
silky, some are crumpled and downy.

Now you see what is the great puzzle. When you see a tree with a long
narrow leaf like a sword, you are sure at once it is a willow. The
willow gives its name to this shape; for when we see other plants with
leaves of this pattern, we always call them willow-leaves. The flowers
of all the willows are very much alike. They all grow on tails, true
pussy-cats’ tails, so soft and silky are they. But they are the tails of
angry pussy-cats, for they stand up straight and stiff and thick; they
do not hang down wagging and waving in a good-tempered way. The flowers
are soft silky scales, fastened closely together on the stalk. On the
tails of one tree, under each scale, there are two, three or five slender
stamens, each with a double yellow head and between these and the stem
there is a little honey-bag. Under the scales of another tree’s tails
there are beautiful silken seed-bags, shaped like pears, the pointed
end just divided into two sticky horns. When the seeds are ripe, these
lovely silk bags split open at the point, and the two horns curl back in
a beautiful way, like two doors opening to make way for the crowd of tiny
seeds, each one with a great plume of whitest silk, which tries to spread
out to the sun and fresh air. The opening seed-bags of all the willows
are a charming sight. What is all this silk for? To keep the seeds warm?
Yes, and also to float them through the air to a place where they may
take root and grow. You must look out for them early in the year, in
late spring and early summer, long before other seeds are ripe. You will
find that the birds are also on the lookout,—for food you suppose? No,
they are building their nests, and they want something nice and soft
with which to line them and make a comfortable bed for the eggs and the
little birds; and what could they have better than this yellow silk? The
thistledown is all destroyed by the winter rains and there is nothing
else ready yet.

The willow is the earliest tree, except the hazel, to say that spring is
coming. It begins to get ready in the autumn. Then the buds swell and
often burst, so that you can see the tufts of white silk peeping out as
if the flowers were in such a hurry they could not wait till the spring.
All the winter they are growing, but you are so busy skating and snow
balling whenever you go out that you have no time to watch them, and
are quite surprised at the first glimpse of the soft pussy-cats in the
spring. At first only the silky scales show, but soon after the golden
heads or the funny two-horned bottles hang out and the fruit is ripe by
the time other trees have opened their flowers.

Some people say there are two hundred different kinds of willow trees but
others think this is making too much of slight differences. There are
about fifteen kinds which are so very different from one another that you
will easily be able to discover them.

You already know well, four kinds of willow. Two of them are large trees;
one of these is always found by the water-side bending over the still
slow streams. It is called the _white_ willow because its leaves are
covered on both sides with soft white silk.

The other is the willow tree which grows most frequently in our gardens
and by the road side. Its leaves are like those of the white willow
in shape, but on the upper side they are bright green; with no silky
covering. This is called the _crack_ willow, because its branches crack
and break at the joints so easily. Give them just a little blow and they
snap at once. These are the only kinds of willow that grow into large
trees. They are generally very crooked trees; their trunks split and bend
and sometimes when near a stream they stretch over it as if they wanted
to make a bridge across.

The other two willows that you know well are large shrubs or little trees
not much taller than a man. One of them bears very silky catkins, and its
leaves are always silky, quite white on the under side. This willow has
long, slender arms like fairies’ wands. Cinderella’s godmother may have
used one of them. This is the osier of which we make our baskets. If you
try to break off one of these long arms, you may tug and tug away, but
all in vain, they are so tough; and as your hand slips there comes off
into it a long roll of bark, leaving the branch smooth and white. You can
bend these slender shoots as much as you like and still they will not
snap, and so they are just what we want for weaving into light baskets.

The other shrub or little tree is perhaps the willow that you know best
in the spring. It grows in the hedge everywhere and is called the _goat
willow_ or _sallow_. It has purplish brown branches and from it you
probably gather your first pussy-cats. It flowers with the snowdrop,
even while it is yet winter, in cold February or March. The first warm
sunshine is better than any fairy’s wand for it turns these flowers into
gold. Then the bees rejoice; the food they have had in their hives during
the winter is nearly done, and other flowers have scarcely dared to think
of opening yet. But the bees know the secrets of the flowers and they
are quite aware of the wee honey bag hidden in every flower of that thick
tail.

So you see this tree seems so full of life and joy, it grows so fast, and
is so willing and obliging, that we call it by the name willow, which
means the “springing” tree.




PUSSY WILLOW

KATE LOUISE BROWN


All winter Miss Pussy had been shut up in her house by the brook; but one
bright morning in early spring, the door of her house opened. Then she
stepped out to see the world.

The swelling buds were rocking to and fro on the branches, the grass
blades were peeping above the ground, and a few brave flowers were
opening their sleepy eyes.

“Dear me!” cried Pussy, “the wind is sharp and cold, if it is a bright
day.”

“Why, whom have we here?” asked the brook in great surprise. “True as I
live, it is Miss Pussy Willow! Good morning, Pussy, you are out bright
and early; but why do you wear that fur hood? Summer is coming and the
days grow warmer.”

“Oh, Mother Nature told me to wear it, lest I get a toothache.”

Everybody was glad to see Pussy. The little brook, the grass, the buds,
and the little spring birds. But they were all very curious to know why
she wore her fur hood.

Poor Pussy! she was tempted more than once to take it off, so much was
said about it. But she didn’t; she thought best to mind Mother Nature.
Now, it grieves me to say Mr. Robin was very bold and saucy. He whispered
some unkind things to Pussy’s friends one day. The next morning, when
Pussy opened her eyes, the birds, the buds, the brook, the grass, and the
flowers began to whisper to themselves: “Do you suppose Pussy Willow has
to wear her hood because she has no hair? Poor Pussy Willow!”

Poor Pussy Willow! Brave Pussy felt very sad. All she said was: “Wait and
see.”

How surprised every one was a few days after this! There was Pussy Willow
with no fur hood on her head, but bright golden curls were dancing up and
down in the breeze.

“Pussy Willow is not a baldhead; she wears beautiful golden curls,” cried
all her friends. Mr. Robin hid his head and flew away, very much ashamed.




THE DRAGON FLY

MRS. ALFRED GATTY


“I wonder what becomes of the Frog when he climbs up out of this world,
and disappears so that we do not see even his shadow; till, plop! he is
among us again. Does anybody know where he goes to?”

Thus chattered the grub of a Dragon fly as he darted about with his
companions in and out among the plants at the bottom of a beautiful pond
in the centre of a wood.

“Who cares what the Frog does?” answered one who overheard the Grub’s
question, “what is it to us?”

“Look out for food for yourself and let other people’s business alone,”
cried another. “But I should like to know,” said the grub. “I can see all
of you when you pass by me among the plants in the water here, and when
I don’t see you any longer I wonder where you have gone. I followed the
Frog just now as he went upwards, and all at once he went to the side of
the water, then he began to disappear and presently he was gone. Did he
leave this world? And where did he go?”

“You idle fellow,” cried another. “See what a good bite you have missed
with your wonderings about nothing.” So saying he seized an insect which
was flitting right in front of the Grub.

Suddenly there was a heavy splash in the water and a large yellow Frog
swam down to the bottom among the grubs.

“Ask the Frog himself,” suggested a minnow as he darted by overhead.

Such a chance of satisfying himself was not to be lost, and after taking
two or three turns round the roots of a water-lily, the grub screwed up
his courage and, approaching the Frog, asked, “Is it permitted to a very
unhappy creature to speak?”

The Frog turned his gold edged eyes upon him in surprise and answered,
“Very unhappy creatures had better be silent. I never talk but when I’m
happy.”

“But I shall be happy if I may talk,” said the Grub.

“Talk away then,” said the Frog.

“But it is something I want to ask you.”

“Ask away,” exclaimed the Frog.

“What is there beyond the world?” inquired the Grub in a very quiet way.

“What world do you mean—this pond?” asked the Frog, rolling his goggle
eyes round and round.

“I mean the place we live in whatever you may choose to call it. I call
it the world,” said the Grub.

“Do you, sharp little fellow? Then what is the place you don’t live in?”

“That’s just what I want you to tell me,” replied the little Grub.

“Oh, indeed, little one. I shall tell you, then. It is dry land.”

“Can one swim about there?” inquired the Grub.

“I should think not,” chuckled the Frog.

“Dry land is not water. That is just what it is _not_. Dry land is
something like the sludge at the bottom of this pond, only it is not wet
because there’s no water.”

“Really! What is there then?”

“That’s the difficulty,” exclaimed Froggy.

“There is something, of course, they call it air, but how to explain it
I don’t know. Now just take my advice and ask no more silly questions.
I tell you the thing is not worth your troubling yourself about. But I
admire your spirit,” continued the Frog. “I will make you an offer. If
you choose to take a seat on my back I will carry you up to dry land and
you can judge for yourself what is there and how you like it.”

“I accept with gratitude, honoured Frog,” said the little Grub.

“Drop yourself down on my back, then, and cling to me as well as you can.
Come now, hold fast.”

The little Grub obeyed and the Frog, swimming gently upwards, soon
reached the bulrushes by the water’s side.

“Hold fast,” repeated the Frog, and then, raising his head out of the
pond, he clambered up the bank and got upon the grass.

“Now, then, here we are,” exclaimed the Frog. “What do you think of dry
land?”

But no one answered.

“Hallow! Gone? That’s just what I was afraid of. He has floated off my
back, stupid fellow. But perhaps he has made his way to the water’s edge
here after all, and then I can help him out. I’ll wait about and see.”

And away went Froggy with a leap along the grass by the edge of the pond
glancing every now and then among the bulrushes to see if he could spy
his little friend, the dragon fly grub.

But what had become of the little grub? He had really clung to the Frog’s
back with all his might; but the moment the mask of his face began to
issue from the water, a shock seemed to strike his frame and he reeled
from his resting place back into the pond panting and struggling for life.

“Terrible,” he cried as soon as he came to himself. “The Frog has
deceived me. He cannot go there, at any rate.” And with these words, the
little Grub moved away to his old companions to talk over with them what
he had done and where he had been.

“It was terrible, terrible. But the sun is beginning to set and I must
take a turn around the pond in search of food.” And away went the little
dragon fly grub for a ramble among the water plants.

On his return who should he see sitting calmly on a stone at the bottom
of the pond but his friend the yellow Frog.

“You here!” cried the startled Grub. “You never left this world at all
then. How you deceived me, Frog!”

“Clumsy fellow,” replied the Frog. “Why did you not sit fast as I told
you?”

The little Grub soon told his story while the Frog sat staring at him in
silence out of his great goggle eyes.

“And now,” said the Grub, “since there is nothing beyond this world, all
your stories of going there must be mere inventions. As I have no wish to
be fooled by any more of your tales, I will bid you a very good evening.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said the Frog, “until you have heard my story.”

“As you wish,” answered the Grub.

Then the Frog told him how he had lingered by the edge of the pond in
hope of seeing the little Grub again, how he had hopped about in the
grass, how he had peeped among the bulrushes.

“And at last,” he continued, “though I did not see you yourself, I saw a
sight which has more interest for you than for any other creature that
lives,” and then the Frog stopped speaking.

“What was it?” asked the inquisitive little Grub.

“Up the polished green stalk of one of those bulrushes I saw a little
dragon-fly grub slowly and gradually climb till he had left the water
behind him. As I continued to look, I noticed that a rent seemed to come
in your friend’s body. I cannot tell you in what way the thing happened,
but after many struggles, there came from it one of those beautiful
creatures who float through the air and dazzle the eyes of all who catch
glimpses of them as they pass—a glorious Dragon-fly!

“As if just waking from a dream he lifted his wings out of the covering.
Though shrivelled and damp at first they stretched and expanded in
the sunshine till they glistened as if with fire. I saw the beautiful
creature at last poise himself for a second or two in the air before
he took flight. I saw the four gauzy wings flash back the sunshine that
was poured on them. I heard the clash with which they struck the air and
I saw his body give out rays of glittering blue and green as he darted
along and away over the water in circles that seemed to know no end. Then
I plunged below to find you out and tell you the good news.”

“It’s a wonderful story,” said the little Grub.

“A wonderful story, indeed,” repeated the Frog.

“And you really think, then, that the glorious creature you saw was once
a—”

“Silence,” cried the Frog. “All your questions have been answered. It is
getting dark here in your world. I must return to my grassy home on dry
land. Go to rest, little fellow, and awake in hopes.”

The Frog swam close to the bank and clambered up its side while the
little Grub returned to his companions to wait and hope.




THE CICADA’S STORY[11]

AGNES MCCLELLAN DAULTON


Once upon a time a grasshopper introduced me to Mr. Periodical Cicada.
He was a very pleasant fellow and not a bit stuck up, although the poets
have written of him, and almost every one knows him by the name of
seventeen year locust, though he really is not a locust at all. I was
pleased to meet him, and asked him if he would mind telling me what he
did all those seventeen years, and he replied:

“Not at all, now that they are over it is very pleasant to talk about
them.” Then he began his story. “Seventeen years ago this June, in an old
orchard, my mother tucked away in the green twigs of a mossy apple tree
hundreds of little cradles. I was sleeping in one and in the others were
my brothers and sisters. While my mother was at work our father sat on a
twig close by and sang the merriest lullaby that babies ever listened to.

“Several weeks later we little ones crept out of our cradles and dropped
lightly to the ground beneath the tree; then each of us dug a little
burrow and hid ourselves away in the warm, moist soil near sappy rootlets
that gave us our food.

“We were very tiny at first, but little by little we grew, always making
our cells bigger to fit, so that we were as snug and cosy as babies could
be, only it was very dark and lonely.

“The rootlets would tell us when it was spring, of how the pink and white
blossoms were holding up perfumed cups to the blue sky; of the tree
musical with the humming of the bees that came for honey; then of summer,
when birds nested and sang among the green boughs; later of autumn, of
apples mellow and ripe, globes of red and gold, that fell with a muffled
thud in the long, green grass; and at last of the winter, and of the
fleecy snow that clothed the old tree in soft white. They whispered
of heat, of cold, of sunshine and rain, of freezing winds and balmy
breezes, but we baby Cicadas neither understood nor cared, and there
tucked away in our gloomy cells we lived seventeen long years.

“But one May day, in the sweetest of apple blossoming time, all we little
Cicadas made up our minds to go out into the world and seek our fortunes.
Then every one of us began digging and carrying up to the surface tiny
pellets of soft clay.

“My, but we did work hard, and by the time the big sun had hidden his
round face in the west each of us had built a funny little chimney six
inches high.”

“Oh, how lovely!” I cried; “and please, Mr. Periodical Cicada, what were
they for?”

But the Cicada only shook his head at me gravely, as much as to say that
it was a Cicada family secret.

“When the chimneys were done,” he went on, “we all scrambled up and began
hunting a safe place to rest. I soon found a fine twig where I held on
for dear life. I wasn’t very pretty, being dressed in a brown coat, and
besides, I had gotten very muddy building my chimney. Now while I was
hanging there hoping to dry off—click—and goodness me! if my little
brown jacket hadn’t split down my back from collar to waistband. I felt
very bad, for even if it was a muddy, ugly brown coat, it was all I had,
and I had no idea where to get another in the big, cold world I had just
come into. But when I stepped out of my coat to see if I could mend it,
my stockings and shoes came off with it and there I hung, if you will
believe me, dressed in the prettiest cream-coloured suit you ever saw. I
never was more surprised in my life.

“Just then, I happened to catch a glimpse of one of my sisters, and she
also was in cream, and there was a brother; yes, there was the whole
family, and every one of us in a lovely suit of cream-colour. But, oh,
when we got a good look at each other we laughed till we almost fell from
our perches, for each of us had pink eyes and heavy, fierce eyebrows, and
queer humps on the sides of our necks. Such a ridiculous looking lot of
youngsters you never saw. Beside us hung our old, muddy clothes, coat,
shoes, stockings, and all. If you look in the orchard you can often find
these old clothes long after the Cicadas have flown away.”

“Oh, Mr. Cicada, how I should love to have seen you!” I exclaimed. “I
shall look for little brown coats as soon as I get home.”

“This was only the beginning,” went on Periodical. “The most wonderful
things were to come; for slowly, slowly those humps on our necks began
to swell, and after a time they opened out into two lovely, gauzy wings,
veined with pearl colour. When the great round moon came gliding up over
the orchard and shed down upon us her gentle, silvery light, there we
hung like some strange, beautiful flowers. The apple blossoms thought we
were flowers and whispered to us some of the prettiest honey and pollen
secrets; they were so provoked when we flew away and they found out their
mistake—but they need not fear for we will never tell; no, indeed, never!

“When morning came we found our beauty had been very fleeting, for our
lovely cream-coloured suits had changed to greenish-brown, and our wings,
though still transparent, were dull of colour. The males among us were
drummers. Deep within my body, I carried two drums, each being covered
by a plate that you can easily see on the outside. Now, I don’t need
drumsticks, for my drums are air instruments, and by twitching my muscles
I can snap my drumheads faster and faster, making the gayest sort of a
roll-call. Listen to this: _Whirr-r-r-r-r!_”




EDITH AND THE BEES

HELEN KELLER


One beautiful morning last June, a sweet little girl thought she would go
out into the garden and pick some flowers for one of her playmates, who
was sick and obliged to stay shut up in the house this fragrant summer
morning. “Tommy shall have the most beautiful flowers in the garden,”
thought Edith, as she took her little basket and pruning scissors, and
ran out into the garden. She looked like a lovely fairy or a sunbeam,
flitting about the rose-bushes. I think she was the most exquisite rose
in all the garden herself. Her heart was full of thoughts of Tommy, while
she worked away busily. “I wish I knew something that would please Tommy
more than anything else!” she said to herself. “I would love to make him
happy,” and she sat down on the edge of a beautiful fountain to think.

While she sat there thinking, two dear little birds began to take their
bath in the lovely, sparkling water that rippled and danced in the
sunshine. They would plunge into the water and come out dripping, perch
on the side of the fountain for a moment, and plunge in again. Then they
would shake the bright drops from their feathers, and fly away singing
sweeter than ever. Edith thought the little birds enjoyed their bath as
much as her baby brother did his.

When they had flown away to a distant tree, Edith noticed a beautiful
pink rosebud, more beautiful than any she had yet seen. “Oh, how lovely
you are!” she cried; and, running to the bush where it was, she bent
down the branch, that she might examine it more closely, when out of the
heart of the rose came a small insect and stung her pretty cheek. The
little girl began to weep loudly, and ran to her father who was working
in another part of the yard. “Why, my little girl!” said he, “a bee has
stung you.” He drew out the sting, and bathed her swollen cheek in cool
water, at the same time telling her many interesting things about the
wonderful little bees.

“Do not cry any more, my child,” said her father, “and I will take you to
see a kind gentleman who keeps many hives of bees.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Edith, brushing away her tears. “I will run and
get ready now.”

The bee-master, as everybody called the old man who kept the bees, was
very glad to show his little pets, and to tell Edith all he knew about
them. He led her to a hive, made wholly of glass, so that she might watch
the bees at their work.

“There are three kinds of bees in every hive,” said the gentleman. “That
large bee in the middle is the queen bee. She is the most important bee
in the hive. She has a sting, but seldom makes use of it. Those busy
bees are the worker bees. It was probably a worker that stung you this
morning, my little girl,” said the bee-master.

Edith thought she did not like the worker bee as well as the others; but
when she heard what industrious little workers they are, and how they
take all the care of the young bees, build the cells of wax, and bring
in the honey, she felt much more affection for them.

“What do the bees do in winter when there are no flowers from which to
gather honey?” inquired Edith.

“They sleep during the long, cold winter days, and awaken when the warm
spring returns,” replied her kind instructor.

“Now,” said Edith’s father, “we had better go, or you will not get to see
Tommy to-day.”

Then the little girl thanked her new friend for telling her so much about
his interesting pets, and promised to come and see him as often as she
could.

“Oh, father!” cried Edith, as they walked homeward, “I am almost glad
that the naughty little bee stung me this morning, for now I shall have
something interesting to tell Tommy.”




THE LITTLE TADPOLE[12]

KATHARINE PYLE


The brook flows down past the field, around the hill, and through the
wood.

There are all sorts of things in the brook: water cress and snails, and
little darting fishes, eelgrass and crawfish, and under a stone where the
water is cool and deep a little brown lizard used to live.

The lizard was a busy little thing, always anxious about something or
other. She told the crawfish when to shed their shells; she showed the
snails where to find dead leaves; and she attended to every one else’s
business as well as her own.

One day when she was crawling up the stream, she saw a tadpole lying in a
sunny shallow, with its nose almost out of the water.

“That tadpole oughtn’t to lie there in the sun,” said the lizard to
herself. “It’s too warm. I think I’ll tell him.” So she crawled up to
where the tadpole was lying.

As she came nearer she heard the tadpole whispering softly to himself.
“Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful!” he was saying.

“What is so beautiful?” asked the lizard curiously, looking about her.

“That singing!” cried the tadpole. “Don’t you hear it?”

And now that the lizard listened, she did indeed hear a perfect chorus of
birds singing their morning songs in wood and field and thicket.

“Yes, it’s pretty enough,” said the lizard. “But you oughtn’t to be lying
here in the hot sun. You’ll make yourself sick.”

The tadpole only wriggled impatiently, and then lay still, listening. But
presently he turned his little dull eyes on the lizard. “I suppose you
have often seen birds coming down to the stream to bathe,” he said. “Do
you think I look anything like one?”

“Like a bird!” cried the lizard. “No, you don’t.”

“Well, I don’t see why not,” said the tadpole. “To be sure, I haven’t
any legs, but I have a tail.”

“Yes,” said the lizard, “but birds have beaks and feathers and wings as
well, and you haven’t anything but a body and a tail.”

“That is true,” said the tadpole, and he sighed heavily.

As the lizard had said, it was warm up in the shallow where the tadpole
lay; but she was curious now as to why the tadpole should want to look
like a bird, so she settled herself down more comfortably and went on
talking.

“Now, I should like to know,” she said, “why you want to look like a
bird.”

At first the tadpole made no answer; he seemed to be either shy or dull,
but when the lizard asked him again, he said: “I don’t know.”

Then he was silent again; and the lizard was about to go away when the
tadpole suddenly went on: “It’s because there seems to be something
inside of me that must sing, and I’ve tried and tried, until all the
fishes and even the snails laugh at me, and I can’t make a sound. I
think if I only had legs, and could hop about like a bird, I could do it.”

“But I don’t see why you should want to sing,” said the lizard. “I never
did.”

Still, the tadpole seemed so grieved about it that she felt sorry for
him, and stayed there in the shallow talking to him for quite a long
time; and the next morning she went to see him again.

This was the beginning of a friendship between the two; and though the
lizard could not understand why the tadpole should wish to sing, she
never made fun of him, but tried to think of some plan by which he might
learn to do it.

Once she suggested that if he were only up on the shore he might be able
to do something about it. So he wriggled himself up half out of the
water; but almost immediately he grew so sick that the lizard had to pull
him back again by his tail, feeling terribly frightened, all the while,
lest it should break.

It was the very next morning that the lizard found the tadpole in a state
of wild excitement. “Oh, Lizard, Lizard!” he cried, shaking all over
from his nose to his tail. “Just look at me! I’m getting legs.”

It was true. There they were, still very small and weak, but really
legs. The lizard and the tadpole had been too busy talking over how to
make them grow to notice that they were already budding. They were still
more excited when, soon afterwards, they saw near the front part of the
tadpole’s body two more little buds; and the lizard was sure these would
prove to be wings.

It was a terrible blow to them when they found these were not wings at
all, but more legs. “Now it’s all over,” cried the tadpole, in despair.
“It was bad enough not to have wings; but now that I’m getting legs this
way, there’s no knowing where it’ll end.”

The lizard, too, was almost hopeless, until suddenly she remembered a
crawfish she had known who had lost one of his legs in a fight, and it
had hardly hurt him at all. She said perhaps she could pull the tadpole’s
front legs off the same way.

He was quite willing for her to try, but at the first twitch she gave he
cried out, “Ouch! that hurts!” so the lizard had to stop.

She still thought, however, that something could have been done about it
if the tadpole had not been such a coward and had let her pull harder.

But worse was to follow.

One morning, before the lizard was up, the tadpole came wriggling over to
the door of her house.

“Lizard, Lizard, come out here,” he cried. Then, as soon as she came out,
he begged her to get a piece of eelgrass and measure his tail.

“I’ve been afraid it was shrinking for some time,” he said, “and now I’m
almost sure of it. I have such strange feelings, too. Sometimes I feel as
though I must have air, and I get up on a stone so that I’m almost out of
the water, and only then am I comfortable.”

Hastily the lizard got the eelgrass and measured. Then they sat staring
at each other in dismay. The tail was almost gone!

Still, the lizard would not give up all hope.

That same crawfish that had lost a leg lived farther down the stream,
and he was very old and wise. She would get him to come and look at the
tadpole and give his advice.

So the kindly little lizard bustled away, and soon she came back, to
where the tadpole was lying, and the crawfish came with her, twiddling
his feelers, and staring both ways with his goggle eyes.

“Sick tadpole!” he cried. “This is no tadpole!” Then, coming closer, the
crawfish went on: “Why are you lying here? Why aren’t you over in the
swamp singing with all the rest of them? Don’t you know you are a frog?”

“A frog!” cried the lizard.

But the young tadpole frog leaped clear out of the brook with a joyous
cry.

“A frog!” he shouted. “Why, that’s the best of all! If that’s true I
must say good-bye, little Lizard. Hey for the wide green swamp and the
loud frog chorus under the light of the moon! Good-bye, little friend,
good-bye! I shall never forget what you have done for me.”

So the frog went away to join his brothers.

The little lizard felt quite lonely for a while after the frog had gone;
but she comforted herself by thinking how happy he must be.

Often in the twilight, or when the moon was bright, she listened to the
chorus of frogs as they sang over in the swamp, and wondered if the one
who sang so much louder and deeper than the rest was the little frog who
had tried so hard to be a bird.

“After all,” she said to herself, “there are more ways of singing than
one.”




MISTER HOP-TOAD

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY


    Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad! Glad to see you out!
    Bin a month o’ Sundays since I seen you hereabout.
    Kind o’ bin a-layin’ in, from the frost and snow?
    Glad to see you out ag’in, it’s been so long ago.




BUZ AND HUM

MAURICE NOËL


The time came when Buz and Hum, two young bees, were allowed to try their
wings.

“Follow me,” said a friendly older bee; “I can spare time to fly a little
way; and when I stop, you stop, too.”

“All right,” cried Buz, trembling with excitement.

Hum said nothing, but her wings began to move, almost in spite of herself.

Away went the bee, as straight as a line from the mouth of the hive, and
away flew Buz and Hum after her; but at first starting they both found it
a little difficult to keep quite straight, and Buz knocked against the
board to begin with, and nearly stopped herself, as she had not learned
how to rise.

The older bee did not go far, and lit on the branch of a peach tree which
was growing against a wall near by. Buz came after her in a great hurry,
but missed the branch and gave herself a bang against the wall. Hum saw
this, and managed to stop herself in time; but she did not judge her
distance very well either; and got on the peach tree in a scrambling sort
of way.

“Very good,” said their friend, as they all three stood together; “you
will soon be able to take care of yourself now; but just let me see you
back to the hive.”

So off they flew again, and lighted on the board in a very creditable
manner.

“Now,” said the bee, “I shall leave you; but before I go let me advise
you, as a friend, not to quit the garden to-day; there are plenty of
flowers, and plenty of opportunities for you to meet with ‘Experience,’
without flying over any of the four walls.”

“Who is Experience?” asked Buz and Hum together.

“Oh! somebody to whom you are going to be introduced, who will teach you
more in a day than you could learn from me in a week. Good-bye.”

So saying, she disappeared into the hive.

“Isn’t it too delightful?” exclaimed Buz to Hum. “Flying! why it’s even
more fun that I thought!”

“It is,” said Hum; “but I should like to get some honey at once.”

“Of course,” replied Buz, “only I should like to fly a long way to get
it.”

“I want to fill a cell quickly,” said Hum.

“Oh, yes, to be sure! What a delightful thing it will be to put one’s
proboscis down into every flower and see what’s there! Do you know,”
added Buz, putting out her proboscis, “I feel as if I could suck honey
tremendously; don’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Hum. “I long to be at it; let’s be off at once.”

So away they went and lit on a bed of flowers. Hum spent the day between
the hive and that bed, and was quite, quite happy; but Buz, though she,
too, liked collecting the honey, wanted to have more excitement in
getting it; and every now and then, as she passed to and from the hive, a
lovely field of clover, not far off, sent forth such a delicious smell,
as the breeze swept over it, that she was strongly tempted to disregard
the advice she had been given, and to hurry off to it.

At last she could stand it no longer; and, rising high into the air, she
sailed over the wall and went out into the world beyond.

And so she reached the field of clover, and, flying quite low over
the flowers, was astonished to see how many bees were busy among
them—bumble-bees without end, and plenty of honey-bees, too; in fact, the
air was filled with the pleasant murmur that they made.

“To be sure,” said Buz to herself, “this is the place for me! Poor, dear
old Hum! I hope she is enjoying herself as much as I am. I don’t mean to
be idle either, so here goes for some honey.”

Buz was very diligent, indeed, and soon collected as much honey as she
could carry. But by the time she had done this she found herself close
to the farther end of the clover field, and while resting for a moment,
before starting to carry her load to the hive, she noticed a little pond
in the corner. Feeling thirsty after her hard work, she flew off to
take a few sips; but just as she reached the pond and was in the act of
descending, a light gust of wind caught her and turned her half over, and
before she could recover herself she was plunged far out into the water!

Poor Buz! She was a brave little bee, but this was a terrible accident;
and after a few wild struggles she almost gave herself up. The water was
so cold, and she felt herself so helpless in it; and then the accident
had happened so suddenly, and taken her so utterly by surprise, that it
is no wonder she lost courage. Only for a moment though; just as she was
giving up in despair the hard and seemingly useless work of paddling and
struggling with all her poor little legs at once, she saw that a bit of
stick was floating near her, and with renewed energy she attempted to get
to it. Alas! It was all she could do to keep her head above water; as
for moving along through it, that seemed impossible, and she was tempted
to give up once more. It was very hard though; there was the stick, not
more than a foot away from her. If she could only reach it! At any rate,
she was determined it should not be her fault if she was unsuccessful;
so she battled away harder than ever, though her strength began to fail
and she was becoming numbed with the cold. Just as she made this last
effort another gust of wind swept over the pond, and Buz saw that the
stick began to move through the water, and to come nearer and nearer to
her. The fact was that a small twig sticking up from it acted as a sail,
though Buz did not know this. And now the stick was quite close, almost
within reach; in another moment she would be on it. Ah! but a moment
seems a long time when one is at the last gasp, as poor Buz was.

Would she be drowned after all? No! Just as she was sinking she touched
the stick with one little claw, and held on as only drowning people can;
and then she got another claw safely lodged, and was able to rest for a
moment. Oh! the relief of _that_, after such a long ceaseless struggle!

But even then it was very hard to get up on the stick, very hard indeed.
However, Buz managed it at last, and dragged herself quite out of the
cold water.

By this time the breeze was blowing steadily over the pond, and the stick
would soon reach the bank; but Buz felt very miserable and cold, and her
wings clung tightly to her, and she looked dreadfully forlorn.

The pond, too, was overshadowed by trees so there were no sunbeams to
warm her. “Ah,” thought she, “if I can manage to drag myself up into the
sunshine and rest and be well warmed, I shall soon be better.”

Well, the bank was safely reached at last! but Buz, all through her
life, never forgot what a business it was climbing up the side. The long
grasses yielded to her weight, and bent almost straight down, as if on
purpose to make it as up-hill work for her as possible. And even when she
reached the top it took her a weary while to get across the patch of dark
shadow and out into the glad sunlight beyond; but she managed to arrive
there at last, and crawling on the top of a stone which had been well
warmed by the sun’s rays, she rested for a long time.

At last she recovered sufficiently to make her way, by a succession of
short flights, back to the hive. After the first of these flights she
felt so dreadfully weak that she almost doubted being able to accomplish
the journey, and began to despond.

“If I ever do get home,” she said to herself, “I will tell Hum all about
it, and how right she was to take advice.”

Now, whether it was the exercise that did her good, or that the sun’s
rays became hotter that afternoon, cannot be known, but this is certain,
that Buz felt better after every flight. When she reached the end of
the clover field, she sipped a little honey, cleaned herself with her
feet, stretched her wings, and, with the sun glistening brightly on her,
looked quite fine again. Her last flight brought her to the top of the
kitchen-garden wall. After resting here, she opened her wings and flew
gaily to the hive, which she entered just as if nothing had happened.




THE STORY WITHOUT AN END

TRANSLATED BY SARAH AUSTIN FROM THE GERMAN OF A. CAROVE


IN THE GREEN MEADOW

There was once a child who lived in a little hut, and in the hut there
was nothing but a little bed, and a looking-glass which hung in a dark
corner. Now the child cared nothing at all about the looking-glass, but
as soon as the first sunbeam glided softly through the casement and
kissed his sweet eyelids, and the finch and the linnet waked him merrily
with their morning songs, he arose and went out into the green meadow.
And he begged flour of the primrose, and sugar of the violet, and butter
of the buttercup; he shook dew-drops from the cowslip into the cup of a
harebell; spread out a large lime-leaf, set his little breakfast upon
it, and feasted daintily. Sometimes he invited a humming bee, oftener a
gay butterfly, to partake of his feast; but his favourite guest was the
blue dragon-fly. The bee murmured a good deal, in a solemn tone, about
his riches; but the child thought that if _he_ were a bee, heaps of
treasure would not make him gay and happy; and that it must be much more
delightful and glorious to float about in the free and fresh breezes of
spring, and to hum joyously in the web of the sunbeams, than, with heavy
feet and heavy heart, to stow the silver wax and the golden honey into
cells.

To this the butterfly assented and he told how, once on a time, he too
had been greedy and sordid; how he had thought of nothing but eating, and
had never once turned his eyes upwards to the blue heavens. At length,
however, a complete change had come over him and instead of crawling
spiritless about the dirty earth, half dreaming, he all at once awaked as
out of a deep sleep. And now he could rise into the air and it was his
greatest joy sometimes to play with the light, and to reflect the heavens
in the bright eyes of his wings, sometimes to listen to the soft language
of the flowers, and catch their secrets. Such talk delighted the child,
and his breakfast was the sweeter to him and the sunshine on leaf and
flower seemed to him more bright and cheering.

But when the bee had flown off to beg from flower to flower, and the
butterfly had fluttered away to his playfellows, the dragon-fly still
remained poised on a blade of grass. Her slender and burnished body, more
brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue sky, glistened in the sunbeam
and her net-like wings laughed at the flowers because _they_ could not
fly, but must stand still and abide the wind and the rain. The dragon-fly
sipped a little of the child’s clear dew-drops and blue-violet honey, and
then whispered her winged words. And the child made an end of his repast,
closed his dark blue eyes, bent down his beautiful head, and listened to
the sweet prattle.

Then the dragon-fly told much of the merry life in the green wood,—how
sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows under the broad
leaves of the oak and the beech trees or hunt-the-hare along the surface
of the still waters or sometimes quietly watched the sunbeams, as they
flew busily from moss to flower and from flower to bush, and shed life
and warmth over all. But at night, she said, the moonbeams glided softly
around the wood, and dropped dew into the mouths of all the thirsty
plants; and when the dawn pelted the slumberers with the soft roses of
heaven, some of the half-drunken flowers looked up and smiled, but most
of them could not so much as raise their heads for a long, long time.

Such stories did the dragon-fly tell and as the child sat motionless,
with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little hand, she thought
he had fallen asleep, so poised her double wings and flew into the
rustling wood.


THE STORY OF A DROP OF WATER

But the child was only sunk into a dream of delight, and was wishing _he_
were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear more
and more, and forever. But at last, as all was still, he opened his eyes
and looked around for his dear guest, but she was flown far away; so he
could not bear to sit there any longer alone, and he rose and went to the
gurgling brook. It gushed and rolled so merrily, and tumbled so wildly
along as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels into the river, just
as if the great massy rock out of which it sprang were close behind it,
and could only be escaped by a break-neck leap.

Then the child began to talk to the little waves, and asked them whence
they came. They would not stay to give him an answer, but danced away,
one over another, till at last, that the sweet child might not be
grieved, a drop of water stopped behind a piece of rock. From her the
child heard strange histories; but he could not understand them all, for
she told him about her former life, about the depths of the mountain.

“A long while ago,” said the drop of water, “I lived with my countless
sisters in the great ocean, in peace and unity. We had all sorts of
pastimes; sometimes we mounted up high into the air, and peeped at
the stars; then we sank plump down deep below, and watched how the
coral-builders work till they are tired, that they may reach the light of
day at last. But I was conceited, and thought myself much better than my
sisters. And so one day, when the sun rose out of the sea, I clung fast
to one of his hot beams, and thought that now I should reach the stars,
and become one of them. But I had not ascended far, when the sunbeam
shook me off, and, in spite of all I could say or do, let me fall into a
dark cloud. And soon a flash of fire darted through the cloud, and now I
thought I must surely die; but the whole cloud laid itself down softly
upon the top of a mountain, and so I escaped. Now I thought I should
remain hidden, when all on a sudden, I slipped over a round pebble, fell
from one stone to another, down into the depths of the mountain, till at
last it was pitch dark, and I could neither see nor hear anything. Then
I found, indeed, that ‘pride goeth before a fall,’ resigned myself to
my fate, and, as I had already laid aside all my unhappy pride in the
cloud, my portion was now the salt of humility; and after undergoing many
purifications from the hidden virtues of metals and minerals, I was at
length permitted to come up once more into the free cheerful air and now
will I run back to my sisters, and there wait patiently till I am called
to something better.”

But hardly had she done when the root of a forget-me-not caught the
drop of water by her hair, and sucked her in, that she might become a
floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue star on the green firmament of
earth.




LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT


There was once a little plant that grew by a shady brook. It had many
companions even in this quiet spot. The great branches of the old tree
stretched over it, and the beautiful flowers were friendly; but it did
not seem happy. The flowers often thought they heard it sigh as its head
drooped almost to the ground.

“How I wish I might have flowers like the other plants,” it said to
itself, “blue ones, the colour of the beautiful sky. There is so much
blue, surely some could be spared for the earth. Then the children would
not always need to look up to see the sky.” But it kept its secret close
to its heart and only bent its head a little lower.

“What makes you droop so, little plant?” asked one of the flowers. “Your
leaves are quite down again. Surely the sun is not too warm here.”

“Tell us,” said the others, “perhaps we can be of some help to you. We
want to see you look up again at the sky as you used to do.”

“It would be of no use to tell you,” answered the little plant. “I have
often whispered my secret to the old tree as its branches swayed near me,
but it has all been of no use,” and its head bent lower and lower.

“Perhaps,” said the flowers to each other, “perhaps our Angel can be of
some help. Let us speak to her.”

And when evening came, and the Angel closed the flowers as she kissed
them good-night, she heard one whisper, “Something makes our little
friend very sad. She will not tell us. See if she will tell you her
secret.” They saw the Angel stoop down and whisper something to the
little plant and go away.

       *       *       *       *       *

“See how our little companion has raised its head this morning,” said the
grasses.

“An Angel visited her last night,” one answered.

By and by a day came when the little plant was covered with many tiny
blossoms. The other flowers rejoiced to see them. “We’ve guessed your
secret. What beautiful flower children—blue, like the sky. It makes the
sky seem very near.”

“That is my secret,” answered the little plant. “When I told it to the
Angel I said, ‘My flowers must be just the colour of the sky.’ And she
whispered, ‘Then always look up, for your flowers will be like that which
you love most.’ Then she went away.”

The Forget-me-not was happy. She never drooped her head again, and the
Angel always kissed her good-night as she passed by.




FOUR-LEAF CLOVER[13]

ELLA HIGGINSON


    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.
    I know a place where the sun is like gold,
      And the cherry blooms burst with snow.

    One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
      And one is for love, you know,
    And God put another one in for luck,
      If you search you will find where they grow.
    I know a place where the sun is like gold,
      And the cherry blooms burst with snow.

    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.
    I know a place where the sun is like gold,
      And the cherry blooms burst with snow.




JOLLY LITTLE TARS

AGNES MCCLELLAN DAULTON


“Tur-r-r-r-t, tre-t-t,” trilled a tree-toad who was perched one June day,
on a log at the water’s edge. “This is a perfect day for us Water-folk.
Surely there never was such blue in the sky, such green in the grass, nor
such dimpling cloud shadows skipping about everywhere. It is the very day
to sit down and dream.”

“We think it just the day for a race,” cried a whirligig beetle who was
whizzing past. “Come on, Whirligigs! let us see who will win this time.”
And away they went with a dash, flash, and spin, a long curve here, a
quick turn there, faster and faster.

“My, my!” said the tree-toad, half closing his eyes. “It seems to me
every day is the day for a race with those Whirligigs. I never saw one of
them meditating in my life. It makes me dizzy and gives me a headache to
watch them spinning. It is a wonder they don’t dash themselves to pieces.”

“Not they,” yawned a little snapping-turtle, who had been drowsing on a
stone near by. “If you look close at a Whirligig, you will see that he
is nearly as well protected as I am in my strong shell. How you exist
with that soft body of yours is more than I can understand. You are a
peaceable sort of fellow, but your best friend must admit that you are
very ugly.”

“No such thing,” sputtered the tree-toad, leaning far out to look at
his reflection in the water. “I’m nothing of the sort. My mother says
that I was the handsomest polliwog in the family. You are forced to wear
one dress always, and that a dull old shell, while I change the colour
of my clothes to suit the occasion, as all well-bred persons should.
This morning I am wearing a full suit of grey-brown; that is because it
matches so perfectly this lichen-covered log upon which I am seated. When
I go swimming, my bathing suit is ashen grey, with green trimmings.
If I were to visit the swamp maples I should don plain brown, and if I
should take a hop in the grass I should wear a beautiful dress suit of
green. I am Mr. Hyla Versicolour, I’d have you know. See how rough and
warty my back is; that is a sign of good family among toads. Watch me
puff out my throat like a great white bubble as I whistle my tur-r-r-r-t,
tre-t-t! Besides having a winning voice and power to change my colour I
can breathe through my skin. I have a remarkable foot, also. Look at this
delicate webbing, and these cunning little disks at the ends of my toes.
I can climb as well as swim, Mr. Snapper. See me dart out my tongue; it
is fastened in front and free at the back, so that I may catch a fly in a
flash.

“Ugly fellow, indeed!” Mr. Hyla puffed out his throat as far as he could.
“Fiddlesticks!” snapped the turtle, slipping into the pool with a splash.
“You are a worse boaster than a water-boatman. Talk to yourself, please,”
and away he swam.

“That Snapper always was a disagreeable fellow,” mused Hyla, with his
eyes half shut. “There come those Whirligigs back. I wonder which one
beat.”

“Pooh, how could a Whirligig beat?” scornfully asked a water-strider who
had overheard the tree-toad. “They swim in circles, the foolish things.”

“That’s all you know about Whirligig racing,” cried the largest
whirligig, who was swimming near. “We _all_ win every race. But of course
you can’t expect a common water-strider with only one pair of eyes to
understand that.”

“One pair of eyes!” exclaimed Hyla. “Why, have you more eyes than the
rest of us, Mr. Whirligig?”

“Certainly,” replied the beetle, proudly. “We are not given to boasting,
but, since you ask, I will say that we Whirligigs have many remarkable
traits. Our family name is Gyrinidæ.”

“Who cares for that?” shouted the angry water-strider, skating toward the
whirligig with all his might. “Get out of the road, you beetle, or I will
skate you down! Ugh, what a horrid perfume you use! How dare you, sir!”
gasped the strider, as the whirligig swam away, leaving the poor strider
gasping and sputtering on the other side of the pool.

“Keep your distance, then,” called the whirligig after him.

“He won’t bother me for a time,” laughed the beetle to the tree-toad.
“You see I have the power to give off a milky fluid from my joints, and
common water-folk object to the odour, but it is my only way to get on
with these skaters.”

“But do you really mean,” asked the Hyla, “that you have more eyes than
the rest of us?”

“I certainly do,” replied the beetle with dignity. “We Whirligigs have a
second pair of eyes under our chins, which enable us to see to the bottom
of the pool as we swim about, and most convenient we find them.”

“Wonderful! wonderful!” The Hyla could scarcely express his amazement.
“I suppose that is the reason you never hurt yourselves in such rapid
swimming?”

“Not at all,” said the whirligig. “Examine this handsome, glittering
blueblack uniform I wear. It is really a coat of mail to protect not only
our bodies but also our gauzy wings, for we fly as well as swim.”

“I shouldn’t think you could hop very well,” remarked the tree-toad;
“your legs look like oars.”

“Who wants to hop if he can swim and fly?” retorted the whirligig, with
scorn. “I am sure I don’t.”

“Come, come,” cried the other whirligigs, who were swimming by. “Don’t
spend the day talking when there is racing to be done.”

“Well, good-bye, Mr. Tree-toad. There comes that skater again so I will
be gone,” and off whisked the beetle.

“Now that was interesting,” said the Hyla to himself. “I really ought to
know something more of my neighbours. There comes a Water-Spider[14] for
a bubble. Now I must ask her what she does with it.

“Good-morning, Mistress Spider. What are you going to do with that silver
bubble, may I ask?”

“Good-morning,” replied Mrs. Spider, as she snatched a bubble of air
and held it with her hind legs. “I haven’t time to explain up here, Mr.
Tree-Toad, but if you will call at my home I will be glad to tell you.”

“I shall be most happy,” replied the Hyla, slipping into the water in a
jiffy, and in a second later he was resting on the bottom of the pool,
just under Mrs. Water Spider’s glittering balloon.

“That certainly is very beautiful, Mrs. Spider. Would you mind explaining
how it is done?” said he.

“Not at all,” said the spider, as she came and sat in the door of her
home. “My house, sir, is woven of silk, just as are those of other
spiders, but instead of a web I weave this egg-shaped nest with the door
at the bottom. Now, although I live under water, I breathe air, and it
is necessary for me to fill my house with it. So up to the top I go and
catch a bubble of air with the hairs of my abdomen and my two hinder
legs. I then bring it down here and hang it in my silken balloon until it
is, as you see, a glittering, transparent bell. In the top of my nest I
weave a little chamber in which to lay my eggs, and when my babies hatch
out they stay in this shining home until they are strong enough to build
a nest for themselves.”

“And how many eggs, Mrs. Spider,” asked Hyla, politely, “do you put in
the chamber?”

“A hundred is the usual number,” replied Mrs. Spider, “but now you really
must excuse me, as I am in need of more air.”

“Goodness gracious,” mused the tree-toad, looking after her as she darted
toward the top. “I should think she would feel something like that old
woman who lived in a shoe, who had so many children she didn’t know what
to do. But what have we here?” and Mr. Hyla leaned forward to watch a wee
log hut that was creeping in the queerest way on a water-weed.

“Ugh! What great goggle eyes you have!” piped a tiny voice from the door
of the hut. “I should like to know what you are staring at.”

“Well, this is surprising,” gasped the Hyla. “Now, who in the world are
you?”

“I am a caddis-worm out for an airing,” said the voice again, as the hut
reached the edge of the leaf. “I hope you have no objections.”

“Oh, no; of course not,” stammered the astonished Hyla. “Only I should
like to know if all caddis-worms carry their houses about with them?”

“This is my overcoat, I’d have you know,” said the caddis, thrusting out
his little black head. “My brother wears one of leaves, my sister wears a
sand jacket. But mine is the best fit.”

“May I ask who is your tailor?” asked the tree-toad. “It is certainly a
remarkable coat.”

“I am my own tailor,” replied the worm. “A caddis would scorn to have his
clothes made for him; but it is very hard work, I can assure you of that.”

“Would you mind telling me about it?” inquired the Hyla. “Your coat is a
perfect fit; there isn’t a wrinkle in it.”

“Thank you,” replied the gratified caddis-worm. “You see,” he went on to
explain, “we always make our coats out of the material at hand. Now,
when I found these stylish sticks I anchored myself to a stone by a bit
of silk which I spun from my mouth, for we caddis-worms furnish our own
thread. Then by the aid of the same silk I wove this handsome coat, bit
by bit, making one section at a time, and then slipping my head through
and wriggling it down into place. See, I can put out my head and my first
three pairs of feet, and so creep where I will.”

“Most remarkable, most remarkable,” drawled the toad, who didn’t believe
a word of it. “And did you say your sister wears a jacket of sand?”

“Oh, yes, that is common enough,” answered the caddis. “I have heard
that my grandfather, who wore an overcoat of shells, wove into it some
tiny ones, each of which was the home of a little living creature, and
the poor things had to pick up a living the best way they could. I have
also been told that in captivity some of my family have made remarkable
coats of gold dust and crushed glass. After a time I shall draw my head
back into my overcoat and weave a silk veil, and so shut myself in and
go to sleep. When I wake up I shall no longer be a worm, but a beautiful
four-winged fly; my gauzy wings will be delicately fringed and there will
be slender antennæ upon my head, and I shall float in the air. Is not
that a beautiful future? But here comes a pond-snail, a most interesting
fellow. Shall I introduce you?”

“Most happy. I hope you are well,” said Mr. Hyla.

But the snail said he wasn’t feeling very well, as he had eaten a
water-weed that didn’t agree with him; still, he was very pleasant and
answered all the tree-toad’s questions most kindly.

He said the first he could remember he was a little baby-snail not as big
as a pinhead, moving about with hundreds of his brothers in the sand. Yet
even then he carried a house on his back, a tiny, perfect shell, into
which he could creep when danger threatened.

“Some people say I am very slow,” said the snail, “but they forget I have
only one foot and carry my house on my back. Yet I am not complaining,
for I have a head in which are my eyes, mouth, feelers, and organs of
smell, while my relative, the oyster, having no head, has to wear his
eyes, ears, and feelers on his mantle and his mouth near his hinge, poor
fellow! Even my own cousin, the land-snail, has her eyes on long feelers,
and has to draw them in if danger is near. Then see what a handsome
cone-shaped shell I wear; inside there is a kind of spiral staircase, up
which I can creep, and I can close my door with a thin film. If I break
my shell I patch it with a sticky fluid that hardens and makes my home
as good as new. I am an air-breathing creature and go up to the top to
set free the bubble of impure air I have breathed and then bring down a
bubble of fresh, sweet air. I have a long, ribbon-like tongue covered
with teeth, with which I can chew the delicious water-weeds. Really, I
consider myself a very lucky creature.”

“It must be a trifle monotonous,” thought the Hyla, as he swam toward the
top. “I should want a more stirring life. I wonder what that is!”

What he saw was a small object floating on the top of the water like an
odd little boat, only it seemed made of tiny jars with their openings
toward the bottom, and out of these jars were darting wee brown wigglers.

“Hello, little chaps! who are you?” called the tree-toad.

“We don’t know, we just got out,” cried the wigglers, “but there is our
big brother; ask him.”

The brother was a curious fellow. His body was very slender and of a
mottled green colour, and he had large dark eyes. He also wore a huge
moustache, which he was always moving about in a curious way, for he used
it as a hand for feeding himself. On one side of his tail was a queer
little screw he used as a propeller and rudder. He was sailing about at a
furious rate, but almost always on his head, with his tail stuck out of
the water.

“Allow me to ask what you are doing in that strange position?” inquired
the Hyla in his mildest tones.

“Breathing, sir, as I should think you could see,” replied the larva,
crossly. “What other way should one breathe?”

“Oh, excuse me,” said the tree-toad, as he slipped up to his old seat on
the log. “I didn’t mean any offence.”

“The fact is,” said the larva more pleasantly, “I have to go into my pupa
case to-morrow and it makes me cross. It is no fun simply to float about
without eating. Still, I shall be able to move about, and that is more
than many an insect can do as a pupa, and after all it is only for a few
days, and then I shall hatch out into a beautiful mosquito.”

“Well, well,” said the tree-toad, “that will be pleasant. It seems to me
I have heard of the mosquito. He is a musician, like myself, is he not?”

“My mother was a fine singer,” replied the larva, proudly. “She had
beautiful wings, two plume-like antennæ, and six slender legs; and she
always carried about with her a case in which there were five lancets to
pierce the skin of men and cattle, and she had also a drop of poison to
inject into the wound. My father never did anything but fly about in the
sunshine and sip honey; my mother was the talented member of the family.
I think I will be going; there come the Giant Water-bugs.”

Mrs. Giant Water-bug was swimming quietly along by her husband, who
looked very sulky and cross, and did not even return the Hyla’s greeting.

“My, my,” sighed a water-boatman who was swimming about on his back, “how
I do pity Mr. Giant Water-bug! Do not take offence at his not speaking,
Hyla; he is simply crushed with his trouble. You see his wife forces
him to act as a sort of baby carriage. She fastens her eggs on his back
with waterproof glue, although he struggles and struggles to escape her,
and he has to carry them about with him everywhere, poor old fellow!
Sometimes he is so nearly heartbroken he just hangs to a water-weed and
won’t move, no matter who tries to get up a fight with him. It is hard on
him, for Giant Water-bugs have gay times. They fly away from the pond in
such numbers to dance about those great shining balls that hang over the
village that men have changed their names to ‘electric-light’ bugs. But
what a time I have been gossiping here! I think I shall go for a swim.”

The tree-toad sat sunning himself on the log, but ever on the outlook for
a new acquaintance.

“Faugh!” exclaimed the Hyla at last, “there is one of those horrid things
that used to frighten me most out of my wits when I was a timid little
polliwog wriggling through the water. She can’t hurt me now, so I will
speak to her. Good-morning, my friend! May I ask who you are, and where
you are going?”

“I am not quite sure either,” replied the queer-looking creature as it
dragged itself painfully up a water-weed. “I was once a larva much feared
in this pool. I fed upon the juiciest polliwogs and other delicacies. But
a strange change came over me. I couldn’t eat, and I fell half asleep,
and to-day I feel that I just _must_ climb out of the water; I cannot
tell why. I think another change is going to take place in me. So I can
only bid the world good-bye. Perhaps this is death.” And fixing herself
firmly to the weed by means of two little hooks on each of her six feet
she hung perfectly motionless.

“Bless me,” gasped the tree-toad, after he had watched the creature
patiently for a few minutes. “Her eyes are certainly growing brighter,
and what is the matter with her back? A crack, as I am a tree-toad!”

Slowly the queer thing drew herself out of her case. She had a soft body
now, and damp, closely-folded wings. But the kind sunshine and the gentle
breeze came to help, and, little by little, she began to unfurl her
wonderful wings,—great filmy wings that shimmered with blue and green,
brown and yellow, delicate pink and violet, and she had large eyes that
glittered with twenty thousand facets.

“Oh! oh!” cried the Hyla. “How beautiful you are, you great dragon fly!”

But away she flew without a word, zigzagging back and forth across the
pool; a living gem, emerald, sapphire, and topaz, knitting the flecked
sunshine with loops of light.

“Well, well,” said the tree-toad, “this is the most astonishing thing of
all, to think of that ugly larva changing to that beautiful rainbow fly!
But the day is going and I really ought to accomplish something before
sunset. So I think I shall take a little trip over to that elm and sing
for rain,” and off he hopped, leaving the pool sparkling in the sunshine,
dappled with cloud-shadows, cool, silent, and sweet with drifting lilies.




MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE

WARREN JUDSON BRIER


Once upon a time, many years ago, a little maple seed, with its two gauzy
wings, became lodged among the feathers of a wood pigeon, and was by
that swift flying bird carried far away into the pine forest. It fell to
the ground, and the rains soon beat it into the earth. It was not sorry
to get out of sight, for the Pine Family, into whose domain it had been
carried, seemed displeased to see it among them. Anyway, they all looked
black and threatening to the little seed.

Years afterward there stood upon the spot where the seed had fallen,
a hardy tree which we can make no mistake in calling Mr. Rock Maple.
In all that part of the forest Mr. Maple had no relatives. As he grew
stronger and stronger, the dislike of the Pines, particularly of the
Pine boys, grew likewise stronger. As he pushed his limbs farther in
every direction, the Pine boys seemed to look more darkly upon him.
They begrudged him the very ground he stood on. The younger Pine boys
spread out their arms to try to prevent Rock Maple from getting the light
and moisture which he so much needed in that sandy soil. At times they
showered great quantities of needles upon him, and at certain seasons
of the year they pelted him unmercifully with their cones, sharp rough
weapons that played havoc with Mr. Maple’s garments of green, yellow and
red.

Old Mr. Pine, who waved his green head in the air nearly a hundred and
fifty feet above the earth, did not seem to have very good control over
his boys, for though he himself did not often deign to pelt Mr. Maple
with the few cones he possessed, he never rebuked the boys for their
impoliteness.

One day the Pine boys were unusually rough, made so by the strong wind.
They knew Mr. Maple was not to blame, but there was no one else to lay
the blame on, so they pelted him with cones until he lost his temper.
He was just wondering what he would do to prevent the annoyance, when,
looking down, he saw that some little creatures had appeared upon the
scene, and were striking right and left at the Pines with a sharp tool,
against which needles and cones were of no use whatever.

“How good of those little things to take my part,” said Mr. Maple to
himself.

In a very short time hundreds of the Pines were lying prone upon the
earth. Some were formed into a house, while others were drawn away to
a small stream, rolled into its sluggish waters, and soon disappeared
forever from the gaze of Mr. Pine, who grieved for them, and of Mr.
Maple, who did not.

“Nobody here now of any consequence,” exclaimed Mr. Pine with a
contemptuous look at Mr. Maple. Mr. Maple paid no attention. “If you were
not such a dwarf, I’d talk to you sometimes, even if you _don’t_ amount
to much,” he finally said with an air of great condescension. “It makes
me hoarse to talk down so far.”

For a long time after that Mr. Maple kept silent, wondering why Mr. Pine
and himself had been spared.

But great surprises were in store for these two enemies. A family came to
live in the log house, and among them was the smallest human being that
the trees had ever seen,—a little girl named Camilla. She soon got into
the habit of coming out and playing under the two large trees.

One day her father brought home a small box, at sight of which she went
into a transport of joy, screaming, “My kit, my darling kit! I never
thought to see you again!” The box was soon opened, and she lifted a
queer-shaped little instrument from it; then, taking it by its long neck,
she drew a small wand across it, and it gave forth a sound that thrilled
every fibre of both Pine and Maple through and through.

It is too long a story to tell how both trees came to love Camilla very
dearly; how delighted Mr. Pine was when she took some resin which he held
out to her; how pleased Camilla looked, how white were her teeth, and how
she loved him for the gift; how Mr. Maple had his reward when the passing
frost touched him and gave him a beautiful garment, much to the delight
of Little Camilla, or how when the long winter was nearly done the little
violinist fairly hugged him for the sugar he had yielded her.

A fatal day came at last. Men appeared with sharp axes and heavy wagons
and attacked Mr. Maple. They had not cut into him very deeply before one
of them exclaimed to the others, “Curly Maple, as I live!”

Mr. Pine laughed, but before night he had met the same fate. The man who
felled him remarked to the others, “Well on to ten thousand feet in that
old fellow!”

Camilla looked on while the trees were loaded and drawn away, tears
filling her blue eyes. “Good-bye, old friends,” she exclaimed.

Away to a noisy place they went. Soon they were cut up into small
strips by a monster with very sharp teeth. These strips were carried in
different directions, some of the best pieces being loaded upon cars and
hurried away to a distant city. From this place they took a long journey
in the deep, dark hold of a great ship; again upon the cars, until at
last they rested in a dry house.

One day one of the Maple boards and one of the Pine boards were taken
out, carefully inspected and then made smooth and even on the outside.
Then a skilful workman cut them up into small pieces, and made them into
curious shapes. He took great pains not to leave the scratch of knife or
chisel upon any of the pieces. He finally glued them all together, and
behold, they were of the same shape as Camilla’s kit, but somewhat larger.

The workman explained to an observer, “I use pine for the front, or
sounding-board, as it is light and vibrant. The more porous it is the
better. Maple is the best wood I can get for the other parts, because it
is so dense, vibrates slowly, and holds the vibrations made by the pine
for a long time, thus prolonging the sound.”

After the slow process of finishing and varnishing was completed the
violin was placed in a dark box, and there it lay for a long time.

Pine and Maple said little to each other. They were not very comfortable
nor very happy. The strings that had been stretched over them were very
cruel and pressed upon the Pine, which pressed upon the soundpost, and
that pressed upon the Maple. Sometimes a string broke, and gave them
temporary relief, but soon some one would come and put on another.

After passing through two or three small stores the violin finally came
to rest in a large one, in a city distant from the one in which it had
been made, and all was quiet for a long time. Still Pine and Maple said
but little to each other. Shut up in their dark box they didn’t feel very
cheerful.

“A living death, this!” grumbled Pine.

“We must make the best of it,” replied Maple.

One evening a stranger came into the store and asked, “Have you a
first-class violin in stock?”

“Yes, just one. I got it several months ago by the merest chance. We
don’t keep such instruments usually,” said the dealer, taking out the
violin. “It is wonderful for an instrument not ten years old.”

“I want one for the evening, only,” said the stranger. “Madame Camilla is
here in the city, and to-night plays for the Orphans’ Home. One of her
violins is under treatment, and her Cremona has been broken.”

“Madame Camilla!” exclaimed Pine, with a quiver of delight.

“Can it be our little Camilla?” asked Maple in a trembling voice.

In a few minutes the violin was taken from its case by Camilla’s own
hand. She ran her fingers gently over the strings, looked at the varnish,
tightened the bow and rosined it carefully and finally placed the violin
against her shoulder, and drew the bow smoothly across the strings.

She played an air in which the coming of a storm was represented, and
Pine and Maple heard once more the sighing of the wind as it once had
swept through their branches.

“That’s the sound of the wind in the pine and maple that stood near my
log cabin home when I was a little girl,” said the musician to the people
standing near.

Then for the first time both Pine and Maple felt certain that this was
really their Camilla.

The curtain rose, the manager stepped to the front and in a few words
explained the accident, and stated that a new and untried violin must be
used.

“Let us lay aside all discord, and act in perfect harmony to-night,” said
the forgiving Maple.

“I’ll do it,” answered Pine, more cheerfully than he had ever spoken
before.

Pine and Maple beat and throbbed under the wonderful strokes and
long-drawn sweeps of the bow. When the piece was finished a storm of
applause burst upon them like a tempest. Again the curtain went up and
the violin found itself in the glare of the footlights once more. This
time the performer touched the strings gently, and played a tune that
many people who had come to the store had tried to play, the words to the
first line being, “Way down upon de Suwanee Ribber.”

When it was finished the people were silent, and tears glistened in many
eyes.

“Maple, forgive me,” said the now humble Pine. “I’ve learned a great
lesson, though a very simple one. The best results in life are
accomplished through harmony and not through discord.”

“We’ll live in harmony hereafter,” said Maple.

The great soul of the artist had breathed into the instrument and made it
glorious.




A GARDEN OF EASTER STORIES




    My garden is a lovesome thing.
      Rose plot,
      Fringed grot:
    The veriest school of Peace.
    And yet the fool contends
    That God is not in gardens.
    Not in gardens—when the eve is cool?
    Nay, but I have a sign:
    ’Tis very sure God walks in mine.

                  _Old English Verse._




THE EASTER RABBIT

GERMAN LEGEND


Shrill and sharp North Wind whistled through the forest where the trees
and flowers were patiently awaiting the arrival of My Lady Spring. Jack
Frost was delighted. Perched on the topmost branches of the great trees
he laughed gleefully. “Ha! ha! ha! surely Old Father Winter has forgotten
that April is almost here,” said he. “I shall not remind him, not I. They
say My Lady Spring who is waiting in Wild-Flower Hollow is growing most
impatient!”

“And so am I,” whispered Mother Maple to her neighbour Dame Oak. “I’ve
told my babies many pleasant stories about My Lady Spring and her
companion Merry Sunshine. I’m afraid I shall be unable to keep them in
their dark cradles much longer.”

“Oh! do hold them back a few days,” said Dame Oak. “You remember what
trouble that rude rollicking fellow Jack-Frost made last year. So long
as he is here he insists on playing with all the babies of the forest. I
do wish Lady Spring would come and tell him to be off.”

“He’ll never go so long as his bold brother North Wind remains,” sighed
Silver Beech.

“Never mind,” said Dame Oak. “I feel sure we shall not have to wait much
longer. Indeed I saw Merry Sunshine dancing near the edge of the forest
yesterday. I feel quite hopeful.”

“Oh, how happy I shall be to hear Thrush’s song again,” said Silver Beech.

“And the happy children’s voices! They haven’t been to the forest since
nutting season,” said Dame Oak. “I’m sure they are longing to come again.”

For some time Lady Spring had been waiting in Wild-Flower Hollow near the
edge of the forest. Only a few days ago the children had come there to
gather flowers.

“Not a bird or blossom anywhere. See how brown and bare that bank is!”
said one.

“And Easter is almost here. I wonder why Lady Spring is so late!” said
another.

“Maybe she has forgotten us,” said a tiny companion.

“I am very disappointed. Last year at this time that bank was blue with
violets. Come, let us go home!” And away ran the children.

“I shall wait no longer,” said Lady Spring. “Come, Merry Sunshine.”

Away danced Merry Sunshine and Lady Spring followed in trailing robes of
green and white.

Waving her silver wand over the bank of Wild-Flower Hollow she whispered,
“Ready, Violets; come, Starry Bluet; my sweet Anemone, you need wait no
longer. Ah, brave Arbutus, I see you were expecting me. Did you think I
was never coming, my dainty Spring Beauty?”

How graceful Lady Spring looked waving her magic wand here and there
through the forest. Wherever she stooped and touched the brown earth the
fresh grass leaped forth; when she tapped the great tree trunks the bare
branches above instantly veiled themselves in tender green. She waved at
the brooklet and away it ran over the moss and pebbles.

“Sing, Merry Sunshine, dance and sing!” Lady Spring called to her
companion.

Merry Sunshine trilled the gayest song. It rang sweetly through forest
and echoed far away over the hills to the South where the birds were
waiting patiently for the call. How gladly they came! Bluebird and
Bobolink, Cardinal and Chickadee, Blackbird and Thrush and Wren,—all the
forest warblers answered Merry Sunshine’s Song of Spring.

“At last my work is done!” said Lady Spring joyously.

“When are the children coming?” asked Dame Oak.

“Oh, to be sure! I must not forget to send them word that I am here.
Robin Redbreast, will you take a message of Spring to the children? I’m
sure they will want to see the lovely blossoms and hear the sweet birds’
songs.”

“Lady Spring,” said Robin, “I’m afraid I cannot go to-day. You see my
mate and I are building a soft warm nest in Oak-Tree. We are very late
this year.”

“To be sure, Robin. I wonder where I can find a messenger.”

“I think Red Fox would go for you,” answered Robin Redbreast. “See, here
he comes now.”

“Will you take word to the children that I have come, Reynard?” asked
Lady Spring.

“Oh, I should be glad to go, but the people might think I came to steal
their chickens. I believe Black Bear would be a better messenger than any
of us. I’ll run and ask him to go.”

But Reynard brought back the answer that Black Bear was afraid he would
frighten the children too much.

“What shall I do for a messenger,” sighed Lady Spring.

Robin cocked his head on one side and looked very thoughtful. Then he
said, “I have it, I believe Bunny Rabbit would go; I saw him hop past but
a moment ago. I’ll call him.”

At Robin’s whistle Bunny came leaping out of the bushes.

“Bunny Rabbit, I want you to take a message to the children in the city.
Please go and tell them Spring has come.”

“A message to the city, Lady Spring!” exclaimed Bunny, raising his ears
upright. “Please ask me to do anything but that! Dear me! The dogs
might catch me! They bark so fiercely! And naughty boys might chase me!
I’m sure I should never come back!” Bunny dropped his voice and looked
quickly about in all directions. Lady Spring was puzzled.

“Bunny,” said Robin, “couldn’t you go at night? You know the dogs and
boys go to sleep then and you can hop so softly that I’m sure they would
not hear you. Besides, your ears are very sharp.”

“Well, perhaps I could go at midnight,” said Bunny, thoughtfully. “But
how could I take a message to the children without wakening them?”

“Oh, I can manage that,” said Lady Spring. “Meet me in Wild-Flower Hollow
a little before twelve o’clock. Then you shall know all about my plan.”

“I will come,” said Bunny.

Lady Spring made a beautiful basket out of twigs and leaves and grasses.
She lined it with the softest moss. Around the top she placed a garland
of choicest wild flowers. And, when the birds knew that she was sending a
message to the children, each one wished to help her. So they sent lovely
little eggs of all colours—greenish blue, brown, white and spotted. How
beautiful they looked lying on the bed of moss wreathed with flowers.

A little before midnight Bunny came to Wild-Flower Hollow.

“I am ready,” said Lady Spring. “See, Bunny, here is plenty of moss. Do
be careful with these precious eggs. When you come to a house where a
little child lives take out a bit of moss and form it into a wee nest
like this,” said Lady Spring, weaving quickly a moss nest. “Then put into
each one a wild flower and an egg,—so. Leave an egg for each child in the
house.”

“Yes, yes, I understand, Lady Spring,” said Bunny. “How pretty the nest
is!”

Off he started as gaily as could be.

On Easter morning Merry Sunshine wakened the children early.

“See! see! I found this little moss nest on the door-step,” cried one
of them. “There is a wild-flower and three coloured eggs in it. How
beautiful!”

“An egg for each of us!” said another. “I wonder what it means.”

“I know, I know,” said little brother. “There are Bunny tracks on the
path. He must have brought the nest to us. Perhaps he came to tell us
Spring is here.”

“Of course he did!” cried the children, clapping their tiny hands in
glee. “Bunny was Spring’s messenger.”

Away to the woods ran the children, crying out, “Spring is here, Spring
is here. Bunny Rabbit brought us the message.”




THE BOY WHO DISCOVERED THE SPRING[15]

RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN


There came once a little Elf Boy to live on this earth, and he was so
much pleased with it that he stayed, never caring to go back to his
own world. I do not know where his own world was, or just how he came
to leave it. Some thought that he was dropped by accident from some
falling star, and some that he had flown away, thinking that he could
fly back again whenever he chose, because he did not know that children
always lose their wings when they come into this world. But no one knew
certainly, as he never told any one; and, after all, it did not matter,
since, as I have already said, he liked the earth so much that he did not
care to leave it.

There was a Hermit who lived in the valley where the little Boy had
first come, and, as he had a room in his house for a visitor, he took him
in, and they grew to like each other so well that again the little Boy
did not care to go away, nor did the Hermit care to have him. The Hermit
had not always been a Hermit, but he had become a sorrowful man, and
did not care to live where other people lived, or to share any of their
pleasures. The reason he had become a sorrowful man was that his only
child had died, and it seemed to him that there was nothing worth living
for after that. So he moved to the lonely valley, and I suppose would
have spent the rest of his life by himself, if it had not been for the
little Elf Boy.

It was a very lovely valley, with great, green meadows that sloped down
to a rippling brook, and in summer-time were full of red and white and
yellow blossoms. Over the brook there hung green trees, whose roots made
pleasant places to rest when one was tired; and along the water’s edge
there grew blue flowers, while many little frogs and other live creatures
played there. It was summer-time when the little Elf Boy came, and the
flowers and the trees and the brook and the frogs made him very happy. I
think that in the world from which he came they did not have such things:
it was made chiefly of gold and silver and precious stones, instead of
things that grow and blossom and keep one company. So the Elf Boy was
very happy. He did not ask to go to play in the village over the hill,
but was quite content with the meadows and the brook-side. The only thing
that did not please him was that the old Hermit still remained sorrowful,
thinking always of his child who had died and this the Elf Boy did not
understand, for in the world from which he came nothing ever died, and
he thought it strange that if the Hermit’s child had died he did not
patiently wait for him to come back again.

So the summer went merrily on, and the Elf Boy learned to know the names
of all the flowers in the meadow, and to love them dearly. He also became
so well acquainted with the birds that they would come to him for crumbs,
and sit on the branches close by to sing to him; the frogs would do the
same thing, and although the Elf Boy did not think their voices as sweet
as those of the birds, he was too polite to let them know it.

But when September came, there began to be a sad change. The first thing
the Elf Boy noticed was that the birds began to disappear from the
meadows. When he complained of this, the Hermit told him they had gone to
make their visit to the Southland, and would come back again; and this he
easily believed. But as time went on, and the air became more and more
still as the last of them took their flight, he began to lose heart.

What was worse, at the same time the flowers began to disappear from the
meadows. They were dead, the Hermit said, and in this way the Elf Boy
learned what that meant. At first others came to take their places, and
he tried to learn to like the flowers of autumn as well as those which
he had known first. But as these faded and dropped off, none came after
them. The mornings grew colder, and the leaves on the trees were changing
in a strange way. When they grew red and yellow, instead of green, the
Elf Boy thought it was a queer thing for them to put on different
colours, and wondered how long it would last. But when they began to
fall, he was very sad indeed. At last there came a day when every limb
was bare, except for a few dried leaves at the top of one of the tallest
trees. The Elf Boy was almost broken-hearted.

One morning he went out early to see what new and dreadful thing had
happened in the night, for it seemed now that every night took something
beautiful out of the world. He made his way toward the brook, but when
he reached the place where he usually heard it calling to him as it
ran merrily over the stones, he could not hear a sound. He stopped and
listened, but everything was wonderfully still. Then he ran as fast as
his feet would carry him to the border of the brook. Sure enough, it had
stopped running. It was covered with a hard sheet of ice.

The Elf Boy turned and went to the Hermit’s house. By the time he had
reached it, the tears were running down his cheeks.

“Why, what is the matter?” asked the Hermit.

“The brook is dead,” said the Elf Boy.

“I think not,” said the Hermit. “It is frozen over, but that will not
hurt it. Be patient, and it will sing to you again.”

“No,” said the Elf Boy. “You told me that the birds would come back, and
they have not come. You told me that the trees were not dead, but their
leaves have every one gone, and I am sure they are. You told me that the
flowers had seeds that did not die, but would make other flowers but I
can not find them, and the meadow is bare and dark. Even the grass is not
green any more. It is a dead world. In the summer-time I did not see how
you could be sorrowful; but now I do not see how any one can be happy.”

The Hermit thought it would be of no use to try to explain anything more
to the Elf Boy, so he said again, “Be patient,” and tried to find some
books in which he could teach the Boy to read, and make him forget the
outside world.

The next time they went for a walk to the village over the hill, the Elf
Boy was very curious to see whether the same thing had happened there
that had happened in their valley. Of course it had: the trees there
seemed dead, too, and the flowers were all gone from the door-yards. The
Boy expected that every one in the village would now be as sorrowful as
the Hermit, and he was very much surprised when he saw them looking as
cheerful as ever. There were some boys playing on the street-corner, who
seemed to be as happy as boys could be. One of them spoke to the Elf Boy,
and he answered:

“How can you play so happily, when such a dreadful thing has happened to
the world?”

“Why, what has happened?”

“The flowers and trees are dead,” said the Elf Boy, “the birds are gone,
and the brook is frozen, and the meadow is bare and grey. And it is so on
this side of the hill also.”

Then the boys in the street laughed merrily, and did not answer the
Elf Boy, for they remembered that he was a stranger in the world, and
supposed he would not understand if they should try to talk to him. And
he went on through the village, not daring to speak to any others, but
all the time wondering that the people could still be so happy.

As the winter came on, the Hermit taught him many things from the books
in his house, and the Elf Boy grew interested in them and was not always
sad. When the snow came he found ways to play in it, and even saw that
the meadow was beautiful again, though in a different way from what it
had been in summer. Yet still he could not think the world by any means
so pleasant a place as it had been in the time of flowers and birds; and
if it were not that he had become very fond of the Hermit, who was now
the only friend he could remember, he would have wished to go back to the
world from which he had come. It seemed to him now that the Hermit must
miss him very much if he should go away, since they two were the only
people who seemed really to understand how sorrowful a place the earth is.

So the weeks went by. One day in March, as he and the Hermit sat at their
books, drops of water began to fall from the eaves of the roof, and they
saw that the snow was melting in the sunshine.

“Do you want to take a little walk down toward the brook?” asked the
Hermit. “I should not wonder if I could prove to you to-day that it has
not forgotten how to talk to you.”

“Yes,” said the Elf Boy, though he did not think the Hermit could be
right. It was months since he had cared to visit the brook, it made him
so sad to find it still and cold.

When they reached the foot of the hillside the sheet of ice was still
there, as he had expected.

“Never mind,” said the Hermit. “Come out on the ice with me, and put down
your ear and listen.”

So the Elf Boy put down his ear and listened; and he heard, as plainly as
though there were no ice between, the voice of the brook gurgling in the
bottom of its bed. He clapped his hands for joy.

“It is waking up, you see,” said the Hermit. “Other things will waken
too, if you will be patient.”

The Elf Boy did not know quite what to think, but he waited day after day
with his eyes and ears wide open to see if anything else might happen;
and wonderful things did happen all the time. The brook sang more and
more distinctly, and at last broke through its cold coverlet and went
dancing along in full sight. One morning, while the snow was still around
the house, the Elf Boy heard a chirping sound, and looking from his
window, saw a red robin outside asking for his breakfast.

“Why,” cried the Boy, “have you really come back agin?”

“Certainly,” said the robin, “don’t you know it is almost spring?”

But the Elf Boy did not understand what he said.

There was a pussy-willow growing by the brook, and the Boy’s next
discovery was that hundreds of little grey buds were coming out. He
watched them grow bigger from day to day, and while he was doing this the
snow was melting away in great patches where the sun shone warmest on
the meadow, and the blades of grass that came up into the daylight were
greener than anything the Elf Boy had ever seen.

Then the pink buds came on the maple trees, and unfolded day by day. And
the fruit trees in the Hermit’s orchard were as white with blossoms as
they had lately been with snow.

“Not a single tree is dead,” said the Elf Boy.

Last of all came the wild flowers—blue and white violets near the brook,
dandelions around the house, and a little later, yellow buttercups all
over the meadow. Slowly but steadily the world was made over, until it
glowed with white and green and gold.

The Elf Boy was wild with joy. One by one his old friends came back, and
he could not bear to stay in the house for many minutes from morning
to night. Now he knew what the wise Hermit had meant by saying, “Be
patient,” and he began to wonder again that the Hermit could be sorrowful
in so beautiful a world.

One morning the church bells in the village—whose ringing was the only
sound that ever came from the village over the hill—rang so much longer
and more joyfully than usual, that the Elf Boy asked the Hermit why they
did so. The Hermit looked in one of his books, and answered:

“It is Easter Day. The village people celebrate it on one Sunday every
spring.”

“May we not go also?” asked the Elf Boy, and as it was the first time he
had ever asked to go to the village, the Hermit could not refuse to take
him.

The village was glowing with flowers. There were many fruit trees, and
they, too, were in bloom. Every one who passed along the street seemed
either to wear flowers or to carry them in his hand. The people were all
entering the churchyard; and here the graves, which had looked so grey
and cold when the Hermit and the Boy had last seen them, were beautiful
with flowers that the village people had planted or had strewn over them
for Easter.

The people all passed into the church. But the Hermit and the Elf
Boy, who never went where there was a crowd, stayed outside where the
humming-birds and bees were flying happily among the flowers. Suddenly
there came from the church a burst of music. To the Elf Boy it seemed
the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He put his finger on his lip
to show the Hermit that he wanted to listen. These were the words they
sang:

“_I am He that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for
evermore!_”

The Boy took hold of the Hermit’s hand and led him to the church door,
that they might hear still better. He was very happy.

“Oh,” he cried, “I do not believe that anything ever really dies.”

The Hermit looked down at him and smiled.

“Perhaps not,” he said.

When the music began again, a strange thing happened. The Hermit sang the
Easter song with the others. It was the first time he had sung for many
years.

    All silently, and soft as sleep,
    The snow fell, flake on flake.
    Slumber, spent Earth, and dream of flowers,
    Till springtime bids you wake.
    Again the deadened bough shall bend
    With blooms of sweetest breath.
    Oh, miracle of miracles,
    This life that follows death!




SHEEP AND LAMBS

KATHARINE TYNAN


    All in the April morning
        April airs were abroad,
    The sheep with their little lambs,
        Passed me by on the road.

    The sheep with their little lambs
        Passed me by on the road;
    All in an April evening
        I thought on the Lamb of God.

    The lambs were weary, and crying
        With a weak human cry,
    I thought on the Lamb of God
        Going meekly to die.

    Up in the blue, blue mountains
        Dewy pastures are sweet;
    Rest for the little bodies,
        Rest for the little feet.

    All in the April evening
        April airs were abroad;
    I saw the sheep with their lambs,
        And thought on the Lamb of God.




ROBIN REDBREAST—A CHRIST LEGEND[16]

SELMA LAGERLÖF


It happened one day when our Lord sat in His Paradise creating and
painting little birds that He conceived the idea of making a little grey
bird.

“Remember your name is Robin Redbreast,” said our Lord to the bird, as
soon as it was finished. Then He held it in the palm of His open hand and
let it fly.

After the bird had been testing his wings a while, and had seen something
of the beautiful world in which he was destined to live, he became
curious to see what he himself was like. He noticed that he was entirely
grey, and that his breast was just as grey as all the rest of him. Robin
Redbreast twisted and turned in all directions as he viewed himself in
the mirror of a clear lake, but he couldn’t find a single red feather.
Then he flew back to our Lord.

Our Lord sat there on His throne, big and gentle. Out of His hands came
butterflies that fluttered about His head; doves cooed on His shoulders;
and out of the earth beneath Him grew the rose, the lily, and the daisy.

The little bird’s heart beat heavily with fright, but with easy curves
he flew nearer and nearer our Lord, till at last he rested on our Lord’s
hand. Then our Lord asked what the little bird wanted. “I only wish to
ask you about one thing,” said the little bird. “What is it you wish
to know?” said our Lord. “Why should I be called Redbreast, when I am
all grey from the bill to the very end of my tail? Why am I called
Redbreast when I do not possess one single red feather?” The bird looked
beseechingly on our Lord with his tiny black eyes—then turned his head.
About him he saw pheasants all red under a sprinkle of gold dust, parrots
with marvellous red neckbands, cocks with red combs, to say nothing about
the butterflies, the goldfinches, and the roses! And naturally he thought
how little he needed—just one tiny drop of colour on his breast and he,
too, would be a beautiful bird, and his name would fit him. “Why should
I be called Redbreast when I am so entirely grey?” asked the bird once
again, and waited for our Lord to say: “Ah, my friend, I see that I have
forgotten to paint your breast feathers red, but wait a moment and it
shall be done.”

But our Lord only smiled a little and said: “I have called you Robin
Redbreast, and Robin Redbreast shall your name be, but you must look to
it that you yourself earn your red breast feathers.” Then our Lord lifted
His hand and let the bird fly once more—out into the world.

The bird flew down into Paradise, meditating deeply.

What could a little bird like him do to earn for himself red feathers?
The only thing he could think of was to make his nest in a brier bush.
He built it in among the thorns in the close thicket. It looked as if he
waited for a rose leaf to cling to his throat and give him colour.

After many years there dawned a new day, one that will long be remembered
in the world’s history. On the morning of this day Robin Redbreast sat
upon a little naked hillock outside of Jerusalem’s walls, and sang to his
young ones, who rested in a tiny nest in a brier bush.

Robin Redbreast told the little ones all about that wonderful day of
creation, and how the Lord had given names to everything, just as each
Redbreast had told it ever since the first Redbreast had heard God’s
word, and gone out of God’s hand. “And mark you,” he ended sorrowfully,
“so many years have gone, so many roses have bloomed, so many little
birds have come out of their eggs since Creation Day, but Robin Redbreast
is still a little grey bird. He has not yet succeeded in gaining his red
feathers.”

The little young ones opened wide their tiny bills, and asked if their
forebears had never tried to do any great thing to earn the priceless red
colour.

“We have all done what we could,” said the little bird, “but we have
all gone amiss. Even the first Robin Redbreast met one day another bird
exactly like himself, and he began immediately to love it with such a
mighty love that he could feel his breast turn. ‘Ah!’ he thought then,
‘now I understand! It was our Lord’s meaning that I should love with so
much ardour that my breast should grow red in colour from the very warmth
of the love that lives in my heart.’ But he missed it, as all those who
came after him have missed it, and as even you shall miss it.”

The little young ones twittered, utterly bewildered, and already began
to mourn because the red colour would not come to beautify their little,
downy grey breasts.

“We had also hoped that song would help us,” said the grown-up bird,
speaking in long-drawn-out tones—“the first Robin Redbreast sang until
his heart swelled within him, he was so carried away, and he dared to
hope anew. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘it is the glow of the song which lives in
my soul that will colour my breast feathers red.’ But he missed it, as
all the others have missed it and as even you shall miss it.” Again was
heard a sad “peep” from the young ones’ half-naked throats.

“We had also counted on our courage and our valour,” said the bird. “The
first Robin Redbreast fought bravely with other birds, until his breast
flamed with the pride of conquest. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘my breast feathers
shall become red from the love of battle which burns in my heart.’ He,
too, missed it, as all those who came after him have missed it, and as
even you shall miss it.” The little young ones peeped courageously that
they still wished to try and win the much-sought-for prize, but the bird
answered them sorrowfully that it would be impossible. What could they
do when all other robins had missed the mark? What could they do more
than love, sing, and fight? What could—the little bird stopped short, for
out of one of the gates of Jerusalem came a crowd of people marching,
and the whole procession rushed toward the hillock, where the bird had
its nest. There were riders on proud horses, soldiers with long spears,
executioners with nails and hammers. There were judges and priests in
the procession, weeping women, and above all a mob of mad, loose people
running about—a filthy, howling mob of loiterers.

The little grey bird sat trembling on the edge of his nest. He feared
each instant that the little brier bush would be trampled down and his
young ones killed!

“Be careful!” he cried to the little defenceless young ones. “Creep
together and remain quiet. Here comes a horse that will ride right over
us! Here comes a warrior with iron-shod sandals! Here comes the whole
wild, storming mob!” Immediately the bird ceased his cry of warning and
grew calm and quiet. He almost forgot the danger hovering over him.
Finally he hopped down into the nest and spread his wings over the young
ones.

“Oh! this is too terrible,” said he. “I don’t wish you to witness this
awful sight! There are three miscreants who are going to be crucified!”
And he spread his wings so that the little ones could see nothing.

Robin Redbreast followed the whole spectacle with his eyes, which
grew big with terror. He could not take his glance from the three
unfortunates.

“How terrible!” said the bird after a little while. “They have placed a
crown of piercing thorns upon the head of one of them. I see that the
thorns have wounded his brow so that the blood flows,” he continued. “And
this man is so beautiful, and looks about him with such mild glances that
every one ought to love him. I feel as if an arrow were shooting through
my heart, when I see him suffer!”

The little bird began to feel a stronger and stronger pity for the
thorn-crowned sufferer. “Oh! if I were only my brother the eagle,”
thought he, “I would draw the nails from his hands, and with my strong
claws I would drive away all those who harm him!” He saw how the blood
trickled down from the brow of the Crucified One, and he could no longer
remain quiet in his nest. “Even if I am little and weak, I can still
do something for this poor suffering one,” thought the bird. Then he
left his nest and flew out into the air, striking wide circles around
the Crucified One. He flew around him several times without daring to
approach, for he was a shy little bird, who had never dared to go near a
human being. But little by little he gained courage, flew close to him,
and drew with his little bill a thorn that had become imbedded in the
brow of the Crucified One. And as he did this there fell on his breast a
drop of blood from the face of the Crucified One;—it spread quickly and
floated out and coloured all the little fine breast feathers.

Then the Crucified One opened his lips and whispered to the bird:
“Because of thy compassion, thou hast won all that thy kind have been
striving after, ever since the world was created.”

As soon as the bird had returned to his nest his young ones cried to him:
“Thy breast is red! Thy breast feathers are redder than the roses!”

And even unto this day the blood-red colour shines on every Robin
Redbreast’s throat and breast.




THE MAPLE SEED


On the topmost twig of a maple tree there grew a seed. In the springtime
the gentle movement of the sap and the soft rustle of the leaves
whispering among themselves had awakened him; then, day by day, half
sleeping and half conscious, he had fed upon what the roots provided,
stretching himself lazily in the sunshine. Presently his wing began to
unfold.

“That is very curious,” said he, stirring a little. “It must be a
mistake. I don’t flutter about like the bees.” That bit of wing, which
seemed his and not his, puzzled him. “It must belong to something else,”
he thought. And afterward he was always on the lookout for a bee or a
dragon fly with only one wing. But none came.

The hot summer noons and the long moonlit nights became sultrier and the
leaves dropped. “How withered I am!” said the seed to his most intimate
friend, a leaf that hung from a near bough. “It makes me feel quite
brittle.” But the leaf did not answer, for just then it fell from the
twig with a queer, reluctant shiver to the ground.

“Ah!” murmured the maple seed, “I understand.” So he was not surprised
when a rude breeze twisted him off one day, and sent him spinning into
space.

“Here I go,” thought he, “and this is the end of it.”

“Puff!” said the breeze, who had seen much of the world, and looked with
contempt upon the untravelled. “Puff! how ignorant!” and he blew the seed
right into a crack in the earth.

“It must be the end, for all that,” insisted the seed. No wonder he
thought so, for it was cold and dark where he lay. A troubled cloud
leaned down and wept over him. Then he began to grow amazingly in the
warmth and moisture.

“If this goes on,” he thought, “I shall certainly burst, and then I must
die. How is one to live, with a crack in his sides?”

But the maple seed was wrong. He did not die. An unsuspected, mysterious
strength sustained him. His roots found food in the brown earth, and he
lifted up a slender stem into the pure sunlight and warm air. Through
spring, summer, autumn and winter, year after year, this lived and grew,
until the tiny sapling had become a beautiful tree, with spreading
branches.

“Ah!” said the tree, “how stupid I was.”

It was very pleasant on the lawn. An old couple from the house near by
came out in good weather to sit under the tree. They reminded him of some
fragile leaves he had seen fluttering somewhere in the past. He was glad
to have them come, and he kept his coolest shade for them. Partly for
their sakes, he liked to have the robins sing in his branches.

The years went by. The old man tottered out alone to sit in the cool
shadow. He was bent and sorrowful.

“Ah!” sighed the tree, “I know! I know! He has lost his leaf, and feels
brittle. If I could only tell him this is not the end!”

After this, many sunny days came, but not the old man, and the tree
concluded that he had been blown away. “If he only knew that he would
grow again!” he said to himself. “Unless one knows that, it is so
uncomfortable to lie in the dark.”

A great storm came. The sky blackened, the winds blew with might, and the
heavy rain fell. The maple was uprooted and broken. The next day there
came men with axes who cut the tree in pieces, and drew it to the house.

“Is this the end?” he questioned. But no,—the logs were piled one day in
the fireplace in a large, sunny room. The old man leaned from his chair
to warm his hands by the cheerful heat the crimson flame gave out. “Is it
the maple?” he said. “Ah! this goes with the rest.”

The fire grew brighter, burned duller, turned to embers, smouldered to
ashes. The hearth was cold. The figure was sitting still in the armchair,
but the old man himself had gone away.

The spirit of the maple whispered, “Does he know? There is _no_ end.”




WHY THE IVY IS ALWAYS GREEN[17]

MADGE BINGHAM


There were once two small plants that grew on the edge of a rough, red
ditch. One of them was an ivy plant and the other a tiny fig tree.

It was early in the morning when they first awoke and looked around to
see how they liked the world.

“I think it is an ugly old world,” said the young fig tree. “I see only a
rough, red ditch with dirty water flowing below.”

“Oh, it is a beautiful world,” replied the ivy vine. “I see clouds
floating on high, and sunshine, and such lovely trees and flowers growing
over on the other side of the ditch! Let us try to make this side
beautiful, too.

“I will cover the rough, red places with pretty, green leaves, and you
can decorate with your wonderful pink blossoms. Come, let us try.”

“No,” said the small fig tree, “I would not waste my time trying to make
this ugly old place beautiful.

“Now if, like my mother, I could have grown in the soft, rich earth of
the garden, I would have tried to do something, but here there is no use.”

So, from day to day, the little fig tree grumbled. Nothing pleased her.
If the sun shone she said it was too hot; if the rain fell she said it
was too wet; and if the wind blew she said it was too cold.

But with the little ivy vine it was very different, and she was as happy
as a lark from early morning until night.

“Whether the sun shines or whether the rains fall, it is God’s will,”
said the little vine, “and I am well pleased. I shall do all I can to
make my side of this ditch beautiful, and I shall begin to-day.”

And so she did. Though she lived only on the edge of the red ditch, she
spread out her leaves day by day, running here and there and yonder,
hiding this red spot and that red spot, until by and by nothing could
be seen but the beautiful green leaves of the ivy, and she did not stop
until every ugly spot was hidden by her graceful garlands.

“Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful, now,” cried the ivy; “only look!”

“Yes,” said the fig tree, crossly, “but no one sees it. What are you
going to do now? Dry up, I suppose, since you can never cross the ditch.”

“Oh, but I shall cross the ditch,” said the ivy vine. “I shall keep on
trying until I do. There is so much on the other side I can do to help
make the earth-world beautiful. Surely there is a way to cross.”

So she ran out little tendrils, reaching here and there, searching
everywhere for a way to cross the ditch. And at last, by climbing down to
the edge of the muddy water, she reached a rock half way across, where
she stopped for a moment to rest and wonder what next to do.

“You’ll never get across,” laughed the fig tree. “I told you so! You
might as well make up your mind to dry up and stop trying.”

“I shall never stop trying,” called back the ivy vine. “There is a way to
cross all ditches, and I shall cross this one. Wait and see.”

“Bravo, my pretty one!” said the voice of the old oak tree close by.
“Cling to my roots there. I am old and worn, but it is a joy to help one
like you; reach out and I will pull you up.”

So with one huge stretch the ivy vine clung tightly to the twisted roots
of the old oak, and was soon laughing merrily on the other side.

“Dear me, but you are a brave little vine,” said the old oak. “I have
been watching you across the ditch all these months, and you have changed
its ugly, red banks into a real thing of beauty.

“Now there was a time, once, when flowers and grasses grew there, and
ferns fringed the edge of the brook, and it was beautiful, indeed. Every
fall I shook armfuls of crimson and yellow leaves upon the bank, but that
was long ago, before the great forest fire which robbed me of my limbs
and leaves and left me old and worn.

“What a joy it would be to me if only I might have my branches decked
in leaves one more time,—especially do I long for this in the glad
springtime, when trees and flowers are robing themselves for the joyous
Easter Day.

“Sad, indeed, it is to me, to know that I shall be clothed no more in a
fresh dress of delicate green, like your own pretty leaves, dear Ivy.”

“But you shall,” said the ivy vine, clapping her hands; “you have helped
me cross the ditch to-day, and I mean to give you an Easter dress. Watch
me.”

Now vines had never climbed high before this. They had only run along
the ground and down the hill, and over walls, but this little ivy vine
wrapped her delicate arms around the rough bark of the old oak, and began
to climb her first tree.

She pulled and stretched, and stretched and pulled, until little by
little, up, up, higher and higher she went, leaving a trail of rich,
green leaves behind her. It was a lovely sight.

“See!” she called to the old oak; “I am bringing you a most beautiful
Easter dress,—how do you like it?”

“Beautiful, beautiful!” laughed the old oak. “You make me feel young
again. But what will you do when you reach my branches?”

“Why, I shall keep on climbing,” replied the ivy vine. “When I give a
dress at all, it must be a whole dress, don’t you know? I shall not stop
until I have covered every branch, as I did the bare spots on the ditch.”

And so she did. Every day she climbed a little higher, until by and by
every limb on the great, old oak was completely hidden by the beautiful
leaves of the ivy. The old oak laughed in delight, as she looked on her
beautiful Easter dress of fresh, rich green.

Now the queen of the fairies who, I told you, was always on the watch for
beautiful deeds, stood under the old oak on Easter Day and wondered at
the beautiful sight. It made her glad to see the joy of the old oak in
her new dress, and of course she knew who had given it.

So, turning with a smile to the ivy vine, she said, “Because you have
tried to make others happy and to make the earth beautiful your leaves
shall never fade. Forever and forever they shall stay beautiful and
green. Cold shall not hurt them nor summer’s heat destroy them, and
wherever you go you shall gladden the hearts of men with your freshness
and beauty.”

Very happy, indeed, did these words make the pretty ivy vine, and ever
since she has been climbing over the earth-world, hunting bare places to
make more beautiful.

Stone walls and churches and houses,—no place seems too high for her to
climb, and never does she weary in making fresh Easter dresses for the
trees that are old and worn and cannot make them for themselves.




JONQUILS

MARGARET DELAND


    Blow golden trumpets, sweet and clear,
      Blow soft upon the perfumed air:
    Bid the sad earth to join your song,
      “To Christ does victory belong!”

    Oh, let the winds your message bear
      To every heart of grief and care:
    Sound through the world the joyful lay,
      “Our Christ has conquered Death to-day.”

    On cloudy wings let glad words fly
      Through the soft blue of echoing sky:
    Ring out,—O trumpets, sweet and clear,
      “Through Death, immortal Life is here!”




WHEN THOU COMEST INTO THY KINGDOM

MARY STEWART


Many years ago, in a rocky cave half way up a steep mountain, there
lived a band of robbers. From the mouth of their cave they could look
far out over the villages of white houses which dotted the green valley
below to the blue waters of the sea beyond, and between the villages and
the sea there ran a straight white road. It was there that the robbers
waylaid travellers, robbing them of money, bales of rich stuff or jewels,
until the band became a terror to the neighbourhood and the very name of
Tibeous, their leader, was whispered fearfully among travellers.

One clear bright morning Tibeous climbed down the mountain path alone and
mingled, unrecognised, among the villagers. He was young and strong and
did not look very differently from the fishermen who, returning from a
night’s work, were carrying their nets of shining fish across the beach
and through the narrow streets. Only the eyes of Tibeous were as keen and
suspicious as those of a wild animal, and often his hand went to his belt
where beneath his cloak of skins he carried, for protection this time, a
sharp dagger.

Through the streets he walked down to the seashore. There had been heavy
rains during the night, and in the morning sunshine the tall beach grass
sparkled as if hung with diamonds, the sky was blue and cloudless, and
the dancing waves broke merrily upon the glittering beach. Watching the
peaceful scene Tibeous forgot for a moment the errand which had drawn
him from his safe retreat. By listening, unnoticed, to the talk of the
village, he had hoped to learn whether any rich merchants were expected,
so that he and his men could be ready to waylay them upon the road.
But as he stood upon the beach watching the barefooted boys play in
the waves, a picture of his own boyhood rose in his mind. He, too, had
lived beside the sea and had helped his fisherman father draw in nets
and carry strings of silvery fish. How happy he had been, he thought,
and now for the last five years the sun seemed to have ceased shining in
his life. His parents had died, and not content with the small, though
honest, living he made at the fishing, he had fallen in with the band
of robbers. They soon made him their leader and although younger than
any of them, he was a very good one, for he did not know what fear was,
was ready for any wild adventure and cared so little for the treasure he
risked his life to steal that he divided it up among his followers.

But that golden morning Tibeous had forgotten all this, and as he gazed
at a woman walking toward him with a boy clinging to one hand and a baby
nestled against her shoulder, he thought only of his own boyhood, and of
the mother who had loved and guarded him. So intently was he watching
the woman that he did not notice a crowd which was collecting behind
him until, warned by a sudden murmur of many voices, he turned sharply,
his dagger half drawn. But the men and women had not noticed him, they
were all clustering around a white-robed man, and as Tibeous turned
their murmurs died away and they stood motionless, eagerly listening to
the voice of the figure in their midst. Tibeous could not see his face,
could not at first catch his words, but the tones of the speaker’s voice
reached him, and like the ripples of the waves and the glimmer of the
sunshine they reminded him afresh of his own joyous boyhood.

He saw the little boy’s hand tighten in his mother’s clasp as he urged
her forward, and Tibeous was not surprised; that thrilling voice seemed
to draw all toward it and he, too, followed the lad. And then, as they
reached the outskirts of the crowd, the men drew back, making a pathway
up to the Master, who, Tibeous now saw, was already surrounded with
children. The boys and girls were looking up at him admiringly and even
the baby in its mother’s arms held out its arms, as though to one to whom
it belonged.

Again the Master was speaking, and as Tibeous gazed, half startled at
that beautiful face, he heard the words:

“Verily, I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God
as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.”

“The kingdom of God,” thought Tibeous with a shudder, how far that was
from the kingdom of robbers over which he ruled on the wild mountain
side. And as far asunder as those two kingdoms was he, an outlaw and a
thief, from the gracious white-robed man whose words stirred every heart
upon that shining beach.

From that day Tibeous surprised even his own rough followers by his
recklessness. He risked capture and death over and over again, attacking
travellers in the daytime as well as under cover of the night, robbing
not only merchants, but priests and wealthy Pharisees, men whose power
was so great that if the band was caught, one word would suffice to hang
them all to the nearest trees. But instead of being captured they only
made themselves hated and feared more than ever. At length a proclamation
went forth promising a large reward to any man who could bring Tibeous
a prisoner to Jerusalem. As a warning to all robbers the thief, if
captured, would be crucified outside the city walls.

None knew that since that one glorious morning upon the beach, the pain
in the heart of Tibeous had been well-nigh unbearable.

“Such gentle scenes have no place in my wild life,” he would cry bitterly
to himself, and with the hope of forgetting the picture of the lad in the
Master’s arms he dashed wildly into every dangerous adventure.

One morning the robber band, looking out from the cave, saw a multitude
of people journeying toward the mountain, which sloped down to the far
end of the blue sea. Some came by boat, others rode, while many, who
seemed to be quite poor people, walked.

What could draw them to that out of the way spot, the robbers wondered,
and only Tibeous suspected the truth. They had probably travelled so far
to meet again the Master whom he had seen upon the beach. He did not
tell the others of his surmise, but when they planned to ride around the
landward side of the mountain and rob these people as they journeyed
home, he refused to go with them.

“In any dangerous attack,” he said, “I am always ready to lead you,
but as to robbing poor men and women and children” ... he turned away
disgusted, while again there rose before him the picture of the mother
upon the beach, bringing her children to that marvellous man who talked
about the kingdom of God.

Slowly the day passed and the sun sank behind the mountains while Tibeous
sat alone, at the entrance of the cave, pondering deeply. He remembered
that his mother had often spoken of a King who would some day come into
the world, a great Deliverer she had called him, before whom all the
nations of the world would bow and called Him blessed.

Tibeous had wondered at times during the last weeks whether the glorious
white robed figure could be that King, but this day, as he sat watching
the sun sink, he decided that it was impossible.

Beautiful the man was and tender and stirring, but surely, Tibeous
thought, no one could be a King and a Deliverer without courage and
strength a thousand times greater than even he, a lion among his
followers, possessed. Could that gracious, gentle figure possess such
miraculous power? “And yet if I thought for an instant,” he murmured,
“that that wonderful man was the King of whom my mother dreamed, I would
forsake this lawless life and become his loyal follower.”

At that moment he saw a dark cloud rising out of the west, the sign of
one of the sudden storms which come so often in that country. Quickly
it spread across the sky, the waves of the sea grew black and in a few
moments they rose high crested with white foam, and the wind tore over
them, while above the thunder pealed and the lightning flashed across the
darkness.

Tibeous stood in the cave watching intently. “Verily,” he exclaimed, “to
conquer and subdue his foes, a great Deliverer must have power stronger
even than this mighty storm.”

A flash of vivid lightning lit up the whole scene, and in the midst of
the furious sea Tibeous saw a tiny boat. He saw the desperate men within
it and guessed at their terror. “Surely,” he thought, “the next wave will
engulf them,” and then walking upon the storm-tossed waters toward the
boat he saw a figure, his white robes fluttering in the wind.

Again all was darkness while Tibeous stood before the cave unheeding the
torrents of rain which drenched him, his gaze fixed intently upon the
sea, longing, almost praying, for the lightning to flash once more and
show him again that mysterious figure.

Another flash, and standing in the stern of the boat Tibeous saw the
white robed man while the others knelt before him as if in reverence,
and then—there was perfect peace. The storm died away, the waves were
stilled, and the moon breaking out from behind the jagged clouds, threw
its silvery light upon the boat sailing quietly across the sea.

“Even the winds and the waves obey him!” cried Tibeous. “Surely this is
the King all powerful, whom I vowed, if I ever found, to follow forever.”

Two days later Tibeous was taken prisoner, carried bound to Jerusalem,
and thrown into a dark dungeon. With his usual fearlessness he had
searched undisguised, through the villages for the Deliverer, but before
he had found the Master he was recognised and captured. Many a weary
month he lay in the prison. At times his restless energy drove him almost
crazy, and he would rush up and down his narrow cell like a caged beast.
At other times, when the first beams of early dawn pierced the narrow
slit in the stone wall, which was his only window, or when a silvery
ray of moonlight struggled through, the scenes of his wild life seemed
blotted out, and he thought only of the Christ, and of his kingdom to
which now, alas, he could never belong.

He supposed first it was an earthly kingdom, full of brave soldiers who
would fight for the great King, to whom at last all the nations of the
world would bow. But one morning, after nearly a year of imprisonment,
he was taken out of his dark cell and led, his hands bound with leathern
thongs, toward a green hill outside the city walls. Beside him walked
another prisoner, a coarse, savage-looking man, well known for his brutal
deeds, and upon the shoulders of each of them was laid a heavy cross.
Upon those crosses they were to be crucified.

Tibeous was wan and pale from his long imprisonment, but in his eyes,
which gleamed out of his white face, there was no look of fear or hate.
He was as willing to die as to linger on hopeless in the dungeon. The
vision of the great Deliverer on which he had dwelt for so long seemed
to fill his soul, his one longing was to serve him, and as that was
impossible he had nothing else to live for.

When they left the prison the sky was blue and clear, but as they
reached the foot of the green hill dark, threatening clouds hung over
them. The two prisoners paused there, resting upon the ground the heavy
crosses under which they had staggered, and then up the road from the
city-gate another procession came toward them. There were priests in long
robes, soldiers in red cloaks and shining armour, women—sobbing, many
of them—and fishermen and peasants walking side by side with wealthy
publicans and Pharisees.

In the midst of the crowd walked a white-robed figure, and Tibeous
caught his breath in astonished wonder. Could it be, yes it was, the
King, the great Deliverer, who had drawn crowds to him upon the sunlit
beach, and who by his great power had stilled the raging storm. And yet
he was here to-day as a prisoner, his hands bound and his garments torn,
while before him walked a man bearing the cross on which the Christ, like
a common thief or murderer, was to be crucified.

“But he looks more like a King than ever,” thought the bewildered
Tibeous, and then he understood!

Around the Master pressed those who belonged to the kingdom of this
world, their faces cruel, or evil, or merely weak, and among them the
Lord whom they had bound walked as fearlessly and graciously as a young
king on his way to be crowned. But others, the poor fishermen and many of
the women, seem to have caught his look of perfect goodness. They were
frightened and heartbroken as they gazed at their King who was so soon to
be taken from them, but they belonged to him, to his kingdom which was
not of this world, and their faces, in spite of their sorrow, were full
of childlike faith and trust.

Up the hill streamed the procession, Tibeous and his companion, with
their guard of soldiers, walking slowly behind.

And then followed the deed at which through all the centuries that have
passed since then men and women have shuddered with awestruck horror.

Jesus Christ, the Deliverer of the world, was nailed upon a cross, while
upon two other crosses, one on his right and one on his left, hung the
dying robbers. “With righteous wrath will he not denounce his murderers?”
thought Tibeous, and then Jesus spoke: “Father, forgive them,” he said,
“for they know not what they do.” And during the following hours of
anguish he uttered no word of anger or condemnation. “How like a king
he is even here,” thought Tibeous. “Above the mocking, cruel crowd he
hangs, unmoved by pain, glorious, noble, kingly to the end. Soon my life
will be over and I shall never see that wonderful face again. Ah! if for
one moment only I might feel that I have belonged to his kingdom. I, a
miserable dying thief, who richly deserves this bitter agony.”

Then as the crowd jeered at the Master, crying, “He saved others, let him
save himself if he be Christ, the chosen one of God!”, the other robber
mocked him also.

“If thou be Christ save thyself and us!” he said.

But Jesus answered not a word, and Tibeous cried to the robber:

“Dost thou not fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And
we, indeed, justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds, but this
man hath done nothing amiss.”

Then turning his pain-dimmed eyes toward Jesus he gazed with adoration
and longing upon the face of the glorious dying Master.

“Jesus,” he said, his voice trembling with wistful entreaty, “Lord,
remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”

And Jesus, gazing back at him with tender compassion, answered slowly:

“Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.”

The terrible hours wore away and then—we know no more, but can we not
picture to ourselves a faint glimmer of the glory into which that very
day Tibeous entered?

Jesus had said, “Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a
little child shall in no wise enter therein.” And it seems to me that
when, in the twilight, the spirit of Tibeous entered the kingdom of
heaven, all his wild and selfish life was forgotten, and he was like a
little lad again at his mother’s side. Surely his mother was waiting for
him there, her arms outstretched with tender longing, and we know that
he was with Jesus, the glorious King, the Light of Life, the Joy of the
World.

And so to Tibeous, the dying thief, there came the glory of Easter.




THE LEGEND OF THE EASTER LILY


When Jesus grew to be a man He went about teaching the people how to
live. Many loved Jesus and believed what He told them. But some doubted
His words, while others were unkind and even cruel. At last some wicked
people believed it was unwise to let Jesus live and teach; and they
hanged Him upon a cross. All His friends were very sad after they had
seen Him die. They wrapped His body in linen clothes and laid Him in
a tomb in a garden. A great rock was rolled in front of the tomb and
soldiers were placed to guard the way day and night; for the wicked
people who had killed Jesus did not wish any of His friends to take His
body away.

All night and all the next day the soldiers watched at the tomb. The
second night a strange and wonderful light came slowly in the east and
some little birds began to sing beautiful songs. Suddenly, there was a
great noise and a shaking of the ground and a beautiful angel came down
from heaven, rolled the stone away from the tomb and Jesus came forth!
Two beautiful angels stood at the door to meet Him and with them He
walked away through the garden.

When the friends of Jesus came to the tomb early in the morning they saw
a wonderful sight. “Behold,” said one, pointing to the garden near the
tomb, “pure white lilies have come forth.” “And behold!” said the other,
“where pure white lilies mark the footsteps of Jesus and the angels.”




SONG

HENRY NEVILLE MAUGHAN


    There was a knight of Bethlehem;
    Whose wealth was tears and sorrows:
    His men-at-arms were little lambs,
    His trumpeters were sparrows;
    His castle was a wooden cross,
    Whereon He hung so high;
    His helmet was a crown of thorns
    Whose crest did touch the sky.




IN THE GARDEN

AN EASTER PRELUDE

W. M. L. JAY


PART I

    Deep down in the garden closes,
      In the wildering April weather,
    The embryo lilies and roses
      Whispered and wondered together:—
    “What doth it mean, this thrill
      And stir in the mould about us?
    Will it prophecies sweet fulfil,
      Or cometh it but to flout us?”

    _A Lily_

    It may be a downward drift
      From that unknown world above us,
    Some mystical stir or lift
      Of beings that know and love us,—
    That world of wonderful things,
      Ineffable tints and glories,
    And blossoms that wander on wings—

    _A Red Rose_

    Now, _do_ you believe those stories!
      That world and its wings and its glow,
    I fear me are only fancies
      Why, barely a fortnight ago,
    Went thither our friends, the pansies!

    _A Lily_

    Did any return to tell
      How the blindfold journey ended,—
    If joy at the last befell,
      Or a deadly frost descended?

    _A White Rose_

    Nathless, it is pleasant to stray
    In limitless dream and vision.

    _A Red Rose_

    Nay, better be senseless as clay
    And feel not the walls that imprison!

    _A Pink Rose_

    What more than this warm brown nest
    Need any one dream or desire?

    _A Lily_

    Ah, me! in my aching breast
    Is a thirst for something higher!
    I may surely trust I go
    To some lovely goal unknowing,
    To some better thing I grow—
    At least, I think I am growing.


PART II

    Out in the garden closes,
      In the shining, summery weather,
    Blossoming lilies and roses
      Wondered and laughed together:—
    “What a wide, wide world of bliss,
      Of loveliest gleams and glowings!
    We had never a vision like this,
      In the fairest of hope’s foreshowings.”

    _A White Rose_

    What a beautiful thing is light!
      What marvellous thing is motion!
      The sunbeams in followless flight,
    The shimmer and swell of the ocean!

    _A Pink Rose_

    And the sky, what a wonder of blue!
      And the dawn, what a dazzle of splendour!

    _A Red Rose_

    How light is the fall of the dew,
      And the kiss of the breezes, how tender!

    _A Pink Rose_

    So blithe is the brown birds’ song,
      So clear is the ether they swim in!

    _A Lily_

    So kindly are men and so strong
      So gentle and gracious are women!

    _A White Rose_

    Such gladness to bud and to bloom
      Sweet odour and honey outgiving!—
    How could we, down here in that gloom,
      Conceive of this rapture of living?

    _A Lily_

    And yet, I was ever at strife
    With a hope—that was half a sorrow;
    So vain, in that underground life
    Seemed thought of a radiant morrow!

    _Lilies and Roses_

    On lines that to us were unknown!
      For written was all our story;
    To the Lord of the garden alone
      Be honour and praise and glory.
    For had He not planted with care,
      And loosened the earth from around us,
    We never had grown to be fair,
      Nor blossom nor blessing had crowned us!




“SPIRIT” AND “LIFE”[18]

MARGARET EMMA DITTO


Two little souls were speeding their outward way from God. Angels folded
their white wings in wondering silence, and watched the little ones go
forth upon their unknown mission. The sky parted to let them pass, and
“trailing clouds of glory” the two souls swept on into that unmeasured
space where there is no light but the stars, and no sound but the voice
of their harmonies. Then the two little souls spoke. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” asked each of the other.

“I am Spirit,” “I am Life,” they made answer.

“It is all one,” sang the little souls together. “We are the same. We
came from God; we are going to dwell with men.”

So they sang very happily as they sped along, and their voices were
attuned to the music of the great spheres.

When the little souls reached the earth they said good-bye to each other,
for each little soul had a house of his own. Not an immovable house made
of wood and stone, but a tiny tabernacle that could be moved about. It
was made of flesh and blood and skin and soft bones. It was the form of a
little child.

“Oh, how nice!” cried each little soul, quickly speeding through the
house from top to toe, and pulling the strings which set the breath
to coming and going, and the little fingers and toes to quirking and
nestling.

“I must take a peep out of the windows,” cried each little soul, as he
pulled up the curtains and looked out. “Oho! our baby has blue eyes like
the violets,” shouted the noisy children.

“Ah, the Prince looks upon us; his Royal Highness has eyes like his
father the King,” said the grand courtiers, speaking low, with deep
reverence, for one of the little souls had found its home in a peasant’s
hut, the other in the palace of a great king.

The little souls never saw one another again until they had spent their
time on earth and were flying back to God. Again they were speeding their
way through the unmeasured spaces of the stars.

The souls knew each other, remembering the time when they had gone out
from God to dwell among men. They gazed with joy at each other, for these
returning souls were full of gracious loveliness, such as earthly eyes
have not seen.

“Sweet Life, you are no longer a little soul,” said Spirit; “you are
strong and beautiful; you must have dwelt in a great house.” “Ay,”
replied Life, serenely, “it was a perfect house, for the greatest of
builders made it for me.”

“Then it was spacious and lofty and beautiful, and it stood in a high and
sunny space?”

“Oh no; it was none of these,” replied Life. “It was narrow and infirm,
and it trembled in the blast. No one who saw it desired it. But I loved
it because it was the Gift of God, and I was so thankful. It stood in
a deep valley, the shadows of the mountains made it dark, and I could
not look far away. I could not look down: there was only one way to
look, and that was up, and my light came not from this side or that, but
straight down from the Father of Lights, and so I was a shining one,
though I lived in a dark place.”

“What did you do in your house?”

“Always I toiled and served and suffered and loved, for some needed me
who were poorer and weaker than I. Sometimes I was hungry and thirsty
and in pain, but oftener I shared my loaf and cup, and helped the pain
of others, and I kept the door ajar so that the poor and troubled ones,
those who were cast down and ashamed, could come in without knocking
and rest in a warm place; and they loved me—the poor, the weak, and
the little ones. They are weeping now because my house is empty, and I
shall look out of the windows no more: it is cold, the hearth fire can
never glow again. But my house was weak and crumbling down upon me. I
could stay no longer. So I came away and left it fallen, prone upon the
ground—earth to earth.”

“My house,” said the Spirit, “was not like that; it was noble and
strong. It stood on high among the kings of the earth, and looked over my
broad dominions. My house had towers of strength and halls of bounty and
fair gardens with pleasant fruits. Every one who saw it desired it for
its beauty and feared it for its strength. It could not be shaken in the
rudest blasts, and the shock of war could not make it tremble or force
its gates.”

“What did you do in your house?”

“Always, like you, I toiled and served and suffered and loved, but not
like you in the way of doing, for I was a king with sceptre and crown,
and what I did was done in the royal manner. I could not share my cup and
loaf with the hungry, nor lay my hand on the brow of pain as you did, but
I could make laws and find out wisdom that would strengthen the land and
bring bread and meat and health to my poor people. I could not take the
suffering ones into my own house as you did, for they were many and my
house was but one; but my house should stand a castle in their behalf—a
stronghold and defence—and so standing it met its doom; in the prime of
its glory it reeled, turret and foundation, beneath the onslaught of
the oppressor, and with a great fall it lay prone on the battle-ground,
crumbling back to earth.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A herald went through the land crying, “The King is dead! the King is
dead!”

“So is good Barbara,” answered the peasants. “She was born the same night
as the King, and she died the same day.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The two souls swept on through the wide spaces of the stars, on and on
through the pearly gates of heaven. Angels folded their wings, and looked
with tender awe upon these gracious beings who had come from the earth.

“We cannot tell who they are,” said the angels.

“One was a King. One was a peasant. But one cannot tell which was the
King and which was the peasant,” said the angels: “these beings are alike
wondrous fair and noble.”

The two souls swept on, with equal stroke of their shining wings, through
the serried ranks of the heavenly host, and God did not welcome these
home-coming souls as king or peasant, but He gave to each a new name—the
new name which He has promised to him that overcometh.




A CHILD’S EASTER

ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON


    Had I been there when Christ, our Lord, lay sleeping
    Within that tomb in Joseph’s garden fair,
    I would have watched all night beside my Saviour—
              Had I been there.

    Close to the hard, cold stone my soft cheek pressing,
    I should have thought my head lay on His breast;
    And dreaming that His dear arms were about me,
              Have sunk to rest.

    All through the long, dark night when others slumbered,
    Close, close beside Him still I would have stayed,
    And, knowing how He loved the little children,
              Ne’er felt afraid.

    “To-morrow,” to my heart I would have whispered,
    “I will rise early in the morning hours,
    And wand’ring o’er the hillside I will gather
              The fairest flowers;

    “Tall, slender lilies (for my Saviour loved them,
    And tender words about their beauty spake),
    And golden buttercups, and glad-eyed daisies,
              But just awake:

    “‘Grass of the field’ in waving, feath’ry beauty,
    He clothed it with that grace, so fair but brief,
    Mosses all soft and green, and crimson berry,
              With glossy leaf.

    “While yet the dew is sparkling on the blossoms,
    I’ll gather them and lay them at His feet,
    And make the blessed place where He is sleeping
              All fair and sweet.

    “The birds will come, I know, and sing above Him,
    The sparrows whom He cared for when awake,
    And they will fill the air with joyous music
              For His dear sake!”

    And, thinking thus, the night would soon be passing,
    Fast drawing near that first glad Easter light.
    Ah, Lord, if I could but have seen Thee leaving
              The grave’s dark night!

    I would have kept so still, so still, and clasping
    My hands together as I do in prayer,
    I would have knelt, reverent, but oh, so happy
              Had I been there.

    Perhaps He would have bent one look upon me;
    Perhaps in pity for that weary night,
    He would have laid on my uplifted forehead
              A touch so light;

    And all the rest of life I should have felt it,
    A sacred sign upon my brow imprest,
    And ne’er forgot that precious, lonely vigil,
              So richly blest.

    Dear Lord, through death and night I was not near Thee;
    But in Thy risen glory can rejoice,
    So, loud and glad in song this Easter morning,
              Thou’lt hear my voice.




THE SPIRIT OF EASTER

HELEN KELLER


Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, and His mercy endureth
forever. Sing unto Him a new song, for He causeth the desert to put forth
blossoms, and the valleys He covereth with greenness. Out of the night
He bringeth day, and out of death life everlasting. On this day a new
light is upon the mountains; for life and the resurrection are proclaimed
forever.

       *       *       *       *       *

The bands of winter are broken in sunder, and the land is made soft with
showers. Easter day bringeth the children of men near to the source of
all light; for on this day the Lord declareth the permanence of His
world, and maketh known the immortality of the soul. He hath revealed the
life everlasting and His goodness endureth forever. Easter is the promise
of the Lord that all the best and noblest in man shall be renewed, even
as growth and bloom and ripening shall not cease. The bars of winter are
broken, and the iron bands of death are riven. The bird is on the wing
and the flight of the soul shall know no weariness. The lilies lift their
holy white grails brimmed with the sunshine of God’s love. For, has not
the Lord manifested His love in flowers and in the upspringing of green
things? They are sweet interpreters of large certainties. Each year the
winter cuts them down and each spring they put forth again. Each spring
is a new page in the book of revelation, wherever we read that life is an
eternal genesis, and its end is not; for it endureth forever.




THERE ARE NO DEAD

MAURICE MAETERLINCK

Adapted from “The Blue Bird”


“Tyltyl,” said Light one morning, “I have received a note from the Fairy
Berlyune telling me that the Bluebird is probably in the graveyard.”

“What shall we do?” asked Tyltyl.

“It is very simple,” answered Light. “The fairy gave strict orders. You
and Mytyl are to go into the graveyard alone. At midnight you will turn
the diamond, and the dead will come out of the ground.”

Tyltyl did not feel pleased. “Aren’t you coming with us?” he asked.

“No,” said Light, “I shall stay at the gate of the graveyard. There is
nothing to fear. I shall not be far away, and those who love me and whom
I love always find me again.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Light had scarcely done speaking when everything changed. The shining
Temple, the glowing flowers, the splendid gardens vanished to make way
for a little country graveyard lying in the soft moonlight. Tyltyl and
Mytyl clung to one another.

“I am frightened,” said Mytyl.

“I am never frightened,” said Tyltyl, shaking with fear.

“Are the dead alive?” asked Mytyl.

“No,” said Tyltyl, “they’re not alive.”

“Are we going to see them?”

“Of course; Light said so.”

“Where are they?” asked Mytyl.

“Here, under the grass or under those big stones, Mytyl.”

“Are those the stones of their houses?” asked Mytyl.

“Yes.”

“When will you turn the diamond, Tyltyl?”

“Light said I was to wait until midnight.”

“Isn’t it midnight yet?”

Tyltyl looked at the church clock. “Listen, it is going to strike.”

Above the children the tones of the clock boomed out as it started to
strike twelve.

“I want to go away, Tyltyl! I want to go away!”

“Not now, Mytyl; I am going to turn the diamond.”

“No, no,” cried Mytyl. “Don’t! I’m so frightened, Brother! I want to go
away.”

Tyltyl tried vainly to lift his hand; he could not reach the diamond with
Mytyl clinging to him.

“I am so frightened.”

Poor Tyltyl was quite as frightened as she, but at each trial his courage
had grown greater.

The eleventh stroke rang out. “The hour is passing. It is time,” and,
releasing himself from Mytyl’s arms he turned the diamond.

A moment of suspense followed for the poor children, Mytyl hid her face
in Tyltyl’s breast.

“They’re coming,” she cried. “They’re coming.”

Tyltyl shut his eyes and leaned against a heavy stone beside him. The
children remained in that position for a minute, hardly daring to
breathe. Then they heard birds singing, a warm scented breeze fanned
their faces and on hands and neck they felt the soft heat of the balmy
summer sun. Reassured, but finding it hard to believe in so great a
miracle, they opened their eyes and looked about them. From all the open
tombs were rising thousands of delicate flowers gradually growing more
and more tall and plentiful and marvellous. Little by little they spread
everywhere, over the paths, over the grass, transforming the rude little
graveyard into a fairylike garden. Its sweet-scented breeze was murmuring
in the young and tender leaves, the birds were singing and the bees
humming gaily above glittering dew and opening flowers.

“I can’t believe it! It’s not possible!” cried Tyltyl.

The two children, holding each other by the hand, walked through what had
been the graveyard, but where now no graveyard was to be seen. Vainly
they searched among the flowers for a trace of the low mounds, stone
slabs, and wooden crosses so lately there. In the presence of the truth
they saw that all their fears of the dead were foolish. They saw that
there are no dead; but that life goes on always only under fresh form.
The fading rose sheds its pollen only to give birth to other roses, and
its scattered petals scent the air. The fruits come when the blossoms
fall from the trees; when the grub dies the brilliant butterfly is born.
Nothing perishes; there are only changes.

Beautiful birds circled about Tyltyl and Mytyl. There were no blue ones
among them, but the two children were so happy over their discovery that
they asked for nothing more.

Relieved and delighted they kept repeating:

“There are no dead! There are no dead!”




LITTLE BOY BLUE

ALFRED NOYES


    Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn,
      Summon the day of deliverance in;
    We are weary of bearing the burden of scorn,
      As we yearn for the home that we never shall win;
    For here there is weeping and sorrow and sin,
      And the poor and the weak are a spoil for the strong!
    Ah! when shall the song of the ransomed begin?
      The world is grown weary with waiting so long.

    Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave,
      There was never a doubt in those clear bright eyes:
    Come, challenge the grim dark Gates of the Grave
      As the skylark sings to those infinite skies!
    This world is a dream, say the old and the wise,
      And its rainbows arise o’er the false and the true
    But the mists of the morning are made of our sighs,—
      Ah, shatter them, scatter them, Little Boy Blue!

    Little Boy Blue, if the child-heart knows,
      Sound but a note as a little one may,
    And the thorns of the desert shall bloom with the rose,
      And the Healer shall wipe all tears away;
    Little Boy Blue, we are all astray,
      The sheep’s in the meadow, the cows in the corn,
    Ah, set the world right, as a little one may;
      Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn!


THE END




FOOTNOTES


[1] By special permission of Pilgrim Press.

[2] From “A Little Book of Profitable Tales,” by Eugene Field, copyright
1889; published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

[3] Taken from “The Child’s Book of Saints,” by permission of the
publishers, E. P. Dutton & Co.

[4] By special permission The Oxford Press, London.

[5] By special permission The Pilgrim Press.

[6] By courtesy of The Ben. H. Sanborn Co.

[7] By special permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons.

[8] From “School Reading by Grades, Third Year,” by James Baldwin.
Copyright American Book Co.

[9] Courtesy of Milton Bradly Co. From “More Mother Stories.”

[10] “The Little Brown Wren,” by Clinton Scollard.

[11] By courtesy of the author.

[12] From “Pyle’s Prose and Verse For Children.” Copyright 1899, by
Katherine Pyle, American Book Co.

[13] By permission of The Macmillan Co.

[14] Found in England.

[15] From “Why the Chimes Rang,” by Raymond MacDonald Alden. Copyright
1908. Used by special permission of The Bobbs-Merrill Co.

[16] Reprinted by permission. Copyright 1908, by Henry Holt & Co.

[17] By special permission. Copyright 1910, Little, Brown Co.

[18] By permission. Copyright 1889, by Harper & Brothers.