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Good Stories for Great Holidays

by Frances Jenkins Olcott · English · Gutenberg #359 · 518,919 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Good Stories for Great Holidays

Author: Frances Jenkins Olcott


        
Release date: November 1, 1995 [eBook #359]
                Most recently updated: March 16, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/359

Credits: Produced by Mike Lough, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYS ***




Produced by Mike Lough





GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYS


ARRANGED FOR STORY-TELLING AND READING ALOUD

AND FOR THE CHILDREN'S OWN READING

By Frances Jenkins Olcott


Index according to reading level is appended.



TO THE STORY-TELLER

This volume, though intended also for the children's own reading and for
reading aloud, is especially planned for story-telling. The latter is a
delightful way of arousing a gladsome holiday spirit, and of showing the
inner meanings of different holidays. As stories used for this purpose
are scattered through many volumes, and as they are not always in the
concrete form required for story-telling, I have endeavored to bring
together myths, legends, tales, and historical stories suitable to
holiday occasions.

There are here collected one hundred and twenty stories for seventeen
holidays--stories grave, gay, humorous, or fanciful; also some that
are spiritual in feeling, and others that give the delicious thrill
of horror so craved by boys and girls at Halloween time. The range
of selection is wide, and touches all sides of wholesome boy and girl
nature, and the tales have the power to arouse an appropriate holiday
spirit.

As far as possible the stories are presented in their original form.
When, however, they are too long for inclusion, or too loose in
structure for story-telling purposes, they are adapted.

Adapted stories are of two sorts. Condensed: in which case a piece of
literature is shortened, scarcely any changes being made in the original
language. Rewritten: here the plot, imagery, language, and style of the
original are retained as far as possible, while the whole is moulded
into form suitable for story-telling. Some few stories are built up on a
slight framework of original matter.

Thus it may be seen that the tales in this volume have not been reduced
to the necessarily limited vocabulary and uniform style of one editor,
but that they are varied in treatment and language, and are the products
of many minds.

A glance at the table of contents will show that not only have
selections been made from modern authors and from the folklore of
different races, but that some quaint old literary sources have been
drawn on. Among the men and books contributing to these pages are the
Gesta Romanorum, Il Libro d'Oro, Xenophon, Ovid, Lucian, the Venerable
Bede, William of Malmesbury. John of Hildesheim, William Caxton, and the
more modern Washington Irving, Hugh Miller, Charles Dickens, and Henry
Cabot Lodge; also those immortals, Hans Andersen, the Brothers Grimm,
Horace E. Scudder, and others.

The stories are arranged to meet the needs of story-telling in the
graded schools. Reading-lists, showing where to find additional material
for story-telling and collateral reading, are added. Grades in which the
recommended stories are useful are indicated.

The number of selections in the volume, as well as the references
to other books, is limited by the amount and character of available
material. For instance, there is little to be found for Saint
Valentine's Day, while there is an overwhelming abundance of fine
stories for the Christmas season. Stories like Dickens's “Christmas
Carol,” Ouida's “Dog of Flanders,” and Hawthorne's tales, which are too
long for inclusion and would lose their literary beauty if condensed,
are referred to in the lists. Volumes containing these stories may be
procured at the public library.

A subject index is appended. This indicates the ethical, historical, and
other subject-matter of interest to the teacher, thus making the volume
serviceable for other occasions besides holidays.

In learning her tale the story-teller is advised not to commit it to
memory. Such a method is apt to produce a wooden or glib manner of
presentation. It is better for her to read the story over and over again
until its plot, imagery, style, and vocabulary become her own, and then
to retell it, as Miss Bryant says, “simply, vitally, joyously.”






CONTENTS

NEW YEAR'S DAY (January 1)

THE FAIRY'S NEW YEAR GIFT: Emilie Poulsson, In the Child's World

THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL: Hans Christian Andersen, Stories and Tales

THE TWELVE MONTHS: Alexander Chodsvko, Slav Fairy Tales

THE MAIL-COACH PASSENGERS: Hans Christian Andersen, Fairy Tales

LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY (February 10)

HE RESCUES THE BIRDS: Noah Brooks, Abraham Lincoln

LINCOLN AND THE LITTLE GIRL: Charles W. Moores, Life of Abraham Lincoln
for Boys and Girls

TRAINING FOR THE PRESIDENCY: Orison Swett Matden, Winning Out

WHY LINCOLN WAS CALLED “HONEST ABE”: Noah Brooks, Abraham Lincoln

A STRANGER AT FIVE-POINTS: Adapted

A SOLOMON COME TO JUDGMENT: Charles W. Moores, Life of Abraham Lincoln
for Boys and Girls

GEORGE PICKETT'S FRIEND: Charles W. Moores, Life of Abraham Lincoln for
Boys and Girls

LINCOLN THE LAWYER: Z. A. Mudge, The Forest Boy

THE COURAGE OF HIS CONVICTIONS: Adapted

MR. LINCOLN AND THE BIBLE: Z. A. Mudge, The Forest Boy

HIS SPRINGFIELD FAREWELL ADDRESS [Lincoln]

SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY (February 14)

SAINT VALENTINE

SAINT VALENTINE: Millicent Olmsted

A GIRL'S VALENTINE CHARM: The Connoisseur, 1775

MR. PEPYS HIS VALENTINE: Samuel Pepys, Diary

CUPID AND PSYCHE: Josephine Preston Peabody, Old Greek Folk Stories

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY (February 22)

THREE OLD TALES: M. L. Weems, Life of George Washington, with Curious
Anecdotes

YOUNG GEORGE AND THE COLT: Horace E. Scudder,     George Washington

WASHINGTON THE ATHLETE: Albert F. Blaisdell and Francis R. Ball, Hero
Stories from American History

WASHINGTON'S MODESTY: Henry Cabot Lodge, George Washington

WASHINGTON AT YORKTOWN: Henry Cabot lodge, George Washington

RESURRECTION DAY (Easter Sunday) (March or April)

A LESSON OF FAITH: Mrs. Alfred Gatty, Parables from Nature

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR: Charles Dickens

THE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD: Hans Christian Andersen, Stories and
Tales

MAY DAY (May 1) THE SNOWDROP: Hans Christian Andersen; Adapted by Bailey
and Lewis

THE THREE LITTLE BUTTERFLY BROTHERS: From the German


THE WATER DROP: Friedrich Wilhelm Carove, Story without an End,
translated by Sarah Austin

THE SPRING BEAUTY: Henry R. Schoolcraft, The Myth of Hiawatha

THE FAIRY TULIPS: English Folk-Tale

THE STREAM THAT RAN AWAY: Mary Austin, The Basket Woman

THE ELVES: Harriet Mazwell Converse, Myths and legends of the New York
State Iroquois

THE CANYON FLOWERS: Ralph Connor, The Sky Pilot

CLYTIE, THE HELIOTROPE: Ovid, Metamorphoses

HYACINTHUS: Ovid, Metamorphoses

ECHO AND NARCISSUS: Ovid, Metamorphoses

MOTHERS' DAY (Second Sunday in May)

THE LARK AND ITS YOUNG ONES: P. V. Ramuswami Raju, Indian Fables

CORNELIA S JEWELS: James Baldwin, Fifty Famous Stories Retold

QUEEN MARGARET AND THE ROBBERS: Albert F. Blaisdell, Stories from
Enylish History

THE REVENGE OF CORIOLANUS: Charles Morris, Historical Tales

THE WIDOW AND HER THREE SONS

MEMORIAL DAY (May 30)[1] AND FLAG DAY (June 14) Confederate Memorial Day
is celebrated in some States on April 26 and in others on May 10.

BETSY ROSS AND THE FLAG: Harry Pringle Ford

THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER: Eva March Tappan, Hero Stories from American
History

THE LITTLE DRUMMER-BOY: Aloert Bushnell Hart, The Romance of the Civil
War

A FLAG INCIDENT: M. M. Thomas, Captain Phil

TWO HERO-STORIES OF THE CIVIL WAR: Ben La Bree, Camp Fires of the
Confederacy

THE YOUNG SENTINEL: Z. A. Mudge, The Forest Boy

THE COLONEL OF THE ZOUAVES: Noah Brooks, Abraham Lincoln

GENERAL SCOTT AND THE STARS AND STRIPES: E. D. Townsend, Anecdotes of
the Civil War

INDEPENDENCE DAY (July 4)

THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE: Washington Irving, Life of Washington

THE SIGNING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE: H. A. Guerber, The Story
of the Thirteen Colonies

A BRAVE GIRL: James Johonnot, Stories of Heroic Deeds

THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY: John Andrews, Letter to a friend written in 1773

A GUNPOWDER STORY: John Esten Cooke, Stories of the Old Dominion

THE CAPTURE OF FORT TICONDEROGA: Washington Irving, Life of Washington

WASHINGTON AND THE COWARDS: Washington Irving, Life of Washington

LABOR DAY (First Monday in September)

THE SMITHY: P. V. Ramaswami Raju, Indian Fables

THE NAIL: The Brothers Grimm, German Household Tales

THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER: Horace E. Scudder, Book of Fables and Folk
Stories

THE HILLMAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE: Juliana Horatia Ewing, Old Fashioned
Fairy Tales

HOFUS THE STONE CUTTER, A JAPANESE LEGEND: The Riserside Third Reader

ARACHNE: Josephine Preston Peabody, Old Greek Folk Stories


THE METAL KING: A German Folk-Tale

THE CHOICE OF HERCULES: Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates

THE SPEAKING STATUE: Gesta Romanorum

THE CHAMPION STONE CUTTER: Hugh Miller

BILL BROWN'S TEST: Cleveland Moffett, Careers of Danger and Daring

COLUMBUS DAY (October 12)

COLUMBUS AND THE EGG: James Baldwin, Thirty More Famous Stories Retold

COLUMBUS AT LA RABIDA: Washington Irving, Life of Christopher Columbus

THE MUTINY: A. de Lamartine, Life of Columbus

THE FIRST LANDING OF COLUMBUS IN THE NEW WORLD: Washington Irving, Life
of Christopher Columbus

HALLOWEEN (October 31)

THE OLD WITCH: The Brothers Grimm, German Household Tales

SHIPPEITARO: Mary F. Nixon-Roulet, Japanese Folk Stories and Fairy Tales

HANSEL AND GRETHEL: The Brothers Grimm, German Household Tales

BURG HILL'S ON FIRE: Elizabeth W. Grierson, Children's Book of Celtic
Stories

THE KING OF THE CATS: Ernest Rhys, Fairy-Gold

THE STRANGE VISITOR: Joseph Jacobs, English Fairy Tales

THE BENEVOLENT GOBLIN: Gesta Romanorum

THE PHANTOM KNIGHT OF THE VANDAL CAMP: Gesta Romanorum

THANKSGIVING DAY (Last Thursday in November)

THE FIRST HARVEST-HOME IN PLYMOUTH: W. De Loss Lore, Jr., The Fast and
Thanksgiving Days of New England

THE MASTER OF THE HARVEST: Mrs. Alfred Gatty, Parables from Nature

SAINT CUTHBERT'S EAGLE: The Venerable Bede, Life and Miracles of Saint
Cuthbert

THE EARS OF WHEAT: The Brothers Grimm, German Household Tales

HOW INDIAN CORN CAME INTO THE WORLD: Henry R. Schoolcraft, The Myth of
Hiawatha

THE NUTCRACKER DWARF: Count Franz Pocci, Fur Frohliche Kinder

THE PUMPKIN PIRATES, A TALE FROM LUCIAN: Alfred J. Church, The Greek
Gulliver

THE SPIRIT OF THE CORN: Harriet Mazwell Converse,
Myths and Legends of the New York State Iroquois

THE HORN OF PLENTY: Ovid, Metamorphoses

CHRISTMAS DAY (December 25)

LITTLE PICCOLA: Celia Thazter, Stories and Poems for Children

THE STRANGER CHILD, A LEGEND: Count Franz Pocci, Fur Frohliche Kinder

SAINT CHRISTOPHER: William Caxton, Golden Legend

THE CHRISTMAS ROSE, AN OLD LEGEND: Lizzie Deas, Flower Favourites

THE WOODEN SHOES OF LITTLE WOLFF: Francois Coppee

THE PINE TREE: Hans Christian Andersen, Wonder Stories

THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO: Frances Browne, Granny's Wonderful Chair

THE CHRISTMAS FAIRY OF STRASBURG, A GERMAN FOLK-TALE: J. Stirling Coyne,
Illustrated London News

THE THREE PURSES, A LEGEND: William S. Walsh, Story of Santa Klaus

THE THUNDER OAK, A SCANDINAVIAN LEGEND: William S. Walsh and Others

THE CHRISTMAS THORN OF GLASTONBURY, A LEGEND OF ANCIENT BRITAIN: William
of Malmesbury and Others

THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE, A LEGEND OF THE MIDDLE AGES: John of
Hildesheim, Modernized by H. S. Morris

ARBOR DAY

THE LITTLE TREE THAT LONGED FOR OTHER LEAVES: Friedrieh Ruckert

WHY THE EVERGREEN TREES NEVER LOSE THEIR LEAVES: Florence Holbrook, Book
of Nature Myths

WHY THE ASPEN QUIVERS: Old legend

THE WONDER TREE: Friedrich Adolph Krummacher, Parables

THE PROUD OAK TREE: Old Fable

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON: H. P. Maskell, Francis Storr,
Half-a-Hundred Hero Tales

THE UNFRUITFUL TREE: Friedrich Adolph Krummacher, Parables

THE DRYAD OF THE OLD OAK: James Russell Lowell, Rhoecus (a poem)

DAPHNE: OVID, Metamorphoses BIRD DAY

THE OLD WOMAN WHO BECAME A WOODPECKER: Phoebe Cary, A Legend of the
Northland (poem)

THE BOY WHO BECAME A ROBIN: Henry R. Schoolcraft, The Myth of Hiawatha

THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW: A. B. Mitford, Tales of Old Japan

THE QUAILS, A LEGEND OF THE JATAKA: Riverside Fourth Reader

THE MAGPIE'S NEST: Joseph Jacobs, English Fairy Tales

THE GREEDY GEESE: Il Libro d'Oro

THE KING OF THE BIRDS: The Brothers Grimm, German Household Tales

THE DOVE WHO SPOKE TRUTH: Abbie Farwell Brown, The Curious Book of Birds

THE BUSY BLUE JAY: Olive Thorne Miller, True Bird Stories

BABES IN THE WOODS: John Burroughs, Bird Stories from Burroughs

THE PRIDE OF THE REGIMENT: Harry M. Rieffer, The Recollections of a
Drummer Boy

THE MOTHER MURRE: Dallas Lore Sharp, Summer

REFERENCE LISTS FOR STORY-TELLING AND COLLATERAL READING





GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYS




THE FAIRY'S NEW YEAR GIFT

BY EMILIE POULSSON (ADAPTED)

Two little boys were at play one day when a Fairy suddenly appeared
before them and said: “I have been sent to give you New Year presents.”

She handed to each child a package, and in an instant was gone.

Carl and Philip opened the packages and found in them two beautiful
books, with pages as pure and white as the snow when it first falls.

Many months passed and the Fairy came again to the boys. “I have brought
you each another book?” said she, “and will take the first ones back to
Father Time who sent them to you.”

“May I not keep mine a little longer?” asked Philip. “I have hardly
thought about it lately. I'd like to paint something on the last leaf
that lies open.”

“No,” said the Fairy; “I must take it just as it is.”

“I wish that I could look through mine just once,” said Carl; “I have
only seen one page at a time, for when the leaf turns over it sticks
fast, and I can never open the book at more than one place each day.”

“You shall look at your book,” said the Fairy, “and Philip, at his.” And
she lit for them two little silver lamps, by the light of which they saw
the pages as she turned them.

The boys looked in wonder. Could it be that these were the same fair
books she had given them a year ago? Where were the clean, white pages,
as pure and beautiful as the snow when it first falls? Here was a page
with ugly, black spots and scratches upon it; while the very next page
showed a lovely little picture. Some pages were decorated with gold and
silver and gorgeous colors, others with beautiful flowers, and still
others with a rainbow of softest, most delicate brightness. Yet even on
the most beautiful of the pages there were ugly blots and scratches.

Carl and Philip looked up at the Fairy at last.

“Who did this?” they asked. “Every page was white and fair as we opened
to it; yet now there is not a single blank place in the whole book!”

“Shall I explain some of the pictures to you?” said the Fairy, smiling
at the two little boys.

“See, Philip, the spray of roses blossomed on this page when you let
the baby have your playthings; and this pretty bird, that looks as if it
were singing with all its might, would never have been on this page
if you had not tried to be kind and pleasant the other day, instead of
quarreling.”

“But what makes this blot?” asked Philip.

“That,” said the Fairy sadly; “that came when you told an untruth one
day, and this when you did not mind mamma. All these blots and scratches
that look so ugly, both in your book and in Carl's, were made when you
were naughty. Each pretty thing in your books came on its page when you
were good.”

“Oh, if we could only have the books again!” said Carl and Philip.

“That cannot be,” said the Fairy. “See! they are dated for this year,
and they must now go back into Father Time's bookcase, but I have
brought you each a new one. Perhaps you can make these more beautiful
than the others.”

So saying, she vanished, and the boys were left alone, but each held in
his hand a new book open at the first page.

And on the back of this book was written in letters of gold, “For the
New Year.”




THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (TRANSLATED)

It was very, very cold; it snowed and it grew dark; it was the last
evening of the year, New Year's Eve. In the cold and dark a poor little
girl, with bare head and bare feet, was walking through the streets.
When she left her own house she certainly had had slippers on; but what
could they do? They were very big slippers, and her mother had used them
till then, so big were they. The little maid lost them as she slipped
across the road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly fast. One
slipper was not to be found again, and a boy ran away with the other. He
said he could use it for a cradle when he had children of his own.

So now the little girl went with her little naked feet, which were quite
red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of
matches, and a bundle of them in her hand. No one had bought anything
of her all day; no one had given her a copper. Hungry and cold she went,
and drew herself together, poor little thing! The snowflakes fell on her
long yellow hair, which curled prettily over her neck; but she did not
think of that now. In all the windows lights were shining, and there was
a glorious smell of roast goose out there in the street; it was no doubt
New Year's Eve. Yes, she thought of that!

In a corner formed by two houses, one of which was a little farther from
the street than the other, she sat down and crept close. She had drawn
up her little feet, but she was still colder, and she did not dare to
go home, for she had sold no matches, and she had not a single cent; her
father would beat her; and besides, it was cold at home, for they had
nothing over the them but a roof through which the wind whistled, though
straw and rags stopped the largest holes.

Her small hands were quite numb with the cold. Ah! a little match might
do her good if she only dared draw one from the bundle, and strike
it against the wall, and warm her fingers at it. She drew one out.
R-r-atch! how it spluttered and burned! It was a warm bright flame, like
a little candle, when she held her hands over it; it was a wonderful
little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she sat before a
great polished stove, with bright brass feet and a brass cover. The
fire burned so nicely; it warmed her so well,--the little girl was just
putting out her feet to warm these, too,--when out went the flame; the
stove was gone;--she sat with only the end of the burned match in her
hand.

She struck another; it burned; it gave a light; and where it shone on
the wall, the wall became thin like a veil, and she could see through it
into the room where a table stood, spread with a white cloth, and with
china on it; and the roast goose smoked gloriously, stuffed with apples
and dried plums. And what was still more splendid to behold, the goose
hopped down from the dish, and waddled along the floor, with a knife and
fork in its breast; straight to the little girl he came. Then the match
went out, and only the thick, damp, cold wall was before her.

She lighted another. Then she was sitting under a beautiful Christmas
tree; it was greater and finer than the one she had seen through the
glass door at the rich merchant's. Thousands of candles burned upon
the green branches, and colored pictures like those in the shop windows
looked down upon them. The little girl stretched forth both hands toward
them; then the match went out. The Christmas lights went higher and
higher. She saw that now they were stars in the sky: one of them fell
and made a long line of fire.

“Now some one is dying,” said the little girl, for her old grandmother,
the only person who had been good to her, but who was now dead, had
said: “When a star falls a soul mounts up to God.”

She rubbed another match against the wall; it became bright again, and
in the light there stood the old grandmother clear and shining, mild and
lovely.

“Grandmother!” cried the child. “Oh, take me with you! I know you will
go when the match is burned out. You will go away like the warm stove,
the nice roast goose, and the great glorious Christmas tree!”

And she hastily rubbed the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to
hold her grandmother fast. And the matches burned with such a glow that
it became brighter than in the middle of the day; grandmother had never
been so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl up in her arms,
and both flew in the light and the joy so high, so high! and up there
was no cold, nor hunger, nor care--they were with God.

But in the corner by the house sat the little girl, with red cheeks and
smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the Old Year.
The New Year's sun rose upon the little body, that sat there with the
matches, of which one bundle was burned. She wanted to warm herself,
the people said. No one knew what fine things she had seen, and in what
glory she had gone in with her grandmother to the New Year's Day.




THE TWELVE MONTHS

A SLAV LEGEND

BY ALEXANDER CHODZKO (ADAPTED)

There was once a widow who had two daughters, Helen, her own child by
her dead husband, and Marouckla, his daughter by his first wife. She
loved Helen, but hated the poor orphan because she was far prettier than
her own daughter.

Marouckla did not think about her good looks, and could not understand
why her stepmother should be angry at the sight of her. The hardest work
fell to her share. She cleaned out the rooms, cooked, washed, sewed,
spun, wove, brought in the hay, milked the cow, and all this without any
help.

Helen, meanwhile, did nothing but dress herself in her best clothes and
go to one amusement after another.

But Marouckla never complained. She bore the scoldings and bad temper of
mother and sister with a smile on her lips, and the patience of a lamb.
But this angelic behavior did not soften them. They became even more
tyrannical and grumpy, for Marouckla grew daily more beautiful, while
Helen's ugliness increased. So the stepmother determined to get rid of
Marouckla, for she knew that while she remained, her own daughter would
have no suitors. Hunger, every kind of privation, abuse, every means was
used to make the girl's life miserable. But in spite of it all Marouckla
grew ever sweeter and more charming.

One day in the middle of winter Helen wanted some wood-violets.

“Listen,” cried she to Marouckla, “you must go up the mountain and
find me violets. I want some to put in my gown. They must be fresh and
sweet-scented-do you hear?”

“But, my dear sister, whoever heard of violets blooming in the snow?”
 said the poor orphan.

“You wretched creature! Do you dare to disobey me?” said Helen. “Not
another word. Off with you! If you do not bring me some violets from the
mountain forest I will kill you.”

The stepmother also added her threats to those of Helen, and with
vigorous blows they pushed Marouckla outside and shut the door upon her.
The weeping girl made her way to the mountain. The snow lay deep, and
there was no trace of any human being. Long she wandered hither and
thither, and lost herself in the wood. She was hungry, and shivered with
cold, and prayed to die.

Suddenly she saw a light in the distance, and climbed toward it till she
reached the top of the mountain. Upon the highest peak burned a large
fire, surrounded by twelve blocks of stone on which sat twelve strange
beings. Of these the first three had white hair, three were not quite so
old, three were young and handsome, and the rest still younger.

There they all sat silently looking at the fire. They were the Twelve
Months of the Year. The great January was placed higher than the others.
His hair and mustache were white as snow, and in his hand he held a
wand. At first Marouckla was afraid, but after a while her courage
returned, and drawing near, she said:--

“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? I am chilled by the winter
cold.”

The great January raised his head and answered: “What brings thee here,
my daughter? What dost thou seek?”

“I am looking for violets,” replied the maiden.

“This is not the season for violets. Dost thou not see the snow
everywhere?” said January.

“I know well, but my sister Helen and my stepmother have ordered me to
bring them violets from your mountain. If I return without them they
will kill me. I pray you, good shepherds, tell me where they may be
found.”

Here the great January arose and went over to the youngest of the
Months, and, placing his wand in his hand, said:--

“Brother March, do thou take the highest place.”

March obeyed, at the same time waving his wand over the fire.
Immediately the flames rose toward the sky, the snow began to melt and
the trees and shrubs to bud. The grass became green, and from between
its blades peeped the pale primrose. It was spring, and the meadows were
blue with violets.

“Gather them quickly, Marouckla,” said March.

Joyfully she hastened to pick the flowers, and having soon a large bunch
she thanked them and ran home. Helen and the stepmother were amazed at
the sight of the flowers, the scent of which filled the house.

“Where did you find them?” asked Helen.

“Under the trees on the mountain-side,” said Marouckla.

Helen kept the flowers for herself and her mother. She did not even
thank her stepsister for the trouble she had taken. The next day she
desired Marouckla to fetch her strawberries.

“Run,” said she, “and fetch me strawberries from the mountain. They must
be very sweet and ripe.”

“But whoever heard of strawberries ripening in the snow?” exclaimed
Marouckla.

“Hold your tongue, worm; don't answer me. If I don't have my
strawberries I will kill you,” said Helen.

Then the stepmother pushed Marouckla into the yard and bolted the door.
The unhappy girl made her way toward the mountain and to the large
fire round which sat the Twelve Months. The great January occupied the
highest place.

“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills me,”
 said she, drawing near.

The great January raised his head and asked: “Why comest thou here? What
dost thou seek?”

“I am looking for strawberries,” said she.

“We are in the midst of winter,” replied January, “strawberries do not
grow in the snow.”

“I know,” said the girl sadly, “but my sister and stepmother have
ordered me to bring them strawberries. If I do not they will kill me.
Pray, good shepherds, tell me where to find them.”

The great January arose, crossed over to the Month opposite him, and
putting the wand in his hand, said: “Brother June, do thou take the
highest place.”

June obeyed, and as he waved his wand over the fire the flames leaped
toward the sky. Instantly the snow melted, the earth was covered with
verdure, trees were clothed with leaves, birds began to sing, and
various flowers blossomed in the forest. It was summer. Under the bushes
masses of star-shaped flowers changed into ripening strawberries, and
instantly they covered the glade, making it look like a sea of blood.

“Gather them quickly, Marouckla,” said June.

Joyfully she thanked the Months, and having filled her apron ran happily
home.

Helen and her mother wondered at seeing the strawberries, which filled
the house with their delicious fragrance.

“Wherever did you find them?” asked Helen crossly.

“Right up among the mountains. Those from under the beech trees are not
bad,” answered Marouckla.

Helen gave a few to her mother and ate the rest herself. Not one did she
offer to her stepsister. Being tired of strawberries, on the third day
she took a fancy for some fresh, red apples.

“Run, Marouckla,” said she, “and fetch me fresh, red apples from the
mountain.”

“Apples in winter, sister? Why, the trees have neither leaves nor
fruit!”

“Idle thing, go this minute,” said Helen; “unless you bring back apples
we will kill you.”

As before, the stepmother seized her roughly and turned her out of the
house. The poor girl went weeping up the mountain, across the deep snow,
and on toward the fire round which were the Twelve Months. Motionless
they sat there, and on the highest stone was the great January.

“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills me,”
 said she, drawing near.

The great January raised his head. “Why comest thou here? What does thou
seek?” asked he.

“I am come to look for red apples,” replied Marouckla.

“But this is winter, and not the season for red apples,” observed the
great January.

“I know,” answered the girl, “but my sister and stepmother sent me to
fetch red apples from the mountain. If I return without them they will
kill me.”

Thereupon the great January arose and went over to one of the elderly
Months, to whom he handed the wand saying:--

“Brother September, do thou take the highest place.”

September moved to the highest stone, and waved his wand over the fire.
There was a flare of red flames, the snow disappeared, but the fading
leaves which trembled on the trees were sent by a cold northeast wind in
yellow masses to the glade. Only a few flowers of autumn were visible.
At first Marouckla looked in vain for red apples. Then she espied a tree
which grew at a great height, and from the branches of this hung the
bright, red fruit. September ordered her to gather some quickly. The
girl was delighted and shook the tree. First one apple fell, then
another.

“That is enough,” said September; “hurry home.”

Thanking the Months she returned joyfully. Helen and the stepmother
wondered at seeing the fruit.

“Where did you gather them?” asked the stepsister.

“There are more on the mountain-top,” answered Marouckla.

“Then, why did you not bring more?” said Helen angrily. “You must have
eaten them on your way back, you wicked girl.”

“No, dear sister, I have not even tasted them,” said Marouckla. “I shook
the tree twice. One apple fell each time. Some shepherds would not allow
me to shake it again, but told me to return home.”

“Listen, mother,” said Helen. “Give me my cloak. I will fetch some more
apples myself. I shall be able to find the mountain and the tree. The
shepherds may cry 'Stop!' but I will not leave go till I have shaken
down all the apples.”

In spite of her mother's advice she wrapped herself in her pelisse,
put on a warm hood, and took the road to the mountain. Snow covered
everything. Helen lost herself and wandered hither and thither. After
a while she saw a light above her, and, following in its direction,
reached the mountain-top.

There was the flaming fire, the twelve blocks of stone, and the Twelve
Months. At first she was frightened and hesitated; then she came nearer
and warmed her hands. She did not ask permission, nor did she speak one
polite word.

“What hath brought thee here? What dost thou seek?” said the great
January severely.

“I am not obliged to tell you, old graybeard. What business is it of
yours?” she replied disdainfully, turning her back on the fire and going
toward the forest.

The great January frowned, and waved his wand over his head. Instantly
the sky became covered with clouds, the fire went down, snow fell in
large flakes, an icy wind howled round the mountain. Amid the fury of
the storm Helen stumbled about. The pelisse failed to warm her benumbed
limbs.

The mother kept on waiting for her. She looked from the window, she
watched from the doorstep, but her daughter came not. The hours passed
slowly, but Helen did not return.

“Can it be that the apples have charmed her from her home?” thought the
mother. Then she clad herself in hood and pelisse, and went in search of
her daughter. Snow fell in huge masses. It covered all things. For long
she wandered hither and thither, the icy northeast wind whistled in the
mountain, but no voice answered her cries.

Day after day Marouckla worked, and prayed, and waited, but neither
stepmother nor sister returned. They had been frozen to death on the
mountain.

The inheritance of a small house, a field, and a cow fell to Marouckla.
In course of time an honest farmer came to share them with her, and
their lives were happy and peaceful.




THE MAIL-COACH PASSENGERS

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (ADAPTED)

It was bitterly cold. The sky glittered with stars, and not a breeze
stirred. “Bump,”--an old pot was thrown at a neighbor's door; and,
“Bang! Bang!” went the guns, for they were greeting the New Year.

It was New Year's Eve, and the church clock was striking twelve.
“Tan-ta-ra-ra, tan-ta-ra-ra!” sounded the horn, and the mail-coach came
lumbering up. The clumsy vehicle stopped at the gate of the town; all
the places had been taken, for there were twelve passengers in the
coach.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” cried the people in the town; for in every house the
New Year was being welcomed; and, as the clock struck, they stood up,
the full glasses in their hands, to drink success to the newcomer. “A
happy New Year,” was the cry; “a pretty wife, plenty of money, and no
sorrow or care!”

The wish passed round, and the glasses clashed together till they rang
again; while before the town-gate the mail-coach stopped with the twelve
strange passengers. And who were these strangers? Each of them had his
passport and his luggage with him; they even brought presents for me,
and for you, and for all the people in the town. Who were they? What did
they want? And what did they bring with them?

“Good-morning!” they cried to the sentry at the town-gate.

“Good-morning,” replied the sentry, for the clock had struck twelve.

“Your name and profession?” asked the sentry of the one who alighted
first from the carriage.

“See for yourself in the passport,” he replied.

“I am myself!”--and a famous fellow he looked, arrayed in bearskin
and fur boots. “Come to me to-morrow, and I will give you a New Year's
present. I throw shillings and pence among the people. I give balls
every night, no less than thirty-one; indeed, that is the highest number
I can spare for balls. My ships are often frozen in, but in my offices
it is warm and comfortable. MY NAME IS JANUARY. I am a merchant, and I
generally bring my accounts with me.”

Then the second alighted. He seemed a merry fellow. He was a director of
a theater, a manager of masked balls, and a leader of all the amusements
we can imagine. His luggage consisted of a great cask.

“We'll dance the bung out of the cask at carnival-time,” said he. “I'll
prepare a merry tune for you and for myself, too. Unfortunately I have
not long to live,--the shortest time, in fact, of my whole family,--only
twenty-eight days. Sometimes they pop me in a day extra; but I trouble
myself very little about that. Hurrah!”

“You must not shout so,” said the sentry.

“Certainly I may shout,” retorted the man.

“I'm Prince Carnival, traveling under THE NAME OF FEBRUARY.”

The third now got out. He looked the personification of fasting; but
he carried his nose very high, for he was a weather prophet. In his
buttonhole he wore a little bunch of violets, but they were very small.

“MARCH, MARCH!” the fourth passenger called after him, slapping him
on the shoulder, “don't you smell something good? Make haste into the
guard-room, they are feasting in there. I can smell it already! FORWARD,
MASTER MARCH!”

But it was not true. The speaker only wanted to make an APRIL FOOL of
him, for with that fun the fourth stranger generally began his career.
He looked very jovial, and did little work.

“If the world were only more settled!” said he; “but sometimes I'm
obliged to be in a good humor, and sometimes a bad one. I can laugh or
cry according to circumstances. I have my summer wardrobe in this box
here, but it would be very foolish to put it on now!”

After him a lady stepped out of the coach. SHE CALLED HERSELF MISS MAY.
She wore a summer dress and overshoes. Her dress was light green, and
there were anemones in her hair. She was so scented with wild thyme that
it made the sentry sneeze.

“Your health, and God bless you!” was her greeting.

How pretty she was! and such a singer! Not a theater singer nor a
ballad-singer; no, but a singer of the woods. For she wandered through
the gay, green forest, and had a concert there for her own amusement.

“Now comes the young lady,” said those in the coach; and out stepped a
young dame, delicate, proud, and pretty. IT WAS MISTRESS JUNE. In her
service people become lazy and fond of sleeping for hours. She gives
a feast on the longest day of the year, that there may be time for her
guests to partake of the numerous dishes at her table. Indeed, she keeps
her own carriage, but still she travels by the mail-coach with the rest
because she wishes to show that she is not proud.

But she was not without a protector; her younger brother, JULY, was with
her. He was a plump, young fellow, clad in summer garments, and wearing
a straw hat. He had very little luggage because it was so cumbersome in
the great heat. He had, however, swimming-trousers with him, which are
nothing to carry.

Then came the mother herself, MADAME AUGUST, a wholesale dealer
in fruit, proprietress of a large number of fish-ponds, and a
land-cultivator. She was fat and warm, yet she could use her hands well,
and would herself carry out food to the laborers in the field. After
work, came the recreations, dancing and playing in the greenwood, and
the “harvest home.” She was a thorough housewife.

After her a man stepped out of the coach. He is a painter, a master of
colors, and is NAMED SEPTEMBER. The forest on his arrival has to change
its colors, and how beautiful are those he chooses! The woods glow with
red, and gold, and brown. This great master painter can whistle like a
blackbird. There he stood with his color-pot in his hand, and that was
the whole of his luggage.

A landowner followed, who in the month for sowing seed attends to his
ploughing and is fond of field sports. SQUIRE OCTOBER brought his dog
and his gun with him, and had nuts in his game-bag.

“Crack! Crack!” He had a great deal of luggage, even a plough. He spoke
of farming, but what he said could scarcely be heard for the coughing
and sneezing of his neighbor.

It WAS NOVEMBER, who coughed violently as he got out. He had a cold, but
he said he thought it would leave him when he went out woodcutting, for
he had to supply wood to the whole parish. He spent his evenings making
skates, for he knew, he said, that in a few weeks they would be needed.

At length the last passenger made her appearance,--OLD MOTHER DECEMBER!
The dame was very aged, but her eyes glistened like two stars. She
carried on her arm a flower-pot, in which a little fir tree was growing.
“This tree I shall guard and cherish,” she said, “that it may grow large
by Christmas Eve, and reach from the floor to the ceiling, to be adorned
with lighted candles, golden apples, and toys. I shall sit by the
fireplace, and bring a story-book out of my pocket, and read aloud to
all the little children. Then the toys on the tree will become alive,
and the little waxen Angel at the top will spread out his wings of gold
leaf, and fly down from his green perch. He will kiss every child in
the room, yes, and all the little children who stand out in the street
singing a carol about the 'Star of Bethlehem.'”

“Well, now the coach may drive away,” said the sentry; “we will keep all
the twelve months here with us.”

“First let the twelve come to me,” said the Captain on duty, “one after
another. The passports I will keep here, each of them for one month.
When that has passed, I shall write the behavior of each stranger on his
passport. MR. JANUARY, have the goodness to come here.”

And MR. JANUARY stepped forward.

When a year has passed, I think I shall be able to tell you what the
twelve passengers have brought to you, to me, and to all of us. Just
now I do not know, and probably even they do not know themselves, for we
live in strange times.




LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY

(FEBRUARY 12)




HE RESCUES THE BIRDS

BY NOAH BROOKS (ADAPTED)

Once, while riding through the country with some other lawyers, Lincoln
was missed from the party, and was seen loitering near a thicket of wild
plum trees where the men had stopped a short time before to water their
horses.

“Where is Lincoln?” asked one of the lawyers.

“When I saw him last,” answered another, “he had caught two young birds
that the wind had blown out of their nest, and was hunting for the nest
to put them back again.”

As Lincoln joined them, the lawyers rallied him on his
tender-heartedness, and he said:--

“I could not have slept unless I had restored those little birds to
their mother.”




LINCOLN AND THE LITTLE GIRL

BY CHARLES W. MOORES

In the old days, when Lincoln was one of the leading lawyers of the
State, he noticed a little girl of ten who stood beside a trunk in front
of her home crying bitterly. He stopped to learn what was wrong, and was
told that she was about to miss a long-promised visit to Decatur because
the wagon had not come for her.

“You needn't let that trouble you,” was his cheering reply. “Just come
along with me and we shall make it all right.”

Lifting the trunk upon his shoulder, and taking the little girl by the
hand, he went through the streets of Springfield, a half-mile to the
railway station, put her and her trunk on the train, and sent her away
with a happiness in her heart that is still there.




TRAINING FOR THE PRESIDENCY

BY ORISON SWETT MARDEN

“I meant to take good care of your book, Mr. Crawford,” said the boy,
“but I've damaged it a good deal without intending to, and now I want to
make it right with you. What shall I do to make it good?”

“Why, what happened to it, Abe?” asked the rich farmer, as he took the
copy of Weems's “Life of Washington” which he had lent young Lincoln,
and looked at the stained leaves and warped binding. “It looks as if it
had been out through all last night's storm. How came you to forget, and
leave it out to soak?”

“It was this way, Mr. Crawford,” replied Abe. “I sat up late to read
it, and when I went to bed, I put it away carefully in my bookcase, as
I call it, a little opening between two logs in the wall of our cabin. I
dreamed about General Washington all night. When I woke up I took it out
to read a page or two before I did the chores, and you can't imagine how
I felt when I found it in this shape. It seems that the mud-daubing
had got out of the weather side of that crack, and the rain must have
dripped on it three or four hours before I took it out. I'm sorry, Mr.
Crawford, and want to fix it up with you, if you can tell me how, for I
have not got money to pay for it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Crawford, “come and shuck corn three days, and the book
's yours.”

Had Mr. Crawford told young Abraham Lincoln that he had fallen heir to
a fortune the boy could hardly have felt more elated. Shuck corn only
three days, and earn the book that told all about his greatest hero!

“I don't intend to shuck corn, split rails, and the like always,” he
told Mrs. Crawford, after he had read the volume. “I'm going to fit
myself for a profession.”

“Why, what do you want to be, now?” asked Mrs. Crawford in surprise.

“Oh, I'll be President!” said Abe with a smile.

“You'd make a pretty President with all your tricks and jokes, now,
wouldn't you?” said the farmer's wife.

“Oh, I'll study and get ready,” replied the boy, “and then maybe the
chance will come.”




WHY LINCOLN WAS CALLED “HONEST ABE”

BY NOAH BROOKS

In managing the country store, as in everything that he undertook for
others, Lincoln did his very best. He was honest, civil, ready to do
anything that should encourage customers to come to the place, full of
pleasantries, patient, and alert.

On one occasion, finding late at night, when he counted over his cash,
that he had taken a few cents from a customer more than was due,
he closed the store, and walked a long distance to make good the
deficiency.

At another time, discovering on the scales in the morning a weight with
which he had weighed out a package of tea for a woman the night before,
he saw that he had given her too little for her money. He weighed out
what was due, and carried it to her, much to the surprise of the woman,
who had not known that she was short in the amount of her purchase.

Innumerable incidents of this sort are related of Lincoln, and we should
not have space to tell of the alertness with which he sprang to protect
defenseless women from insult, or feeble children from tyranny; for in
the rude community in which he lived, the rights of the defenseless were
not always respected as they should have been. There were bullies then,
as now.




A STRANGER AT FIVE-POINTS

(ADAPTED)

One afternoon in February, 1860, when the Sunday School of the
Five-Point House of Industry in New York was assembled, the teacher
saw a most remarkable man enter the room and take his place among the
others. This stranger was tall, his frame was gaunt and sinewy, his head
powerful, with determined features overcast by a gentle melancholy.

He listened with fixed attention to the exercises. His face expressed
such genuine interest that the teacher, approaching him, suggested that
he might have something to say to the children.

The stranger accepted the invitation with evident pleasure. Coming
forward, he began to speak and at once fascinated every child in the
room. His language was beautiful yet simple, his tones were musical, and
he spoke with deep feeling.

The faces of the boys and girls drooped sadly as he uttered warnings,
and then brightened with joy as he spoke cheerful words of promise. Once
or twice he tried to close his remarks, but the children shouted: “Go
on! Oh! do go on!” and he was forced to continue.

At last he finished his talk and was leaving the room quietly when the
teacher begged to know his name.

“Abra'm Lincoln, of Illinois,” was the modest response.




A SOLOMON COME TO JUDGMENT

BY CHARLES W. MOORES

Lincoln's practical sense and his understanding of human nature enabled
him to save the life of the son of his old Clary's Grove friend, Jack
Armstrong, who was on trial for murder. Lincoln, learning of it, went
to the old mother who had been kind to him in the days of his boyhood
poverty, and promised her that he would get her boy free.

The witnesses were sure that Armstrong was guilty, and one of them
declared that he had seen the fatal blow struck. It was late at night,
he said, and the light of the full moon had made it possible for him to
see the crime committed. Lincoln, on cross-examination, asked him only
questions enough to make the jury see that it was the full moon that
made it possible for the witness to see what occurred; got him to say
two or three times that he was sure of it, and seemed to give up any
further effort to save the boy.

But when the evidence was finished, and Lincoln's time came to make his
argument, he called for an almanac, which the clerk of the court had
ready for him, and handed it to the jury. They saw at once that on the
night of the murder there was no moon at all. They were satisfied that
the witness had told what was not true. Lincoln's case was won.




GEORGE PICKETT'S FRIEND

BY CHARLES W. MOORES

George Pickett, who had known Lincoln in Illinois, years before, joined
the Southern army, and by his conspicuous bravery and ability had become
one of the great generals of the Confederacy. Toward the close of the
war, when a large part of Virginia had fallen into the possession of the
Union army, the President called at General Pickett's Virginia home.

The general's wife, with her baby on her arm, met him at the door. She
herself has told the story for us.

“'Is this George Pickett's home?' he asked.

“With all the courage and dignity I could muster, I replied: 'Yes, and I
am his wife, and this is his baby.'

“'I am Abraham Lincoln.'

“'The President!' I gasped. I had never seen him, but I knew the intense
love and reverence with which my soldier always spoke of him.

“The stranger shook his head and replied: 'No; Abraham Lincoln, George's
old friend.'

“The baby pushed away from me and reached out his hands to Mr. Lincoln,
who took him in his arms. As he did so an expression of rapt, almost
divine tenderness and love lighted up the sad face. It was a look that
I have never seen on any other face. The baby opened his mouth wide and
insisted upon giving his father's friend a dewy kiss.

“As Mr. Lincoln gave the little one back to me he said: 'Tell your
father, the rascal, that I forgive him for the sake of your bright
eyes.'”




LINCOLN THE LAWYER

BY Z. A. MUDGE (ADAPTED)

He delighted to advocate the cases of those whom he knew to be wronged,
but he would not defend the cause of the guilty. If he discovered in the
course of a trial that he was on the wrong side, he lost all interest,
and ceased to make any exertion.

Once, while engaged in a prosecution, he discovered that his client's
cause was not a good one, and he refused to make the plea. His
associate, who was less scrupulous, made the plea and obtained a
decision in their favor. The fee was nine hundred dollars, half of which
was tendered to Mr. Lincoln, but he refused to accept a single cent of
it.

His honesty was strongly illustrated by the way he kept his accounts
with his law-partner. When he had taken a fee in the latter's absence,
he put one half of it into his own pocket, and laid the other half
carefully away, labeling it “Billy,” the name by which he familiarly
addressed his partner. When asked why he did not make a record of the
amount and, for the time being, use the whole, Mr. Lincoln answered:
“Because I promised my mother never to use money belonging to another
person.”




THE COURAGE OF HIS CONVICTIONS

(ADAPTED)

Mr. Lincoln made the great speech of his famous senatorial campaign at
Springfield, Illinois. The convention before which he spoke consisted
of a thousand delegates together with the crowd that had gathered with
them.

His speech was carefully prepared. Every sentence was guarded and
emphatic. It has since become famous as “The Divided House” speech.
Before entering the hall where it was to be delivered, he stepped into
the office of his law-partner, Mr. Herndon, and, locking the door, so
that their interview might be private, took his manuscript from
his pocket, and read one of the opening sentences: “I believe this
government cannot endure permanently, half slave and half free.”

Mr. Herndon remarked that the sentiment was true, but suggested that it
might not be GOOD POLICY to utter it at that time.

Mr. Lincoln replied with great firmness: “No matter about the POLICY. It
is TRUE, and the nation is entitled to it. The proposition has been true
for six thousand years, and I will deliver it as it is written.”




MR. LINCOLN AND THE BIBLE

BY Z. A. MUDGE (ADAPTED)

A visitor in Washington once had an appointment to see Mr. Lincoln
at five o'clock in the morning. The gentleman made a hasty toilet
and presented himself at a quarter of five in the waiting-room of the
President. He asked the usher if he could see Mr. Lincoln.

“No,” he replied.

“But I have an engagement to meet him this morning,” answered the
visitor.

“At what hour?” asked the usher.

“At five o'clock.”

“Well, sir, he will see you at five.”

The visitor waited patiently, walking to and fro for a few minutes, when
he heard a voice as if in grave conversation.

“Who is talking in the next room?” he asked.

“It is the President, sir,” said the usher, who then explained that
it was Mr. Lincoln's custom to spend every morning from four to five
reading the Scriptures, and praying.




HIS SPRINGFIELD FAREWELL ADDRESS

It was on the morning of February 11, 1861, that the President-elect,
together with his family and a small party of friends, bade adieu to the
city of Springfield, which, alas! he was never to see again.

A large throng of Springfield citizens assembled at the railway station
to see the departure, and before the train left Mr. Lincoln addressed
them in the following words:--

“MY FRIENDS: No one, not in my position, can appreciate the sadness I
feel at this parting. To this people I owe all that I am. Here I have
lived more than a quarter of a century; here my children were born, and
here one of them lies buried. I know not how soon I shall see you again.
A duty devolves upon me which is, perhaps, greater than that which has
devolved upon any other man since the days of Washington. He never would
have succeeded except by the aid of Divine Providence, upon which he at
all times relied. I feel that I cannot succeed without the same Divine
aid which sustained him, and on the same Almighty Being I place my
reliance for support; and I hope you, my friends, will all pray that I
may receive that Divine assistance, without which I cannot succeed,
but with which success is certain. Again I bid you an affectionate
farewell.”




SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY

(FEBRUARY 14)

SAINT VALENTINE

The good Saint Valentine was a priest at Rome in the days of Claudius
II. He and Saint Marius aided the Christian martyrs, and for this kind
deed Saint Valentine was apprehended and dragged before the Prefect of
Rome, who condemned him to be beaten to death with clubs and to have his
head cut off. He suffered martyrdom on the 14th day of February, about
the year 270.

At that time it was the custom in Rome, a very ancient custom, indeed,
to celebrate in the month of February the Lupercalia, feasts in honor of
a heathen god.

On these occasions, amidst a variety of pagan ceremonies, the names of
young women were placed in a box, from which they were drawn by the men
as chance directed.

The pastors of the early Christian Church in Rome endeavored to do away
with the pagan element in these feasts by substituting the names of
saints for those of maidens. And as the Lupercalia began about the
middle of February, the pastors appear to have chosen Saint Valentine's
Day for the celebration of this new feast.

So it seems that the custom of young men choosing maidens for
valentines, or saints as patrons for the coming year, arose in this
wise.




A PRISONER'S VALENTINE

BY MILLICENT OLMSTED (ADAPTED)

Charles, Duke of Orleans, who was taken prisoner at the battle of
Agincourt in 1415, and detained in England twenty-five years, was the
author of the earliest known written valentines. He left about sixty of
them. They were written during his confinement in the Tower of London,
and are still to be seen among the royal papers in the British Museum.

One of his valentines reads as follows:--

    “Wilt thou be mine? dear Love, reply--
      Sweetly consent or else deny.
      Whisper softly, none shall know,
      Wilt thou be mine, Love?--aye or no?

    “Spite of Fortune, we may be
      Happy by one word from thee.
      Life flies swiftly--ere it go
      Wilt thou be mine, Love?--aye or no?”




A GIRL'S VALENTINE CHARM

AS TOLD BY HERSELF

(FROM THE CONNOISSEUR, 1775)

Last Friday was Valentine's Day, and I'll tell you what I did the night
before. I got five bay leaves, and pinned four of them to the four
corners of my pillow, and the fifth to the middle; and then if I dreamt
of my sweetheart, Betty said we would be married before the year was
out.

But to make it more sure, I boiled an egg hard, and took out the yolk,
and filled it with salt, and when I went to bed ate it, shell and all,
without speaking or drinking after it.

We also wrote our lovers' names upon bits of paper, and rolled them up
in clay and put them into water; and the first that rose up was to be
our valentine. Would you think it? Mr. Blossom was my man, and I lay
abed and shut my eyes all the morning, till he came to our house, for I
would not have seen another man before him for all the world.




MR. PEPYS HIS VALENTINE

AS RELATED BY HIMSELF IN 1666

(ADAPTED)

This morning, came up to my wife's bedside, I being up dressing myself,
little Will Mercer, to be her valentine; and brought her name writ upon
blue paper in gold letters, done by himself, very pretty; and we were
both well pleased with it.

But I am also this year my wife's valentine; and it will cost me five
pounds; but that I must have laid out if we had not been valentines.

I find also that Mrs. Pierce's little girl is my valentine, she having
drawn me; which I am not sorry for, it easing me of something more that
I must have given to others.

But here I do first observe the fashion of drawing of mottoes as well as
names; so that Pierce, who drew my wife, did draw also a motto, and this
girl drew another for me. What mine was I have forgot, but my wife's
was: “Most virtuous and most fair,” which, as it may be used, or an
anagram made upon each name, might be; very pretty.




CUPID AND PSYCHE

BY JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

THE ENCHANTED PALACE

Once upon a time, through that Destiny that overrules the gods, Love
himself gave up his immortal heart to a mortal maiden. And thus it came
to pass:--

There was a certain king who had three beautiful daughters. The two
elder married princes of great renown; but Psyche, the youngest, was so
radiantly fair that no suitor seemed worthy of her. People thronged
to see her pass through the city, and sang hymns in her praise, while
strangers took her for the very goddess of beauty herself.

This angered Venus, and she resolved to cast down her earthly rival. One
day, therefore, she called hither her son, Love (Cupid, some name him),
and bade him sharpen his weapons. He is an archer more to be dreaded
than Apollo, for Apollo's arrows take life, but Love's bring joy or
sorrow for a whole life long.

“Come, Love,” said Venus. “There is a mortal maid who robs me of my
honors in yonder city. Avenge your mother. Wound this precious Psyche,
and let her fall in love with some churlish creature mean in the eyes of
all men.”

Cupid made ready his weapons, and flew down to earth invisibly. At that
moment Psyche was asleep in her chamber; but he touched her heart with
his golden arrow of love, and she opened her eyes so suddenly that he
started (forgetting that he was invisible), and wounded himself with
his own shaft. Heedless of the hurt, moved only by the loveliness of the
maiden, he hastened to pour over her locks the healing joy that he ever
kept by him, undoing all his work. Back to her dream the princess went,
unshadowed by any thought of love. But Cupid, not so light of heart,
returned to the heavens, saying not a word of what had passed.

Venus waited long; then, seeing that Psyche's heart had somehow escaped
love, she sent a spell upon the maiden. From that time, lovely as she
was, not a suitor came to woo; and her parents, who desired to see her a
queen at least, made a journey to the Oracle, and asked counsel.

Said the voice: “The Princess Psyche shall never wed a mortal. She shall
be given to one who waits for her on yonder mountain; he overcomes gods
and men.”

At this terrible sentence the poor parents were half-distraught, and
the people gave themselves up to grief at the fate in store for their
beloved princess. Psyche alone bowed to her destiny. “We have angered
Venus unwittingly,” she said, “and all for sake of me, heedless maiden
that I am! Give me up, therefore, dear father and mother. If I atone, it
may be that the city will prosper once more.”

So she besought them, until, after many unavailing denials, the parents
consented; and with a great company of people they led Psyche up
the mountain,--as an offering to the monster of whom the Oracle had
spoken,--and left her there alone.

Full of courage, yet in a secret agony of grief, she watched her kindred
and her people wind down the mountain-path, too sad to look back, until
they were lost to sight. Then, indeed, she wept, but a sudden breeze
drew near, dried her tears, and caressed her hair, seeming to murmur
comfort. In truth, it was Zephyr, the kindly West Wind, come to befriend
her; and as she took heart, feeling some benignant presence, he lifted
her in his arms, and carried her on wings as even as a sea-gull's, over
the crest of the fateful mountain and into a valley below. There he left
her, resting on a bank of hospitable grass, and there the princess fell
asleep.

When she awoke, it was near sunset. She looked about her for some sign
of the monster's approach; she wondered, then, if her grievous trial had
been but a dream. Near by she saw a sheltering forest, whose young
trees seemed to beckon as one maid beckons to another; and eager for the
protection of the dryads, she went thither.

The call of running waters drew her farther and farther, till she
came out upon an open place, where there was a wide pool. A fountain
fluttered gladly in the midst of it, and beyond there stretched a white
palace wonderful to see. Coaxed by the bright promise of the place, she
drew near, and, seeing no one, entered softly. It was all kinglier than
her father's home, and as she stood in wonder and awe, soft airs stirred
about her. Little by little the silence grew murmurous like the woods,
and one voice, sweeter than the rest, took words. “All that you see is
yours, gentle high princess,” it said. “Fear nothing; only command us,
for we are here to serve you.”

Full of amazement and delight, Psyche followed the voice from hall to
hall, and through the lordly rooms, beautiful with everything that could
delight a young princess. No pleasant thing was lacking. There was even
a pool, brightly tiled and fed with running waters, where she bathed her
weary limbs; and after she had put on the new and beautiful raiment that
lay ready for her, she sat down to break her fast, waited upon and sung
to by the unseen spirits.

Surely he whom the Oracle had called her husband was no monster, but
some beneficent power, invisible like all the rest. When daylight waned
he came, and his voice, the beautiful voice of a god, inspired her to
trust her strange destiny and to look and long for his return. Often
she begged him to stay with her through the day, that she might see his
face; but this he would not grant.

“Never doubt me, dearest Psyche,” said he. “Perhaps you would fear if
you saw me, and love is all I ask. There is a necessity that keeps me
hidden now. Only believe.”

So for many days Psyche was content; but when she grew used to
happiness, she thought once more of her parents mourning her as lost,
and of her sisters who shared the lot of mortals while she lived as a
goddess. One night she told her husband of these regrets, and begged
that her sisters at least might come to see her. He sighed, but did not
refuse.

“Zephyr shall bring them hither,” said he. And on the following morning,
swift as a bird, the West Wind came over the crest of the high mountain
and down into the enchanted valley, bearing her two sisters.

They greeted Psyche with joy and amazement, hardly knowing how they had
come hither. But when this fairest of the sisters led them through her
palace and showed them all the treasures that were hers, envy grew in
their hearts and choked their old love. Even while they sat at feast
with her, they grew more and more bitter; and hoping to find some little
flaw in her good fortune, they asked a thousand questions.

“Where is your husband?” said they. “And why is he not here with you?”

“Ah,” stammered Psyche. “All the day long--he is gone, hunting upon the
mountains.”

“But what does he look like?” they asked; and Psyche could find no
answer.

When they learned that she had never seen him, they laughed her faith to
scorn.

“Poor Psyche,” they said. “You are walking in a dream. Wake, before it
is too late. Have you forgotten what the Oracle decreed,--that you were
destined for a dreadful creature, the fear of gods and men? And are
you deceived by this show of kindliness? We have come to warn you. The
people told us, as we came over the mountain, that your husband is
a dragon, who feeds you well for the present, that he may feast the
better, some day soon. What is it that you trust? Good words! But only
take a dagger some night, and when the monster is asleep go, light a
lamp, and look at him. You can put him to death easily, and all his
riches will be yours--and ours.”

Psyche heard this wicked plan with horror. Nevertheless, after her
sisters were gone, she brooded over what they had said, not seeing their
evil intent; and she came to find some wisdom in their words. Little
by little, suspicion ate, like a moth, into her lovely mind; and
at nightfall, in shame and fear, she hid a lamp and a dagger in her
chamber. Towards midnight, when her husband was fast asleep, up she
rose, hardly daring to breathe; and coming softly to his side, she
uncovered the lamp to see some horror.

But there the youngest of the gods lay sleeping,--most beautiful, most
irresistible of all immortals. His hair shone golden as the sun, his
face was radiant as dear Springtime, and from his shoulders sprang two
rainbow wings.

Poor Psyche was overcome with self-reproach. As she leaned towards him,
filled with worship, her trembling hands held the lamp ill, and some
burning oil fell upon Love's shoulder and awakened him.

He opened his eyes, to see at once his bride and the dark suspicion in
her heart.

“O doubting Psyche!” he exclaimed with sudden grief,--and then he flew
away, out of the window.

Wild with sorrow, Psyche tried to follow, but she fell to the ground
instead. When she recovered her senses, she stared about her. She was
alone, and the place was beautiful no longer. Garden and palace had
vanished with Love.




THE TRIAL OF PSYCHE:


Over mountains and valleys Psyche journeyed alone until she came to the
city where her two envious sisters lived with the princes whom they had
married. She stayed with them only long enough to tell the story of her
unbelief and its penalty. Then she set out again to search for Love.

As she wandered one day, travel-worn but not hopeless, she saw a lofty
palace on a hill near by, and she turned her steps thither. The place
seemed deserted. Within the hall she saw no human being,--only heaps
of grain, loose ears of corn half torn from the husk, wheat and barley,
alike scattered in confusion on the floor. Without delay, she set to
work binding the sheaves together and gathering the scattered ears of
corn in seemly wise, as a princess would wish to see them. While she
was in the midst of her task, a voice startled her, and she looked up
to behold Demeter herself, the goddess of the harvest, smiling upon her
with good will.

“Dear Psyche,” said Demeter, “you are worthy of happiness, and you may
find it yet. But since you have displeased Venus, go to her and ask her
favor. Perhaps your patience will win her pardon.”

These motherly words gave Psyche heart, and she reverently took leave of
the goddess and set out for the temple of Venus. Most humbly she offered
up her prayer, but Venus could not look at her earthly beauty without
anger.

“Vain girl,” said she, “perhaps you have come to make amends for the
wound you dealt your husband; you shall do so. Such clever people can
always find work!”

Then she led Psyche into a great chamber heaped high with mingled grain,
beans, and lentils (the food of her doves), and bade her separate them
all and have them ready in seemly fashion by night. Heracles would have
been helpless before such a vexatious task; and poor Psyche, left alone
in this desert of grain, had not courage to begin. But even as she sat
there, a moving thread of black crawled across the floor from a crevice
in the wall; and bending nearer, she saw that a great army of ants in
columns had come to her aid. The zealous little creatures worked in
swarms, with such industry over the work they like best, that, when
Venus came at night, she found the task completed.

“Deceitful girl,” she cried, shaking the roses out of her hair with
impatience, “this is my son's work, not yours. But he will soon forget
you. Eat this black bread if you are hungry, and refresh your dull mind
with sleep. To-morrow you will need more wit.”

Psyche wondered what new misfortune could be in store for her. But when
morning came, Venus led her to the brink of a river, and, pointing to
the wood across the water, said: “Go now to yonder grove where the sheep
with the golden fleece are wont to browse. Bring me a golden lock from
every one of them, or you must go your ways and never come back again.”

This seemed not difficult, and Psyche obediently bade the goddess
farewell, and stepped into the water, ready to wade across. But as Venus
disappeared, the reeds sang louder and the nymphs of the river, looking
up sweetly, blew bubbles to the surface and murmured: “Nay, nay, have a
care, Psyche. This flock has not the gentle ways of sheep. While the
sun burns aloft, they are themselves as fierce as flame; but when the
shadows are long, they go to rest and sleep, under the trees; and you
may cross the river without fear and pick the golden fleece off the
briers in the pasture.”

Thanking the water-creatures, Psyche sat down to rest near them, and
when the time came, she crossed in safety and followed their counsel. By
twilight she returned to Venus with her arms full of shining fleece.

“No mortal wit did this,” said Venus angrily. “But if you care to prove
your readiness, go now, with this little box, down to Proserpina and ask
her to enclose in it some of her beauty, for I have grown pale in caring
for my wounded son.”

It needed not the last taunt to sadden Psyche. She knew that it was not
for mortals to go into Hades and return alive; and feeling that Love had
forsaken her, she was minded to accept her doom as soon as might be.

But even as she hastened towards the descent, another friendly voice
detained her. “Stay, Psyche, I know your grief. Only give ear and you
shall learn a safe way through all these trials.” And the voice went on
to tell her how one might avoid all the dangers of Hades and come out
unscathed. (But such a secret could not pass from mouth to mouth, with
the rest of the story.)

“And be sure,” added the voice, “when Proserpina has returned the box,
not to open it, ever much you may long to do so.”

Psyche gave heed, and by this device, whatever it was, she found her way
into Hades safely, and made her errand known to Proserpina, and was soon
in the upper world again, wearied but hopeful.

“Surely Love has not forgotten me,” she said. “But humbled as I am and
worn with toil, how shall I ever please him? Venus can never need all
the beauty in this casket; and since I use it for Love's sake, it must
be right to take some.” So saying, she opened the box, heedless as
Pandora! The spells and potions of Hades are not for mortal maids, and
no sooner had she inhaled the strange aroma than she fell down like one
dead, quite overcome.

But it happened that Love himself was recovered from his wound, and he
had secretly fled from his chamber to seek out and rescue Psyche.
He found her lying by the wayside; he gathered into the casket what
remained of the philter, and awoke his beloved.

“Take comfort,” he said, smiling. “Return to our mother and do her
bidding till I come again.”

Away he flew; and while Psyche went cheerily homeward, he hastened up to
Olympus, where all the gods sat feasting, and begged them to intercede
for him with his angry mother.

They heard his story and their hearts were touched. Zeus himself coaxed
Venus with kind words till at last she relented, and remembered that
anger hurt her beauty, and smiled once more. All the younger gods were
for welcoming Psyche at once, and Hermes was sent to bring her hither.
The maiden came, a shy newcomer among those bright creatures. She took
the cup that Hebe held out to her, drank the divine ambrosia, and became
immortal.

Light came to her face like moonrise, two radiant wings sprang from her
shoulders; and even as a butterfly bursts from its dull cocoon, so the
human Psyche blossomed into immortality.

Love took her by the hand, and they were never parted any more.




WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

(FEBRUARY 22)


THREE OLD TALES

BY M. L. WEEMS (ADAPTED)




I. THE CHERRY TREE

When George was about six years old, he was made the wealthy master of a
hatchet of which, like most little boys, he was extremely fond. He went
about chopping everything that came his way.

One day, as he wandered about the garden amusing himself by hacking his
mother's pea-sticks, he found a beautiful, young English cherry tree, of
which his father was most proud. He tried the edge of his hatchet on the
trunk of the tree and barked it so that it died.

Some time after this, his father discovered what had happened to his
favorite tree. He came into the house in great anger, and demanded to
know who the mischievous person was who had cut away the bark. Nobody
could tell him anything about it.

Just then George, with his little hatchet, came into the room.

“George,” said his father, “do you know who has killed my beautiful
little cherry tree yonder in the garden? I would not have taken five
guineas for it!”

This was a hard question to answer, and for a moment George was
staggered by it, but quickly recovering himself he cried:--

“I cannot tell a lie, father, you know I cannot tell a lie! I did cut it
with my little hatchet.”

The anger died out of his father's face, and taking the boy tenderly in
his arms, he said:--

“My son, that you should not be afraid to tell the truth is more to me
than a thousand trees! yes, though they were blossomed with silver and
had leaves of the purest gold!”




II. THE APPLE ORCHARD


One fine morning in the autumn Mr. Washington, taking little George by
the hand, walked with him to the apple orchard, promising that he would
show him a fine sight.

On arriving at the orchard they saw a fine sight, indeed! The green
grass under the trees was strewn with red-cheeked apples, and yet the
trees were bending under the weight of fruit that hung thick among the
leaves.

“Now, George,” said his father, “look, my son, see all this rich harvest
of fruit! Do you remember when your good cousin brought you a fine,
large apple last spring, how you refused to divide it with your
brothers? And yet I told you then that, if you would be generous, God
would give you plenty of apples this autumn.”

Poor George could not answer, but hanging down his head looked quite
confused, while with his little, naked, bare feet he scratched in the
soft ground.

“Now, look up, my son,” continued his father, “and see how the blessed
God has richly provided us with these trees loaded with the finest
fruit. See how abundant is the harvest. Some of the trees are bending
beneath their burdens, while the ground is covered with mellow apples,
more than you could eat, my son, in all your lifetime.”

George looked in silence on the orchard, he marked the busy, humming
bees, and heard the gay notes of the birds fluttering from tree to tree.
His eyes filled with tears and he answered softly:--

“Truly, father, I never will be selfish any more.”




III. THE GARDEN-BED


One day Mr. Washington went into the garden and dug a little bed of
earth and prepared it for seed. He then took a stick and traced on the
bed George's name in full. After this he strewed the tracing thickly
with seeds, and smoothed all over nicely with his roller.

This garden-bed he purposely prepared close to a gooseberry-walk. The
bushes were hung with the ripe fruit, and he knew that George would
visit them every morning.

Not many days had passed away when one morning George came running
into the house, breathless with excitement, and his eyes shining with
happiness.

“Come here! father, come here!” he cried.

“What's the matter, my son?” asked his father.

“O come, father,” answered George, “and I'll show you such a sight as
you have never seen in all your lifetime.”

Mr. Washington gave the boy his hand, which he seized with great
eagerness. He led his father straight to the garden-bed, whereon in
large letters, in lines of soft green, was written:--

GEORGE WASHINGTON




YOUNG GEORGE AND THE COLT

BY HORACE E. SCUDDER

There is a story told of George Washington's boyhood,--unfortunately
there are not many stories,--which is to the point. His father had taken
a great deal of pride in his blooded horses, and his mother afterward
took pains to keep the stock pure. She had several young horses that
had not yet been broken, and one of them in particular, a sorrel, was
extremely spirited. No one had been able to do anything with it, and it
was pronounced thoroughly vicious as people are apt to pronounce horses
which they have not learned to master.

George was determined to ride this colt, and told his companions that if
they would help him catch it, he would ride and tame it.

Early in the morning they set out for the pasture, where the boys
managed to surround the sorrel, and then to put a bit into its mouth.
Washington sprang upon its back, the boys dropped the bridle, and away
flew the angry animal.

Its rider at once began to command. The horse resisted, backing about
the field, rearing and plunging. The boys became thoroughly alarmed,
but Washington kept his seat, never once losing his self-control or his
mastery of the colt.

The struggle was a sharp one; when suddenly, as if determined to rid
itself of its rider, the creature leaped into the air with a tremendous
bound. It was its last. The violence burst a blood-vessel, and the noble
horse fell dead.

Before the boys could sufficiently recover to consider how they should
extricate themselves from the scrape, they were called to breakfast;
and the mistress of the house, knowing that they had been in the fields,
began to ask after her stock.

“Pray, young gentlemen,” said she, “have you seen my blooded colts in
your rambles? I hope they are well taken care of. My favorite, I am
told, is as large as his sire.”

The boys looked at one another, and no one liked to speak. Of course the
mother repeated her question.

“The sorrel is dead, madam,” said her son, “I killed him.”

And then he told the whole story. They say that his mother flushed with
anger, as her son often used to, and then, like him, controlled herself,
and presently said, quietly:--

“It is well; but while I regret the loss of my favorite, I rejoice in my
son who always speaks the truth.”




WASHINGTON THE ATHLETE

BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL AND FRANCIS E. BALL

Many stories are told of the mighty power of Washington's right arm. It
is said that he once threw a stone from the bed of the stream to the top
of the Natural Bridge, in Virginia.

Again, we are told that once upon a time he rounded a piece of slate
to the size of a silver dollar, and threw it across the Rappahannock
at Fredericksburg, the slate falling at least thirty feet on the other
side. Many strong men have since tried the same feat, but have never
cleared the water.

Peale, who was called the soldier-artist, was once visiting Washington
at Mount Vernon. One day, he tells us, some athletic young men were
pitching the iron bar in the presence of their host. Suddenly, without
taking off his coat, Washington grasped the bar and hurled it, with
little effort, much farther than any of them had done.

“We were, indeed, amazed,” said one of the young men, “as we stood
round, all stripped to the buff, and having thought ourselves very
clever fellows, while the Colonel, on retiring, pleasantly said:--

“'When you beat my pitch, young gentlemen, I'll try again.'”

At another time, Washington witnessed a wrestling-match. The champion of
the day challenged him, in sport, to wrestle. Washington did not stop to
take off his coat, but grasped the “strong man of Virginia.” It was
all over in a moment, for, said the wrestler, “In Washington's lionlike
grasp I became powerless, and was hurled to the ground with a force that
seemed to jar the very marrow in my bones.”

In the days of the Revolution, some of the riflemen and the backwoodsmen
were men of gigantic strength, but it was generally believed by good
judges that their commander-in-chief was the strongest man in the army.




WASHINGTON'S MODESTY

BY HENRY CABOT LODGE (ADAPTED)

Washington as soon as Fort Duquesne had fallen hurried home, resigned
his commission, and was married. The sunshine and glitter of the
wedding day must have appeared to Washington deeply appropriate, for
he certainly seemed to have all that heart of man could desire. Just
twenty-seven, in the first flush of young manhood, keen of sense and yet
wise in experience, life must have looked very fair and smiling. He had
left the army with a well-earned fame, and had come home to take the
wife of his choice, and enjoy the good will and respect of all men.

While away on his last campaign he had been elected a member of
the House of Burgesses, and when he took his seat, on removing to
Williamsburg, three months after his marriage, Mr. Robinson, the
Speaker, thanked him publicly in eloquent words for his services to the
country.

Washington rose to reply, but he was so utterly unable to talk about
himself that he stood before the House stammering and blushing until the
Speaker said:--

“Sit down, Mr. Washington, your modesty equals your valor, and that
surpasses the power of any language I possess.”




WASHINGTON AT YORKTOWN

BY HENRY CABOT LODGE

During the assault Washington stood in an embrasure of the grand
battery, watching the advance of the men. He was always given to
exposing himself recklessly when there was fighting to be done, but not
when he was only an observer.

This night, however, he was much exposed to the enemy's fire. One of his
aides, anxious and disturbed for his safety, told him that the place was
perilous.

“If you think so,” was the quiet answer, “you are at liberty to step
back.”

The moment was too exciting, too fraught with meaning, to think of
peril. The old fighting spirit of Braddock's field was unchained for the
last time. He would have liked to head the American assault, sword in
hand, and as he could not do that, he stood as near his troops as he
could, utterly regardless of the bullets whistling in the air about him.
Who can wonder at his intense excitement at that moment?

Others saw a brilliant storming of two out-works, but to Washington the
whole Revolution and all the labor and thought and conflict of six years
were culminating in the smoke and din on those redoubts, while out of
the dust and heat of the sharp, quick fight success was coming.

He had waited long, and worked hard, and his whole soul went out as he
watched the troops cross the abatis and scale the works. He could have
no thought of danger then, and when all was over, he turned to Knox and
said:--

“The work is done, and well done. Bring me my horse.”




RESURRECTION DAY (EASTER)

(MARCH OR APRIL)




A LESSON OF FAITH

BY MRS. ALFRED GATTY (ADAPTED)

“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 fashion.

“See these little eggs,” continued the butterfly; “I do not know how
long it will be before they come to life, and I feel very sick. If I
should die, who will take care of my baby butterflies when I am gone?
Will you, kind, mild, green 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.
Dear me! it is a sad pity that you cannot fly yourself. 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 bore upon! 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 died. 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 did she ever ask 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.”

However, the poor butterfly was dead, 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 two heads are better than one,” said she; “I will consult some wise
animal on the matter.”

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.

Now in the neighboring cornfield there lived a lark, and the caterpillar
sent a message to him, begging him to come and talk to her. When he came
she told him all her difficulties, and asked him how she was to feed and
rear the little butterfly creatures.

“Perhaps you will be able to inquire and learn something about it the
next time you go up high,” said the caterpillar timidly.

“Perhaps I can,” answered the lark; and then he went singing upwards
into the bright, blue sky, till the green caterpillar could not hear a
sound, nor could she see him any more. So she began to 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. He must have flown higher than usual this time. How I
should like to know where he goes, and what he hears in that curious
blue sky! He always sings going up and coming down, but he never lets
any secret out.”

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 anything I am told,” said the caterpillar hastily.

“Well, then, first of all, I will tell you what those little creatures
are to eat”--and the lark nodded his head toward the eggs. “What do you
think it is to be? Guess!”

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

“No such thing, my good friend,” cried the lark exultantly; “you are to
feed them with cabbage-leaves!”

“Never!” said the caterpillar indignantly.

“It was their mother's last request that I should feed them on dew and
honey.”

“Their mother knew nothing about the matter,” answered 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.

“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.

“I thought the lark was wise and kind,” said the mild, green caterpillar
to herself, 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.
How I wonder what 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,” answered the caterpillar.

“Then I'll tell you something else,” cried the lark. “YOU WILL ONE DAY
BE A BUTTERFLY YOURSELF!”

“Wretched bird,” exclaimed the caterpillar, “you are making fun of me.
You are now 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 I am told,” persisted the
caterpillar,--“everything that it 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 do not
believe such nonsense yourself! You know it is impossible!”

“I know no such thing,” said the lark. “When I hover over the
cornfields, or go up into the depths of the sky, I see so many wonderful
things that I know there must be more. O caterpillar! it is because you
CRAWL, and never get beyond your cabbage-leaf, that you call anything
IMPOSSIBLE.”

“Nonsense,” shouted the caterpillar, “I know what's possible and what's
impossible. Look at my long, green body, and many legs, and then talk to
me about having wings! Fool!”

“More foolish you!” cried the indignant lark, “to attempt to reason
about what you cannot understand. Do you not hear how my song swells
with rejoicing as I soar upwards to the mysterious wonder-world above?
Oh, caterpillar, what comes from thence, receive as I do,--on trust.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the caterpillar.

“ON FAITH,” answered 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 hole in the cabbage-leaf. They had broken from the butterfly's eggs!

Shame and amazement filled the green caterpillar'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 cried.

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 of the
time when she should become a butterfly.

But no one believed her. She nevertheless had learned 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 she said:--

“I have known many wonders,--I HAVE FAITH,--I can trust even now for the
wonder that shall come next.”




A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR

BY CHARLES DICKENS

There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought
of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child, too, and his
constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They wondered
at the beauty of the flowers; they wondered at the height and blueness
of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water; they
wondered at the goodness and the power of God who made the lovely world.

They used to say to one another, sometimes: “Supposing all the children
upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky
be sorry?” They believed they would be sorry. “For,” said they, “the buds
are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that
gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water; and the
smallest, bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night,
must surely be the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved
to see their playmates, the children of men, no more.”

There was one clear, shining star that used to come out in the sky
before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger
and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night
they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. Whoever saw
it first cried out: “I see the star!” And often they cried out both
together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew
to be such friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they
always looked out once again, to bid it good-night; and when they were
turning round to sleep, they used to say: “God bless the star!”

But while she was still very young, oh, very, very young, the sister
drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand in the
window at night; and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and
when he saw the star turned round and said to the patient, pale face on
the bed: “I see the star!” and then a smile would come upon the face,
and a little weak voice used to say: “God bless my brother and the
star!”

And so the time came all too soon, when the child looked out alone, and
when there was no face on the bed; and when there was a little grave
among the graves, not there before; and when the star made long rays
down towards him, as he saw it through his tears.

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining
way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed
he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw
a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star,
opening, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels
waited to receive them.

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the
people who were carried up into the star; and some came out from the
long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and
kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and
were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy.

But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them
one he knew. The patient face, that once had lain upon the bed, was
glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the
host.

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to
the leader among those who had brought the people thither:--

“Is my brother come?”

And he said: “No.”

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms,
and cried: “O sister, I am here! Take me!” And then she turned her
beaming eyes upon him, and it was night; and the star was shining into
the room, making long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his
tears.

From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the home
he was to go to when his time should come; and he thought that he did
not belong to the earth alone, but to the star, too, because of his
sister's angel gone before.

There was a baby born to be a brother to the child; and while he was so
little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his tiny form out
on his bed, and died.

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels,
and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes
all turned upon those people's faces.

Said his sister's angel to the leader:--

“Is my brother come?”

And he said: “Not that one, but another.”

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried: “O
sister, I am here! Take me!” And she turned and smiled upon him, and the
star was shining.

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old
servant came to him and said:--

“Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son.”

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his
sister's angel to the leader:--

“Is my brother come?”

And he said: “Thy mother!”

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother
was reunited to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and
cried: “O mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take me!” And they
answered him: “Not yet.” And the star was shining.

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in
his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed
with tears, when the star opened once again.

Said his sister's angel to the leader:--

“Is my brother come?”

And he said: “Nay, but his maiden daughter.”

And the man, who had been the child, saw his daughter, newly lost to
him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said: “My daughter's
head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck,
and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the
parting from her, God be praised!”

And the star was shining.

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was
wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And
one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried,
as he had cried so long ago:--

“I see the star!”

They whispered one to another: “He is dying.”

And he said: “I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move
towards the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I thank Thee that it
has so often opened to receive those dear ones who await me!”

And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave.




THE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (ADAPTED)

Once there reigned a queen, in whose garden were found the most glorious
flowers at all seasons and from all the lands of the world. But more
than all others she loved the roses, and she had many kinds of this
flower, from the wild dog-rose with its apple-scented green leaves to
the most splendid, large, crimson roses. They grew against the garden
walls, wound themselves around the pillars and wind-frames, and crept
through the windows into the rooms, and all along the ceilings in the
halls. And the roses were of many colors, and of every fragrance and
form.

But care and sorrow dwelt in those halls. The queen lay upon a sick-bed,
and the doctors said she must die.

“There is still one thing that can save her,” said the wise man. “Bring
her the loveliest rose in the world, the rose that is the symbol of the
purest, the brightest love. If that is held before her eyes ere they
close, she will not die.”

Then old and young came from every side with roses, the loveliest that
bloomed in each garden, but they were not of the right sort. The flower
was to be plucked from the Garden of Love. But what rose in all that
garden expressed the highest and purest love?

And the poets sang of the loveliest rose in the world,--of the love of
maid and youth, and of the love of dying heroes.

“But they have not named the right flower,” said the wise man. “They
have not pointed out the place where it blooms in its splendor. It is
not the rose that springs from the hearts of youthful lovers, though
this rose will ever be fragrant in song. It is not the bloom that
sprouts from the blood flowing from the breast of the hero who dies
for his country, though few deaths are sweeter than his, and no rose is
redder than the blood that flows then. Nor is it the wondrous flower
to which man devotes many a sleepless night and much of his fresh
life,--the magic flower of science.”

“But I know where it blooms,” said a happy mother, who came with her
pretty child to the bedside of the dying queen. “I know where the
loveliest rose of love may be found. It springs in the blooming cheeks
of my sweet child, when, waking from sleep, it opens its eyes and smiles
tenderly at me.”

“Lovely is this rose, but there is a lovelier still,” said the wise man.

“I have seen the loveliest, purest rose that blooms,” said a woman. “I
saw it on the cheeks of the queen. She had taken off her golden crown.
And in the long, dreary night she carried her sick child in her arms.
She wept, kissed it, and prayed for her child.”

“Holy and wonderful is the white rose of a mother's grief,” answered the
wise man, “but it is not the one we seek.”

“The loveliest rose in the world I saw at the altar of the Lord,” said
the good Bishop, “the young maidens went to the Lord's Table. Roses
were blushing and pale roses shining on their fresh cheeks. A young girl
stood there. She looked with all the love and purity of her spirit up to
heaven. That was the expression of the highest and purest love.”

“May she be blessed,” said the wise man, “but not one of you has yet
named the loveliest rose in the world.”

Then there came into the room a child, the queen's little son.

“Mother,” cried the boy, “only hear what I have read.”

And the child sat by the bedside and read from the Book of Him who
suffered death upon the cross to save men, and even those who were not
yet born. “Greater love there is not.”

And a rosy glow spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes
gleamed, for she saw that from the leaves of the Book there bloomed the
loveliest rose, that sprang from the blood of Christ shed on the cross.

“I see it!” she said, “he who beholds this, the loveliest rose on earth,
shall never die.”




MAY DAY

(MAY 1)




THE SNOWDROP [1]

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (ADAPTED)

[Footnote 1: From For the Children's Hour, by Carolyn Sherwin Bailey and
Clara M. Lewis. Copyright by the Milton Bradley Company.]


The snow lay deep, for it was winter-time. The winter winds blew cold,
but there was one house where all was snug and warm. And in the house
lay a little flower; in its bulb it lay, under the earth and the snow.

One day the rain fell and it trickled through the ice and snow down into
the ground. And presently a sunbeam, pointed and slender, pierced down
through the earth, and tapped on the bulb.

“Come in,” said the flower.

“I can't do that,” said the sunbeam; “I'm not strong enough to lift the
latch. I shall be stronger when springtime comes.”

“When will it be spring?” asked the flower of every little sunbeam that
rapped on its door. But for a long time it was winter. The ground was
still covered with snow, and every night there was ice in the water. The
flower grew quite tired of waiting.

“How long it is!” it said. “I feel quite cramped. I must stretch myself
and rise up a little. I must lift the latch, and look out, and say
'good-morning' to the spring.”

So the flower pushed and pushed. The walls were softened by the rain
and warmed by the little sunbeams, so the flower shot up from under the
snow, with a pale green bud on its stalk and some long narrow leaves on
either side. It was biting cold.

“You are a little too early,” said the wind and the weather; but every
sunbeam sang: “Welcome,” and the flower raised its head from the snow
and unfolded itself--pure and white, and decked with green stripes.

It was weather to freeze it to pieces,--such a delicate little
flower,--but it was stronger than any one knew. It stood in its white
dress in the white snow, bowing its head when the snow-flakes fell,
and raising it again to smile at the sunbeams, and every day it grew
sweeter.

“Oh!” shouted the children, as they ran into the garden, “see the
snowdrop! There it stands so pretty, so beautiful,--the first, the only
one!”




THE THREE LITTLE BUTTERFLY BROTHERS

(FROM THE GERMAN)[2]

[Footnote 2: From Deutsches Drittes Lesebuch, by W. H. Weick and C.
Grebner. Copyright, 1886, by Van Antwerp, Bragg & Co. American Book
Company, publishers.]


There were once three little butterfly brothers, one white, one red, and
one yellow. They played in the sunshine, and danced among the flowers in
the garden, and they never grew tired because they were so happy.

One day there came a heavy rain, and it wet their wings. They flew away
home, but when they got there they found the door locked and the key
gone. So they had to stay out of doors in the rain, and they grew wetter
and wetter.

By and by they flew to the red and yellow striped tulip, and said:
“Friend Tulip, will you open your flower-cup and let us in till the
storm is over?”

The tulip answered: “The red and yellow butterflies may enter, because
they are like me, but the white one may not come in.”

But the red and yellow butterflies said: “If our white brother may not
find shelter in your flowercup, why, then, we'll stay outside in the
rain with him.”

It rained harder and harder, and the poor little butterflies grew wetter
and wetter, so they flew to the white lily and said: “Good Lily, will
you open your bud a little so we may creep in out of the rain?”

The lily answered: “The white butterfly may come in, because he is like
me, but the red and yellow ones must stay outside in the storm.”

Then the little white butterfly said: “If you won't receive my red and
yellow brothers, why, then, I'll stay out in the rain with them. We
would rather be wet than be parted.”

So the three little butterflies flew away.

But the sun, who was behind a cloud, heard it all, and he knew what good
little brothers the butterflies were, and how they had held together in
spite of the wet. So he pushed his face through the clouds, and chased
away the rain, and shone brightly on the garden.

He dried the wings of the three little butterflies, and warmed their
bodies. They ceased to sorrow, and danced among the flowers till
evening, then they flew away home, and found the door wide open.




THE WATER-DROP

BY FRIEDRICH WILHELM CAROVE'

(ADAPTED FROM THE TRANSLATION BY SARAH AUSTIN)

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; 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 dewdrops from the cowslip into the cup of the
harebell, spread out a large lime-leaf, set his breakfast upon it, and
feasted daintily. And he invited a humming-bee and a gay butterfly to
partake of his feast, but his favorite guest was a blue dragon-fly.

The bee murmured a good deal about his riches, and the butterfly told
his adventures. Such talk delighted the child, and his breakfast was the
sweeter to him, and the sunshine on leaf and flower seemed 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 play-fellows, 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. Her net-like wings laughed at the flowers because they could
not fly, but must stand still and abide the wind and rain.

The dragon-fly sipped a little of the child's clear dewdrops and blue
violet honey, and then whispered her winged words. Such stories as the
dragon-fly did tell! And as the child sat motionless with his blue
eyes shut, and his head rested on his hands, she thought he had fallen
asleep; so she poised her double wings and flew into the rustling wood.

But the child had 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. 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 breakneck 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 water-drop stopped behind a piece of rock.

“A long time ago,” said the water-drop, “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 looked 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 how 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 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. At last it was pitch dark and I could neither
see nor hear anything.

“Then I found, indeed, that 'pride goeth before a fall,' for, though I
had already laid aside all my unhappy pride in the cloud, my punishment
was to remain for some time in the heart of the mountain. 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
and cheerful air, and to gush from this rock and journey with this happy
stream. Now will I run back to my sisters in the Ocean, and there wait
patiently till I am called to something better.”

So said the water-drop to the child, but scarcely had she finished her
story, when the root of a For-Get-Me-Not caught the drop and sucked her
in, that she might become a floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue
star on the green firmament of earth.




THE SPRING BEAUTY

AN OJIBBEWAY LEGEND

BY HENRY R. SCHOOLCRAFT (ADAPTED)

An old man was sitting in his lodge, by the side of a frozen stream. It
was the end of winter, the air was not so cold, and his fire was
nearly out. He was old and alone. His locks were white with age, and he
trembled in every joint. Day after day passed, and he heard nothing but
the sound of the storm sweeping before it the new-fallen snow.

One day while his fire was dying, a handsome young man approached and
entered the lodge. His cheeks were red, his eyes sparkled. He walked
with a quick, light step. His forehead was bound with a wreath of
sweet-grass, and he carried a bunch of fragrant flowers in his hand.

“Ah, my son,” said the old man, “I am happy to see you. Come in! Tell me
your adventures, and what strange lands you have seen. I will tell you
of my wonderful deeds, and what I can perform. You shall do the same,
and we will amuse each other.”

The old man then drew from a bag a curiously wrought pipe. He filled it
with mild tobacco, and handed it to his guest. They each smoked from the
pipe and then began their stories.

“I am Peboan, the Spirit of Winter,” said the old man. “I blow my
breath, and the streams stand still. The water becomes stiff and hard as
clear stone.”

“I am Seegwun, the Spirit of Spring,” answered the youth. “I breathe,
and flowers spring up in the meadows and woods.”

“I shake my locks,” said the old man, “and snow covers the land. The
leaves fall from the trees, and my breath blows them away. The birds fly
to a distant land, and the animals hide themselves from the cold.”

“I shake my ringlets,” said the young man, “and warm showers of soft
rain fall upon the earth. The flowers lift their heads from the ground,
the grass grows thick and green. My voice recalls the birds, and they
come flying joyfully from the Southland. The warmth of my breath unbinds
the streams, and they sing the songs of summer. Music fills the groves
where-ever I walk, and all nature rejoices.”

And while they were talking thus a wonderful change took place. The sun
began to rise. A gentle warmth stole over the place. Peboan, the Spirit
of Winter, became silent. His head drooped, and the snow outside the
lodge melted away. Seegwun, the Spirit of Spring, grew more radiant, and
rose joyfully to his feet. The robin and the bluebird began to sing on
the top of the lodge. The stream began to murmur at the door, and the
fragrance of opening flowers came softly on the breeze.

The lodge faded away, and Peboan sank down and dissolved into tiny
streams of water, that vanished under the brown leaves of the forest.
Thus the Spirit of Winter departed, and where he had melted away, there
the Indian children gathered the first blossoms, fragrant and delicately
pink,--the modest Spring Beauty.




THE FAIRY TULIPS

ENGLISH FOLK-TALE

Once upon a time there was a good old woman who lived in a little house.
She had in her garden a bed of beautiful striped tulips.

One night she was wakened by the sounds of sweet singing and of babies
laughing. She looked out at the window. The sounds seemed to come from
the tulip bed, but she could see nothing.

The next morning she walked among her flowers, but there were no signs
of any one having been there the night before.

On the following night she was again wakened by sweet singing and babies
laughing. She rose and stole softly through her garden. The moon was
shining brightly on the tulip bed, and the flowers were swaying to and
fro. The old woman looked closely and she saw, standing by each tulip,
a little Fairy mother who was crooning and rocking the flower like a
cradle, while in each tulip-cup lay a little Fairy baby laughing and
playing.

The good old woman stole quietly back to her house, and from that time
on she never picked a tulip, nor did she allow her neighbors to touch
the flowers.

The tulips grew daily brighter in color and larger in size, and they
gave out a delicious perfume like that of roses. They began, too, to
bloom all the year round. And every night the little Fairy mothers
caressed their babies and rocked them to sleep in the flower-cups.

The day came when the good old woman died, and the tulip-bed was torn
up by folks who did not know about the Fairies, and parsley was planted
there instead of the flowers. But the parsley withered, and so did all
the other plants in the garden, and from that time nothing would grow
there.

But the good old woman's grave grew beautiful, for the Fairies sang
above it, and kept it green; while on the grave and all around it there
sprang up tulips, daffodils, and violets, and other lovely flowers of
spring.




THE STREAM THAT RAN AWAY

BY MARY AUSTIN (ADAPTED)

In a short and shallow canyon running eastward toward the sun, one may
find a clear, brown stream called the Creek of Pinon Pines; that is not
because it is unusual to find pinon trees in that country, but because
there are so few of them in the canyon of the stream. There are all
sorts higher up on the slopes,--long-leaved yellow pines, thimble cones,
tamarack, silver fir, and Douglas spruce; but in the canyon there
is only a group of the low-headed, gray nut pines which the earliest
inhabitants of that country called pinons.

The Canyon of Pinon Pines has a pleasant outlook and lies open to the
sun. At the upper end there is no more room by the stream border than
will serve for a cattle trail; willows grow in it, choking the path
of the water; there are brown birches here and ropes of white clematis
tangled over thickets of brier rose.

Low down, the ravine broadens out to inclose a meadow the width of a
lark's flight, blossomy and wet and good. Here the stream ran once in a
maze of soddy banks and watered all the ground, and afterward ran out at
the canyon's mouth across the mesa in a wash of bone-white boulders as
far as it could. That was not very far, for it was a slender stream. It
had its source on the high crests and hollows of the near-by mountain,
in the snow banks that melted and seeped downward through the rocks. But
the stream did not know any more of that than you know of what happened
to you before you were born, and could give no account of itself except
that it crept out from under a great heap of rubble far up in the Canyon
of the Pinon Pines.

And because it had no pools in it deep enough for trout, and no trees on
its borders but gray nut pines; because, try as it might, it could never
get across the mesa to the town, the stream had fully made up its mind
to run away.

“Pray, what good will that do you?” said the pines. “If you get to
the town, they will turn you into an irrigating ditch, and set you to
watering crops.”

“As to that,” said the stream, “if I once get started I will not stop at
the town.”

Then it would fret between its banks until the spangled frills of the
mimulus were all tattered with its spray. Often at the end of the summer
it was worn quite thin and small with running, and not able to do more
than reach the meadow.

“But some day,” it whispered to the stones, “I shall run quite away.”

If the stream had been inclined for it, there was no lack of good
company on its own borders. Birds nested in the willows, rabbits came to
drink; one summer a bobcat made its lair up the bank opposite the brown
birches, and often the deer fed in the meadow.

In the spring of one year two old men came up into the Canyon of Pinon
Pines. They had been miners and partners together for many years. They
had grown rich and grown poor, and had seen many hard places and strange
times. It was a day when the creek ran clear and the south wind smelled
of the earth. Wild bees began to whine among the willows, and the meadow
bloomed over with poppy-breasted larks.

Then said one of the old men: “Here is good meadow and water enough; let
us build a house and grow trees. We are too old to dig in the mines.”

“Let us set about it,” said the other; for that is the way with two who
have been a long time together,--what one thinks of, the other is for
doing.

So they brought their possessions, and they built a house by the water
border and planted trees. One of the men was all for an orchard but the
other preferred vegetables. So they did each what he liked, and were
never so happy as when walking in the garden in the cool of the day,
touching the growing things as they walked, and praising each other's
work.

They were very happy for three years. By this time the stream had become
so interested it had almost forgotten about running away. But every year
it noted that a larger bit of the meadow was turned under and planted,
and more and more the men made dams and ditches by which to turn the
water into their gardens.

“In fact,” said the stream, “I am being made into an irrigating ditch
before I have had my fling in the world. I really must make a start.”

That very winter, by the help of a great storm, the stream went roaring
down the meadow, over the mesa, and so clean away, with only a track of
muddy sand to show the way it had gone.

All that winter the two men brought water for drinking from a spring,
and looked for the stream to come back. In the spring they hoped still,
for that was the season they looked for the orchard to bear. But no
fruit grew on the trees, and the seeds they planted shriveled in the
earth. So by the end of summer, when they understood that the water
would not come back at all, they went sadly away.

Now the Creek of Pinon Pines did not have a happy time. It went out in
the world on the wings of the storm, and was very much tossed about and
mixed up with other waters, lost and bewildered.

Everywhere it saw water at work, turning mills, watering fields,
carrying trade, falling as hail, rain, and snow; and at the last, after
many journeys it found itself creeping out from under the rocks of the
same old mountain, in the Canyon of Pinon Pines.

“After all, home is best,” said the little stream to itself, and ran
about in its choked channels looking for old friends.

The willows were there, but grown shabby and dying at the top; the
birches were quite dead, and there was only rubbish where the white
clematis had been. Even the rabbits had gone away.

The little stream ran whimpering in the meadow, fumbling at the ruined
ditches to comfort the fruit trees which were not quite dead. It was
very dull in those days living in the Canyon of Pinon Pines.

“But it is really my own fault,” said the stream. So it went on
repairing the borders as best it could.

About the time the white clematis had come back to hide the ruin of the
brown birches, a young man came and camped with his wife and child in
the meadow. They were looking for a place to make a home.

“What a charming place!” said the young wife; “just the right distance
from town, and a stream all to ourselves. And look, there are fruit
trees already planted. Do let us decide to stay!”

Then she took off the child's shoes and stockings to let it play in
the stream. The water curled all about the bare feet and gurgled
delightedly.

“Ah, do stay,” begged the happy water. “I can be such a help to you, for
I know how a garden should be irrigated in the best manner.”

The child laughed, and stamped the water up to his bare knees. The young
wife watched anxiously while her husband walked up and down the stream
border and examined the fruit trees.

“It is a delightful place,” he said, “and the soil is rich, but I am
afraid the water cannot be depended upon. There are signs of a great
drought within the last two or three years. Look, there is a clump of
birches in the very path of the stream, but all dead; and the largest
limbs of the fruit trees have died. In this country one must be able
to make sure of the water-supply. I suppose the people who planted them
must have abandoned the place when the stream went dry. We must go on
farther.”

So they took their goods and the child and went on farther.

“Ah, well,” said the stream, “that is what is to be expected when has a
reputation for neglecting one's duty. But I wish they had stayed. That
baby and I understood each other.”

It had made up its mind not to run away again, though it could not be
expected to be quite cheerful after all that had happened. If you go to
the Canyon of Pinon Pines you will notice that the stream, where it goes
brokenly about the meadow, has a mournful sound.




THE ELVES

AN IROQUOIS LEGEND

BY HARRIET MAXWELL CONVERSE (ADAPTED)

The little Elves of Darkness, so says the old Iroquois grandmother, were
wise and mysterious. They dwelt under the earth, where were deep forests
and broad plains. There they kept captive all the evil things that
wished to injure human beings,--the venomous reptiles, the wicked
spiders, and the fearful monsters. Sometimes one of these evil creatures
escaped and rushed upward to the bright, pure air, and spread its
poisonous breath over the living things of the upper-world. But such
happenings were rare, for the Elves of Darkness were faithful and
strong, and did not willingly allow the wicked beasts and reptiles to
harm human beings and the growing things.

When the night was lighted by the moon's soft rays, and the woods of
the upper-world were sweet with the odor of the spring-flowers, then the
Elves of Darkness left the under-world, and creeping from their holes,
held a festival in the woods. And under many a tree, where the blades of
grass had refused to grow, the Little People danced until rings of green
sprang up beneath their feet. And to the festival came the Elves of
Light,--among whom were Tree-Elves, Flower-Elves, and Fruit-Elves. They
too danced and made merry.

But when the moonlight faded away, and day began to break, then the
Elves of Darkness scampered back to their holes, and returned once more
to the under-world; while the Elves of Light began their daily tasks.

For in the springtime these Little People of the Light hid in sheltered
places. They listened to the complaints of the seeds that lay covered in
the ground, and they whispered to the earth until the seeds burst their
pods and sent their shoots upward to the light. Then the little Elves
wandered over the fields and through the woods, bidding all growing
things to look upon the sun.

The Tree-Elves tended the trees, unfolding their leaves, and feeding
their roots with sap from the earth. The Flower-Elves unwrapped the baby
buds, and tinted the petals of the opening flowers, and played with the
bees and the butterflies.

But the busiest of all were the Fruit-Elves. Their greatest care in
the spring was the strawberry plant. When the ground softened from the
frost, the Fruit-Elves loosened the earth around each strawberry root,
that its shoots might push through to the light. They shaped the plant's
leaves, and turned its blossoms toward the warm rays of the sun. They
trained its runners, and assisted the timid fruit to form. They painted
the luscious berry, and bade it ripen. And when the first strawberries
blushed on the vines, these guardian Elves protected them from the evil
insects that had escaped from the world of darkness underground.

And the old Iroquois grandmother tells, how once, when the fruit first
came to earth, the Evil Spirit, Hahgwehdaetgah, stole the strawberry
plant, and carried it to his gloomy cave, where he hid it away. And
there it lay until a tiny sunbeam pierced the damp mould, and finding
the little vine carried it back to its sunny fields. And ever since then
the strawberry plant has lived and thrived in the fields and woods. But
the Fruit-Elves, fearing lest the Evil One should one day steal the
vine again, watch day and night over their favorite. And when the
strawberries ripen they give the juicy, fragrant fruit to the Iroquois
children as they gather the spring flowers in the woods.




THE CANYON FLOWERS

BY RALPH CONNOR (ADAPTED)

At first there were no canyons, but only the broad, open prairie. One
day the Master of the Prairie, walking out over his great lawns, where
were only grasses, asked the Prairie: “Where are your flowers?”

And the Prairie said: “Master, I have no seeds.”

Then he spoke to the birds, and they carried seeds of every kind of
flower and strewed them far and wide, and soon the Prairie bloomed with
crocuses and roses and buffalo beans and the yellow crowfoot and the
wild sunflowers and the red lilies, all the summer long.

Then the Master came and was well pleased; but he missed the flowers he
loved best of all, and he said to the Prairie: “Where are the clematis
and the columbine, the sweet violets and wind-flowers, and all the ferns
and flowering shrubs?”

And again the Prairie answered: “Master, I have no seeds.”

And again he spoke to the birds and again they carried all the seeds and
strewed them far and wide.

But when next the Master came, he could not find the flowers he loved
best of all, and he said: “Where are those, my sweetest flowers?”

And the Prairie cried sorrowfully: “O Master, I cannot keep the flowers,
for the winds sweep fiercely, and the sun beats upon my breast, and they
wither up and fly away.”

Then the Master spoke to the Lightning, and with one swift blow the
Lightning cleft the Prairie to the heart. And the Prairie rocked and
groaned in agony, and for many a day moaned bitterly over its black,
jagged, gaping wound.

But a little river poured its waters through the cleft, and carried down
deep, black mould, and once more the birds carried seeds and strewed
them in the canyon. And after a long time the rough rocks were decked
out with soft mosses and trailing vines, and all the nooks were hung
with clematis and columbine, and great elms lifted their huge tops high
up into the sunlight, and down about their feet clustered the low cedars
and balsams, and everywhere the violets and wind-flowers and maiden-hair
grew and bloomed till the canyon became the Master's place for rest and
peace and joy.




CLYTIE, THE HELIOTROPE

BY OVID (ADAPTED)

There was once a Nymph named Clytie, who gazed ever at Apollo as he
drove his sun-chariot through the heavens. She watched him as he rose in
the east attended by the rosy-fingered Dawn and the dancing Hours. She
gazed as he ascended the heavens, urging his steeds still higher in
the fierce heat of the noonday. She looked with wonder as at evening
he guided his steeds downward to their many-colored pastures under the
western sky, where they fed all night on ambrosia.

Apollo saw not Clytie. He had no thought for her, but he shed his
brightest beams upon her sister the white Nymph Leucothoe. And when
Clytie perceived this she was filled with envy and grief.

Night and day she sat on the bare ground weeping. For nine days and nine
nights she never raised herself from the earth, nor did she take food
or drink; but ever she turned her weeping eyes toward the sun-god as he
moved through the sky.

And her limbs became rooted to the ground. Green leaves enfolded her
body. Her beautiful face was concealed by tiny flowers, violet-colored
and sweet with perfume. Thus was she changed into a flower and her roots
held her fast to the ground; but ever she turned her blossom-covered
face toward the sun, following with eager gaze his daily flight. In vain
were her sorrow and tears, for Apollo regarded her not.

And so through the ages has the Nymph turned her dew-washed face toward
the heavens, and men no longer call her Clytie, but the sun-flower,
heliotrope.




HYACINTHUS

BY OVID (ADAPTED)

Once when the golden-beamed Apollo roamed the earth, he made a companion
of Hyacinthus, the son of King Amyclas of Lacedaemon; and him he loved
with an exceeding great love, for the lad was beautiful beyond compare.

The sun-god threw aside his lyre, and became the daily comrade of
Hyacinthus. Often they played games, or climbed the rugged mountain
ridges. Together they followed the chase or fished in the quiet and
shadowy pools; and the sun-god, unmindful of his dignity, carried the
lad's nets and held his dogs.

It happened on a day that the two friends stripped off their garments,
rubbed the juice of the olive upon their bodies, and engaged in throwing
the quoit. First Apollo poised it and tossed it far. It cleaved the air
with its weight and fell heavily to earth. At that moment Hyacinthus ran
forwards and hastened to take up the disc, but the hard earth sent
it rebounding straight into his face, so that he fell wounded to the
ground.

Ah! then, pale and fearful, the sun-god hastened to the side of his
fallen friend. He bore up the lad's sinking limbs and strove to stanch
his wound with healing herbs. All in vain! Alas! the wound would not
close. And as violets and lilies, when their stems are crushed,
hang their languid blossoms on their stalks and wither away, so did
Hyacinthus droop his beautiful head and die.

Then the sun-god, full of grief, cried aloud in his anguish: “O Beloved!
thou fallest in thy early youth, and I alone am the cause of thy
destruction! Oh, that I could give my life for thee or with thee! but
since Fate will not permit this, thou shalt ever be with me, and thy
praise shall dwell on my lips. My lyre struck with my hand, my songs,
too, shall celebrate thee! And thou, dear lad, shalt become a new
flower, and on thy leaves will I write my lamentations.”

And even as the sun-god spoke, behold! the blood that had flowed from
Hyacinthus's wound stained the grass, and a flower, like a lily in
shape, sprang up, more bright than Tyrian purple. On its leaves did
Apollo inscribe the mournful characters: “ai, ai,” which mean “alas!
alas!”

And as oft as the spring drives away the winter, so oft does Hyacinthus
blossom in the fresh, green grass.




ECHO AND NARCISSUS

BY OVID (ADAPTED)

Long ago, in the ancient world, there was born to the blue-eyed Nymph
Liriope, a beautiful boy, whom she called Narcissus. An oracle foretold
at his birth that he should be happy and live to a good old age if he
“never saw himself.” As this prophecy seemed ridiculous his mother soon
forgot all about it.

Narcissus grew to be a stately, handsome youth. His limbs were firm and
straight. Curls clustered about his white brow, and his eyes shone
like two stars. He loved to wander among the meadow flowers and in the
pathless woodland. But he disdained his playmates, and would not listen
to their entreaties to join in their games. His heart was cold, and in
it was neither hate nor love. He lived indifferent to youth or maid, to
friend or foe.

Now, in the forest near by dwelt a Nymph named Echo. She had been a
handmaiden of the goddess Juno. But though the Nymph was beautiful
of face, she was not loved. She had a noisy tongue. She told lies and
whispered slanders, and encouraged the other Nymphs in many misdoings.
So when Juno perceived all this, she ordered the troublesome Nymph away
from her court, and banished her to the wildwood, bidding her never
speak again except in imitation of other peoples' words. So Echo dwelt
in the woods, and forever mocked the words of youths and maidens.

One day as Narcissus was wandering alone in the pathless forest, Echo,
peeping from behind a tree, saw his beauty, and as she gazed her heart
was filled with love. Stealthily she followed his footsteps, and often
she tried to call to him with endearing words, but she could not speak,
for she no longer had a voice of her own.

At last Narcissus heard the sound of breaking branches, and he cried
out: “Is there any one here?”

And Echo answered softly: “Here!”

Narcissus, amazed, looking about on all sides and seeing no one, cried:
“Come!”

And Echo answered: “Come!”

Narcissus cried again: “Who art thou? Whom seekest thou?”

And Echo answered: “Thou!”

Then rushing from among the trees she tried to throw her arms about his
neck, but Narcissus fled through the forest, crying: “Away! away! I will
die before I love thee!”

And Echo answered mournfully: “I love thee!”

And thus rejected, she hid among the trees, and buried her blushing face
in the green leaves. And she pined, and pined, until her body wasted
quite away, and nothing but her voice was left. And some say that even
to this day her voice lives in lonely caves and answers men's words from
afar.

Now, when Narcissus fled from Echo, he came to a clear spring, like
silver. Its waters were unsullied, for neither goats feeding upon the
mountains nor any other cattle had drunk from it, nor had wild beasts or
birds disturbed it, nor had branch or leaf fallen into its calm waters.
The trees bent above and shaded it from the hot sun, and the soft, green
grass grew on its margin.

Here Narcissus, fatigued and thirsty after his flight, laid himself down
beside the spring to drink. He gazed into the mirror-like water, and saw
himself reflected in its tide. He knew not that it was his own image,
but thought that he saw a youth living in the spring.

He gazed on two eyes like stars, on graceful slender fingers, on
clustering curls worthy of Apollo, on a mouth arched like Cupid's bow,
on blushing cheeks and ivory neck. And as he gazed his cold heart grew
warm, and love for this beautiful reflection rose up and filled his
soul.

He rained kisses on the deceitful stream. He thrust his arms into the
water, and strove to grasp the image by the neck, but it fled away.
Again he kissed the stream, but the image mocked his love. And all day
and all night, lying there without food or drink, he continued to gaze
into the water. Then raising himself, he stretched out his arms to the
trees about him, and cried:--

“Did ever, O ye woods, one love as much as I! Have ye ever seen a lover
thus pine for the sake of unrequited affection?”

Then turning once more, Narcissus addressed his reflection in the limpid
stream:--

“Why, dear youth, dost thou flee away from me? Neither a vast sea, nor
a long way, nor a great mountain separates us! only a little water keeps
us apart! Why, dear lad, dost thou deceive me, and whither dost thou go
when I try to grasp thee? Thou encouragest me with friendly looks. When
I extend my arms, thou extendest thine; when I smile, thou smilest in
return; when I weep, thou weepest; but when I try to clasp thee beneath
the stream, thou shunnest me and fleest away! Grief is taking my
strength, and my life will soon be over! In my early days am I cut off,
nor is Death grievous to me, now that he is about to remove my sorrows!”

Thus mourned Narcissus, lying beside the woodland spring. He disturbed
the water with his tears, and made the woods to resound with his sighs.
And as the yellow wax is melted by the fire, or the hoar frost is
consumed by the heat of the sun, so did Narcissus pine away, his body
wasting by degrees.

And often as he sighed: “Alas!” the grieving Echo from the wood
answered: “Alas!”

With his last breath he looked into the water and sighed: “Ah, youth
beloved, farewell!” and Echo sighed: “Farewell!”

And Narcissus, laying his weary head upon the grass, closed his eyes
forever. The Water-Nymphs wept for him, and the Wood-Dryads lamented
him, and Echo resounded their mourning. But when they sought his body
it had vanished away, and in its stead had grown up by the brink of the
stream a little flower, with silver leaves and golden heart,--and thus
was born to earth the woodland flower, Narcissus.





MOTHERS' DAY

(SECOND SUNDAY IN MAY)

THE LARK AND ITS YOUNG ONES

A HINDU FABLE

BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU (ADAPTED)

A child went up to a lark and said: “Good lark, have you any young
ones?”

“Yes, child, I have,” said the mother lark, “and they are very pretty
ones, indeed.” Then she pointed to the little birds and said: “This is
Fair Wing, that is Tiny Bill, and that other is Bright Eyes.”

“At home, we are three,” said the child, “myself and two sisters. Mother
says that we are pretty children, and she loves us.”

To this the little larks replied: “Oh, yes, OUR mother is fond of us,
too.”

“Good mother lark,” said the child, “will you let Tiny Bill go home with
me and play?”

Before the mother lark could reply, Bright Eyes said: “Yes, if you will
send your little sister to play with us in our nest.”

“Oh, she will be so sorry to leave home,” said the child; “she could not
come away from our mother.”

“Tiny Bill will be so sorry to leave our nest,” answered Bright Eyes,
“and he will not go away from OUR mother.”

Then the child ran away to her mother, saying: “Ah, every one is fond of
home!”




CORNELIA'S JEWELS

BY JAMES BALDWIN [3]

[Footnote 3: From Fifty Famous Stories Retold. Copyright, 1896, by
American Book Company.]




It was a bright morning in the old city of Rome many hundred years ago.
In a vine-covered summer-house in a beautiful garden, two boys were
standing. They were looking at their mother and her friend, who were
walking among the flowers and trees.

“Did you ever see so handsome a lady as our mother's friend?” asked the
younger boy, holding his tall brother's hand. “She looks like a queen.”

“Yet she is not so beautiful as our mother,” said the elder boy. “She
has a fine dress, it is true; but her face is not noble and kind. It is
our mother who is like a queen.”

“That is true,” said the other. “There is no woman in Rome so much like
a queen as our own dear mother.”

Soon Cornelia, their mother, came down the walk to speak with them. She
was simply dressed in a plain, white robe. Her arms and feet were bare,
as was the custom in those days; and no rings or chains glittered about
her hands and neck. For her only crown, long braids of soft brown hair
were coiled about her head; and a tender smile lit up her noble face as
she looked into her sons' proud eyes.

“Boys,” she said, “I have something to tell you.”

They bowed before her, as Roman lads were taught to do, and said: “What
is it, mother?”

“You are to dine with us to-day, here in the garden; and then our friend
is going to show us that wonderful casket of jewels of which you have
heard so much.”

The brothers looked shyly at their mother's friend. Was it possible that
she had still other rings besides those on her fingers? Could she have
other gems besides those which sparkled in the chains about her neck?

When the simple outdoor meal was over, a servant brought the casket from
the house. The lady opened it. Ah, how those jewels dazzled the eyes
of the wondering boys! There were ropes of pearls, white as milk, and
smooth as satin; heaps of shining rubies, red as the glowing coals;
sapphires as blue as the sky that summer day; and diamonds that flashed
and sparkled like the sunlight.

The brothers looked long at the gems. “Ah!” whispered the younger; “if
our mother could only have such beautiful things!”

At last, however, the casket was closed and carried carefully away.

“Is it true, Cornelia, that you have no jewels?” asked her friend. “Is
it true, as I have heard it whispered, that you are poor?”

“No, I am not poor,” answered Cornelia, and as she spoke she drew her
two boys to her side; “for here are my jewels. They are worth more than
all your gems.”

The boys never forgot their mother's pride and love and care; and in
after years, when they had become great men in Rome, they often thought
of this scene in the garden. And the world still likes to hear the story
of Cornelia's jewels.




QUEEN MARGARET AND THE ROBBERS

BY ALBERT F. BLAISDELL (ADAPTED)

One day when roses were in bloom, two noblemen came to angry words in
the Temple Gardens, by the side of the river Thames. In the midst of
their quarrel one of them plucked a white rose from a bush, and, turning
to those who were near him, said:--

“He who will stand by me in this quarrel, let him pluck a white rose
with me, and wear it in his hat.”

Then the other gentleman tore a red rose from another bush, and said:--

“Let him who will stand by me pluck a red rose, and wear it as his
badge.”

Now this quarrel led to a great civil war, which was called “The War of
the Roses,” for every soldier wore a white or red rose in his helmet to
show to which side he belonged.

The leaders of the “Red Rose” sided with King Henry the Sixth and his
wife, Queen Margaret, who were fighting for the English throne. Many
great battles were fought, and wicked deeds were done in those dreadful
times.

In a battle at a place called Hexham, the king's party was beaten, and
Queen Margaret and her little son, the Prince of Wales, had to flee for
their lives. They had not gone far before they met a band of robbers,
who stopped the queen and stole all her rich jewels, and, holding a
drawn sword over her head, threatened to take her life and that of her
child.

The poor queen, overcome by terror, fell upon her knees and begged them
to spare her only son, the little prince. But the robbers, turning from
her, began to fight among themselves as to how they should divide the
plunder, and, drawing their weapons, they attacked one another. When
the queen saw what was happening she sprang to her feet, and, taking the
prince by the hand, made haste to escape.

There was a thick wood close by, and the queen plunged into it, but she
was sorely afraid and trembled in every limb, for she knew that this
wood was the hiding-place of robbers and outlaws. Every tree seemed to
her excited fancy to be an armed man waiting to kill her and her little
son.

On and on she went through the dark wood, this way and that, seeking
some place of shelter, but not knowing where she was going. At last she
saw by the light of the moon a tall, fierce-looking man step out from
behind a tree. He came directly toward her, and she knew by his dress
that he was an outlaw. But thinking that he might have children of his
own, she determined to throw herself and her son upon his mercy.

When he came near she addressed him in a calm voice and with a stately
manner.

“Friend,” said she, “I am the queen. Kill me if thou wilt, but spare my
son, thy prince. Take him, I will trust him to thee. Keep him safe from
those that seek his life, and God will have pity on thee for all thy
sins.”

The words of the queen moved the heart of the outlaw. He told her that
he had once fought on her side, and was now hiding from the soldiers
of the “White Rose.” He then lifted the little prince in his arms, and,
bidding the queen follow, led the way to a cave in the rocks. There he
gave them food and shelter, and kept them safe for two days, when the
queen's friends and attendants, discovering their hiding-place, came and
took them far away.

If you ever go to Hexham Forest, you may see this robber's cave. It is
on the bank of a little stream that flows at the foot of a hill, and to
this day the people call it “Queen Margaret's Cave.”




THE REVENGE OF CORIOLANUS

BY CHARLES MORRIS (ADAPTED)

Caius Marcius was a noble Roman youth, who fought valiantly, when but
seventeen years of age, in the battle of Lake Regillus, and was there
crowned with an oaken wreath, the Roman reward for saving the life of a
fellow soldier. This he showed with joy to his mother, Volumnia, whom he
loved exceedingly, it being his greatest pleasure to receive praise from
her lips.

He afterward won many more crowns in battle, and became one of the
most famous of Roman soldiers. One of his memorable exploits took place
during a war with the Volscians, in which the Romans attacked the city
of Corioli. Through Caius's bravery the place was taken, and the Roman
general said: “Henceforth, let him be called after the name of this
city.” So ever after he was known as Caius Marcius Coriolanus.

Courage was not the only marked quality of Coriolanus. His pride was
equally great. He was a noble of the nobles, so haughty in demeanor and
so disdainful of the commons that they grew to hate him bitterly.

At length came a time of great scarcity of food. The people were on
the verge of famine, to relieve which shiploads of corn were sent from
Sicily to Rome. The Senate resolved to distribute this corn among the
suffering people, but Coriolanus opposed this, saying: “If they want
corn, let them promise to obey the Patricians, as their fathers did. Let
them give up their tribunes. If they do this we will let them have corn,
and take care of them.”

When the people heard of what the proud noble had said, they broke
into a fury, and a mob gathered around the doors of the Senate house,
prepared to seize and tear him in pieces when he came out. But the
tribunes prevented this, and Coriolanus fled from Rome, exiled from his
native land by his pride and disdain of the people.

The exile made his way to the land of the Volscians and became the
friend of Rome's great enemy, whom he had formerly helped to conquer.
He aroused the Volscians' ire against Rome, to a greater degree than
before, and placing himself at the head of a Volscian army greater
than the Roman forces, marched against his native city. The army swept
victoriously onward, taking city after city, and finally encamping
within five miles of Rome.

The approach of this powerful host threw the Romans into dismay. They
had been assailed so suddenly that they had made no preparations for
defense, and the city seemed to lie at the mercy of its foes. The
women ran to the temples to pray for the favor of the gods. The people
demanded that the Senate should send deputies to the invading army to
treat for peace.

The Senate, no less frightened than the people, obeyed, sending five
leading Patricians to the Volscian camp. These deputies were haughtily
received by Coriolanus, who offered them such severe terms that they
were unable to accept them. They returned and reported the matter, and
the Senate was thrown into confusion. The deputies were sent again,
instructed to ask for gentler terms, but now Coriolanus refused even
to let them enter his camp. This harsh repulse plunged Rome into mortal
terror.

All else having failed, the noble women of Rome, with Volumnia, the
mother of Coriolanus, at their head, went in procession from the city to
the Volscian camp to pray for mercy.

It was a sad and solemn spectacle, as this train of noble ladies, clad
in their habiliments of woe, and with bent heads and sorrowful faces,
wound through the hostile camp, from which they were not excluded as the
deputies had been. Even the Volscian soldiers watched them with pitying
eyes, and spoke no scornful word as they moved slowly past.

On reaching the midst of the camp, they saw Coriolanus on the general's
seat, with the Volscian chiefs gathered around him. At first he wondered
who these women could be; but when they came near, and he saw his mother
at the head of the train, his deep love for her welled up so strongly in
his heart that he could not restrain himself, but sprang up and ran to
meet and kiss her.

The Roman matron stopped him with a dignified gesture. “Ere you kiss
me,” she said, “let me know whether I speak to an enemy or to my son;
whether I stand here as your prisoner or your mother.”

He stood before her in silence, with bent head, and unable to answer.

“Must it, then, be that if I had never borne a son, Rome would have
never seen the camp of an enemy?” said Volumnia, in sorrowful tones.

“But I am too old to endure much longer your shame and my misery. Think
not of me, but of your wife and children, whom you would doom to death
or to life in bondage.”

Then Virgilia, his wife, and his children, came forward and kissed him,
and all the noble ladies in the train burst into tears and bemoaned the
peril of their country.

Coriolanus still stood silent, his face working with contending
thoughts. At length he cried out in heart-rending accents: “O mother!
What have you done to me?”

Then clasping her hand he wrung it vehemently, saying: “Mother, the
victory is yours! A happy victory for you and Rome! but shame and ruin
for your son.”

Thereupon he embraced her with yearning heart, and afterward clasped his
wife and children to his breast, bidding them return with their tale
of conquest to Rome. As for himself, he said, only exile and shame
remained.

Before the women reached home, the army of the Volscians was on its
homeward march. Coriolanus never led it against Rome again. He lived and
died in exile, far from his wife and children.

The Romans, to honor Volumnia, and those who had gone with her to the
Volscian camp, built a temple to “Woman's Fortune,” on the spot where
Coriolanus had yielded to his mother's entreaties.




THE WIDOW AND HER THREE SONS

(ADAPTED)

One day a poor woman approached Mr. Lincoln for an interview. She was
somewhat advanced in years and plainly clad, wearing a faded shawl and
worn hood.

“Well, my good woman,” said Mr. Lincoln, “what can I do for you this
morning?”

“Mr. President,” answered she, “my husband and three sons all went into
the army. My husband was killed in the battle of----. I get along very
badly since then living all alone, and I thought that I would come and
ask you to release to me my eldest son.”

Mr. Lincoln looked in her face for a moment, and then replied kindly:--

“Certainly! Certainly! If you have given us ALL, and your prop has been
taken away, you are justly entitled to one of your boys.”

He then made out an order discharging the young man, which the woman
took away, thanking him gratefully.

She went to the front herself with the President's order, and found that
her son had been mortally wounded in a recent battle, and taken to the
hospital.

She hastened to the hospital. But she was too late, the boy died, and
she saw him laid in a soldier's grave.

She then returned to the President with his order, on the back of which
the attendant surgeon had stated the sad facts concerning the young man
it was intended to discharge.

Mr. Lincoln was much moved by her story, and said: “I know what you wish
me to do now, and I shall do it without your asking. I shall release to
you your second son.”

Taking up his pen he began to write the order, while the grief-stricken
woman stood at his side and passed her hand softly over his head, and
stroked his rough hair as she would have stroked her boy's.

When he had finished he handed her the paper, saying tenderly, his eyes
full of tears:--

“Now you have one of the two left, and I have one, that is no more than
right.”

She took the order and reverently placing her hand upon his head,
said:--

“The Lord bless you, Mr. President. May you live a thousand years, and
may you always be the head of this great nation.”





MEMORIAL DAY

(APRIL OR MAY)

FLAG DAY

(JUNE 14)




BETSY ROSS AND THE FLAG

BY HARRY PRINGLE FORD (ADAPTED)

On the 14th day of June, 1777, the Continental Congress passed the
following resolution: “RESOLVED, That the flag of the thirteen United
States be thirteen stripes alternate red and white; that the Union
be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new
constellation.”

We are told that previous to this, in 1776, a committee was appointed to
look after the matter, and together with General Washington they called
at the house of Betsy Ross, 239 Arch Street, Philadelphia.

Betsy Ross was a young widow of twenty-four heroically supporting
herself by continuing the upholstery business of her late husband, young
John Ross, a patriot who had died in the service of his country.
Betsy was noted for her exquisite needlework, and was engaged in the
flag-making business.

The committee asked her if she thought she could make a flag from a
design, a rough drawing of which General Washington showed her. She
replied, with diffidence, that she did not know whether she could or
not, but would try. She noticed, however, that the star as drawn had six
points, and informed the committee that the correct star had but five.
They answered that as a great number of stars would be required, the
more regular form with six points could be more easily made than one
with five.

She responded in a practical way by deftly folding a scrap of
paper; then with a single clip of her scissors she displayed a true,
symmetrical, five-pointed star.

This decided the committee in her favor. A rough design was left for her
use, but she was permitted to make a sample flag according to her own
ideas of the arrangement of the stars and the proportions of the stripes
and the general form of the whole.

Sometime after its completion it was presented to Congress, and the
committee had the pleasure of informing Betsy Ross that her flag was
accepted as the Nation's standard.




THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

BY EVA MARCH TAPPAN (ADAPTED)

In 1814, while the War of 1812 was still going on, the people of
Maryland were in great trouble, for a British fleet began to attack
Baltimore. The enemy bombarded the forts, including Fort McHenry. For
twenty-four hours the terrific bombardment went on.

“If Fort McHenry only stands, the city is safe,” said Francis Scott Key
to a friend, and they gazed anxiously through the smoke to see if the
flag was still flying.

These two men were in the strangest place that could be imagined. They
were in a little American vessel fast moored to the side of the British
admiral's flagship. A Maryland doctor had been seized as a prisoner by
the British, and the President had given permission for them to go out
under a flag of truce, to ask for his release. The British commander
finally decided that the prisoner might be set free; but he had no
idea of allowing the two men to go back to the city and carry any
information. “Until the attack on Baltimore is ended, you and your boat
must remain here,” he said.

The firing went on. As long as daylight lasted they could catch glimpses
of the Stars and Stripes whenever the wind swayed the clouds of smoke.
When night came they could still see the banner now and then by the
blaze of the cannon. A little after midnight the firing stopped. The two
men paced up and down the deck, straining their eyes to see if the flag
was still flying. “Can the fort have surrendered?” they questioned. “Oh,
if morning would only come!”

At last the faint gray of dawn appeared. They could see that some flag
was flying, but it was too dark to tell which. More and more eagerly
they gazed. It grew lighter, a sudden breath of wind caught the flag,
and it floated out on the breeze. It was no English flag, it was their
own Stars and Stripes. The fort had stood, the city was safe. Then it
was that Key took from his pocket an old letter and on the back of it he
wrote the poem, “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

The British departed, and the little American boat went back to the
city. Mr. Key gave a copy of the poem to his uncle, who had been helping
to defend the fort. The uncle sent it to the printer, and had it struck
off on some handbills. Before the ink was dry the printer caught up one
and hurried away to a restaurant, where many patriots were assembled.
Waving the paper, he cried, “Listen to this!” and he read:--

   “O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
     What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,
     Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous
  fight,
     O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallantly streaming?
     And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
     Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
       O say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave
       O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”


“Sing it! sing it!” cried the whole company. Charles Durang mounted a
chair and then for the first time “The Star-Spangled Banner” was sung.
The tune was “To Anacreon in Heaven,” an air which had long been a
favorite. Halls, theaters, and private houses rang with its strains.

The fleet was out of sight even before the poem was printed. In the
middle of the night the admiral had sent to the British soldiers this
message, “I can do nothing more,” and they hurried on board the vessels.
It was not long before they left Chesapeake Bay altogether,--perhaps
with the new song ringing in their ears as they went.




THE LITTLE DRUMMER-BOY

BY ALBERT BUSHNELL HART (ADAPTED)

A few days before a certain regiment received orders to join General
Lyon, on his march to Wilson's Creek, the drummer-boy of the regiment
was taken sick, and carried to the hospital.

Shortly after this there appeared before the captain's quarters, during
the beating of the reveille, a good-looking, middle-aged woman, dressed
in deep mourning, leading by the hand a sharp, sprightly looking boy,
apparently about twelve or thirteen years of age.

Her story was soon told. She was from East Tennessee, where her husband
had been killed by the Confederates, and all her property destroyed.
Being destitute, she thought that if she could procure a situation for
her boy as drummer, she could find employment for herself.

While she told her story, the little fellow kept his eyes intently fixed
upon the countenance of the captain. And just as the latter was about to
say that he could not take so small a boy, the lad spoke out:--

“Don't be afraid, Captain,” said he, “I can drum.”

This was spoken with so much confidence that the captain smiled and said
to the sergeant:--

“Well, well, bring the drum, and order our fifer to come here.”

In a few moments a drum was produced and the fifer, a round-shouldered,
good-natured fellow, who stood six feet tall, made his appearance. Upon
being introduced to the lad, he stooped down, resting his hands on his
knees, and, after peering into the little fellow's face for a moment,
said:--

“My little man, can you drum?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the boy promptly. “I drummed for Captain Hill in
Tennessee.”

The fifer immediately straightened himself, and, placing his fife to
his lips, played the “Flowers of Edinburgh,” one of the most difficult
things to follow with the drum. And nobly did the little fellow follow
him, showing himself to be master of the drum.

When the music ceased the captain turned to the mother and observed:--

“Madam, I will take the boy. What is his name?”

“Edward Lee,” she replied. Then placing her hand upon the captain's arm,
she continued in a choking voice, “If he is not killed!--Captain,--you
will bring him back to me?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied, “we shall be certain to bring him back to you.
We shall be discharged in six weeks.”

An hour after, the company led the regiment out of camp, the drum and
fife playing “The Girl I left behind me.”

Eddie, as the soldiers called him, soon became a great favorite with
all the men of the company. When any of the boys returned from foraging,
Eddie's share of the peaches, melons, and other good things was meted
out first. During the heavy and fatiguing marches, the long-legged fifer
often waded through the mud with the little drummer mounted on his back,
and in the same fashion he carried Eddie when fording streams.

During the fight at Wilson's Creek, a part of the company was stationed
on the right of Totten's battery, while the balance of the company was
ordered down into a deep ravine, at the left, in which it was known a
party of Confederates was concealed.

An engagement took place. The contest in the ravine continued some time.
Totten suddenly wheeled his battery upon the enemy in that quarter, and
they soon retreated to high ground behind their lines.

In less than twenty minutes after Totten had driven the Confederates
from the ravine, the word passed from man to man throughout the army,
“Lyon is killed!” And soon after, hostilities having ceased upon both
sides, the order came for the main part of the Federal force to fall
back upon Springfield, while the lesser part was to camp upon the
ground, and cover the retreat.

That night a corporal was detailed for guard duty. His post was upon
a high eminence that overlooked the deep ravine in which the men had
engaged the enemy. It was a dreary, lonesome beat. The hours passed
slowly away, and at length the morning light began to streak along the
western sky, making surrounding objects visible.

Presently the corporal heard a drum beating up the morning call. At
first he thought it came from the camp of the Confederates across the
creek, but as he listened he found that it came from the deep ravine.
For a few moments the sound stopped, then began again. The corporal
listened closely. The notes of the drum were familiar to him,--and then
he knew that it was the drummer-boy from Tennessee playing the morning
call.

Just then the corporal was relieved from guard duty, and, asking
permission, went at once to Eddie's assistance. He started down the
hill, through the thick underbrush, and upon reaching the bottom of the
ravine, he followed the sound of the drum, and soon found the lad seated
upon the ground, his back leaning against a fallen tree, while his drum
hung upon a bush in front of him.

As soon as the boy saw his rescuer he dropped his drumsticks, and
exclaimed:--

“O Corporal! I am so glad to see you! Give me a drink.”

The soldier took his empty canteen, and immediately turned to bring some
water from the brook that he could hear rippling through the bushes near
by, when, Eddie, thinking that he was about to leave him, cried out:--

“Don't leave me, Corporal, I can't walk.”

The corporal was soon back with the water, when he discovered that both
the lad's feet had been shot away by a cannon-ball.

After satisfying his thirst, Eddie looked up into the corporal's face
and said:--

“You don't think I shall die, do you? This man said I should not,--he
said the surgeon could cure my feet.”

The corporal now looked about him and discovered a man lying in the
grass near by. By his dress he knew him to belong to the Confederate
army. It appeared that he had been shot and had fallen near Eddie.
Knowing that he could not live, and seeing the condition of the
drummer-boy, he had crawled to him, taken off his buckskin suspenders,
and had corded the little fellow's legs below the knees, and then he had
laid himself down and died.

While Eddie was telling the corporal these particulars, they heard the
tramp of cavalry coming down the ravine, and in a moment a scout of the
enemy was upon them, and took them both prisoners.

The corporal requested the officer in charge to take Eddie up in front
of him, and he did so, carrying the lad with great tenderness and care.
When they reached the Confederate camp the little fellow was dead.




A FLAG INCIDENT

BY M. M. THOMAS (ADAPTED)

When marching to Chattanooga the corps had reached a little wooded
valley between the mountains. The colonel, with others, rode ahead,
and, striking into a bypath, suddenly came upon a secluded little cabin
surrounded by a patch of cultivated ground.

At the door an old woman, eighty years of age, was supporting herself
on a crutch. As they rode up she asked if they were “Yankees,” and upon
their replying that they were, she said: “Have you got the Stars and
Stripes with you? My father fought the Tories in the Revolution, and my
old eyes ache for a sight of the true flag before I die.”

To gratify her the colonel sent to have the colors brought that way.
When they were unfurled and planted before her door, she passed her
trembling hands over them and held them close to her eyes that she might
view the stars once more. When the band gave her “Yankee Doodle,”
 and the “'Star-Spangled Banner,” she sobbed like a child, as did her
daughter, a woman of fifty, while her three little grandchildren gazed
in wonder.

They were Eastern people, who had gone to New Orleans to try to improve
their condition. Not being successful, they had moved from place to
place to better themselves, until finally they had settled on this spot,
the husband having taken several acres of land here for a debt.

Then the war burst upon them. The man fled to the mountains to avoid the
conscription, and they knew not whether he was alive or dead. They had
managed to support life, but were so retired that they saw very few
people.

Leaving them food and supplies, the colonel and the corps passed on.




TWO HERO-STORIES OF THE CIVIL WAR

BY BEN LA BREE (ADAPTED)

I. BRAVERY HONORED BY A FOE

In a rifle-pit, on the brow of a hill near Fredericksburg, were a number
of Confederate soldiers who had exhausted their ammunition in the vain
attempt to check the advancing column of Hooker's finely equipped and
disciplined army which was crossing the river. To the relief of these
few came the brigade in double-quick time. But no sooner were the
soldiers intrenched than the firing on the opposite side of the river
became terrific.

A heavy mist obscured the scene. The Federal soldiers poured a merciless
fire into the trenches. Soon many Confederates fell, and the agonized
cries of the wounded who lay there calling for water, smote the hearts
of their helpless comrades.

“Water! Water!” But there was none to give, the canteens were-empty.

“Boys,” exclaimed Nathan Cunningham, a lad of eighteen, the color-bearer
for his regiment, “I can't stand this any more. They want water, and
water they must have. So let me have a few canteens and I'll go for
some.”

Carefully laying the colors, which he had borne on many a field, in a
trench, he seized some canteens, and, leaping into the mist, was soon
out of sight.

Shortly after this the firing ceased for a while, and an order came for
the men to fall back to the main line.

As the Confederates were retreating they met Nathan Cunningham, his
canteens full of water, hurrying to relieve the thirst of the wounded
men in the trenches. He glanced over the passing column and saw that
the faded flag, which he had carried so long, was not there. The men in
their haste to obey orders HAD FORGOTTEN OR OVERLOOKED THE COLORS.

Quickly the lad sped to the trenches, intent now not only on giving
water to his comrades, but on rescuing the flag and so to save the honor
of his regiment.

His mission of mercy was soon accomplished. The wounded men drank
freely. The lad then found and seized his colors, and turned to rejoin
his regiment. Scarcely had he gone three paces when a company of Federal
soldiers appeared ascending the hill.

“Halt and surrender,” came the stern command, and a hundred rifles were
leveled at the boy's breast.

“NEVER! while I hold the colors,” was his firm reply.

The morning sun, piercing with a lurid glare the dense mist, showed the
lad proudly standing with his head thrown back and his flag grasped in
his hand, while his unprotected breast was exposed to the fire of his
foe.

A moment's pause. Then the Federal officer gave his command:--

“Back with your pieces, men, don't shoot that brave boy.”

And Nathan Cunningham, with colors flying over his head, passed on and
joined his regiment.

His comrades in arms still tell with pride of his brave deed and of the
generous act of a foe.




II. THE BRAVERY OF RICHARD KIRTLAND


Richard Kirtland was a sergeant in the Second Regiment of South Carolina
Volunteers. The day after the great battle of Fredericksburg, Kershaw's
brigade occupied the road at the foot of Marye's Hill.

One hundred and fifty yards in front of the road, on the other side of
a stone wall, lay Sykes's division of the United States Army. Between
these troops and Kershaw's command a skirmish fight was continued
through the entire day. The ground between the lines was literally
covered with dead and dying Federal soldiers.

All day long the wounded were calling, “Water! water! water!”

In the afternoon, Sergeant Kirtland, a Confederate soldier, went to the
headquarters of General Kershaw, and said with deep emotion: “General,
all through last night and to-day; I have been hearing those poor
wounded Federal soldiers out there cry for water. Let me go and give
them some.”

“Don't you know,” replied the general, “that you would get a bullet
through you the moment you stepped over the wall?”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant; “but if you will let me go I am willing
to try it.”

The general reflected a minute, then answered: “Kirtland, I ought not to
allow you to take this risk, but the spirit that moves you is so noble I
cannot refuse. Go, and may God protect you!”

In the face of almost certain death the sergeant climbed the wall,
watched with anxiety by the soldiers of his army. Under the curious gaze
of his foes, and exposed to their fire, he dropped to the ground and
hastened on his errand of mercy. Unharmed, untouched, he reached the
nearest sufferer. He knelt beside him, tenderly raised his drooping
head, rested it gently on his breast, and poured the cooling life-giving
water down the parched throat. This done he laid him carefully down,
placed the soldier's knapsack under his head, straightened his broken
limbs, spread his coat over him, replaced the empty canteen with a full
one, then turned to another sufferer.

By this time his conduct was understood by friend and foe alike and the
firing ceased on both sides.

For an hour and a half did he pursue his noble mission, until he had
relieved the wounded on all parts of the battlefield. Then he returned
to his post uninjured.

Surely such a noble deed is worthy of the admiration of men and angels.




THE YOUNG SENTINEL

BY Z. A. MUDGE (ADAPTED)

In the summer of 1862, a young man belonging to a Vermont regiment was
found sleeping at his post. He was tried and sentenced to be shot. The
day was fixed for the execution, and the young soldier calmly prepared
to meet his fate.

Friends who knew of the case brought the matter to Mr. Lincoln's
attention. It seemed that the boy had been on duty one night, and on
the following night he had taken the place of a comrade too ill to stand
guard. The third night he had been again called out, and, being utterly
exhausted, had fallen asleep at his post.

As soon as Mr. Lincoln understood the case, he signed a pardon, and
sent it to the camp. The morning before the execution arrived, and the
President had not heard whether the pardon had reached the officers in
charge of the matter. He began to feel uneasy. He ordered a telegram to
be sent to the camp, but received no answer. State papers could not
fix his mind, nor could he banish the condemned soldier boy from his
thoughts.

At last, feeling that he MUST KNOW that the lad was safe, he ordered
the carriage and rode rapidly ten miles over a dusty road and beneath
a scorching sun. When he reached the camp he found that the pardon had
been received and the execution stayed.

The sentinel was released, and his heart was filled with lasting
gratitude. When the campaign opened in the spring, the young man was
with his regiment near Yorktown, Virginia. They were ordered to attack a
fort, and he fell at the first volley of the enemy.

His comrades caught him up and carried him bleeding and dying from the
field. “Bear witness,” he said, “that I have proved myself not a coward,
and I am not afraid to die.” Then, making a last effort, with his dying
breath he prayed for Abraham Lincoln.




THE COLONEL OF THE ZOUAVES

BY NOAH BROOKS (ADAPTED)

Among those who accompanied Mr. Lincoln, the President-elect, on his
journey from Illinois to the national capital, was Elmer E. Ellsworth,
a young man who had been employed in the law office of Lincoln and
Herndon, Springfield.

He was a brave, handsome, and impetuous youth, and was among the first
to offer his services to the President in defense of the Union, as soon
as the mutterings of war were heard.

Before the war he had organized a company of Zouaves from the Chicago
firemen, and had delighted and astonished many people by the exhibitions
of their skill in the evolutions through which they were put while
visiting some chief cities of the Republic.

Now, being commissioned a second lieutenant in the United States Army,
he went to New York and organized from the firemen of that city a
similar regiment, known as the Eleventh New York.

Colonel Ellsworth's Zouaves, on the evening of May 23, were sent with
a considerable force to occupy the heights overlooking Washington and
Alexandria, on the banks of the Potomac, opposite the national capital.

Next day, seeing a Confederate flag flying from the Marshall House,
a tavern in Alexandria kept by a secessionist, he went up through the
building to the roof and pulled it down. While on his way down the
stairs, with the flag in his arms, he was met by the tavern-keeper, who
shot and killed him instantly. Ellsworth fell, dyeing the Confederate
flag with the blood that gushed from his heart. The tavern-keeper was
instantly killed by a shot from Private Brownell, of the Ellsworth
Zouaves, who was at hand when his commander fell.

The death of Ellsworth, needless though it may have been, caused a
profound sensation throughout the country, where he was well known. He
was among the very first martyrs of the war, as he had been one of the
first volunteers.

Lincoln was overwhelmed with sorrow. He had the body of the lamented
young officer taken to the White House, where it lay in state until the
burial took place, and, even in the midst of his increasing cares, he
found time to sit alone and in grief-stricken meditation by the bier of
the dead young soldier of whose career he had cherished so great hopes.

The life-blood from Ellsworth's heart had stained not only the
Confederate flag, but a gold medal found under his uniform, bearing the
legend: “Non solum nobis, sed pro patria”; “Not for ourselves alone, but
for the country.”




GENERAL SCOTT AND THE STARS AND STRIPES

BY E. D. TOWNSEND (ADAPTED)

One day, as the general was sitting at his table in the office, the
messenger announced that a person desired to see him a moment in order
to present a gift.

A German was introduced, who said that he was commissioned by a house in
New York to present General Scott with a small silk banner. It was very
handsome, of the size of a regimental flag, and was made of a single
piece of silk stamped with the Stars and Stripes of the proper colors.

The German said that the manufacturers who had sent the banner, wished
to express thus the great respect they felt for General Scott, and their
sense of his importance to the country in that perilous time.

The general was highly pleased, and, in accepting the gift, assured
the donors that the flag should hang in his room wherever he went, and
enshroud him when he died.

As soon as the man was gone, the general desired that the stars might be
counted to see if ALL the States were represented. They were ALL there.

The flag was then draped between the windows over the couch where the
general frequently reclined for rest during the day. It went with him in
his berth when he sailed for Europe, after his retirement, and enveloped
his coffin when he was interred at West Point.





INDEPENDENCE DAY

(JULY 4)




THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

BY WASHINGTON IRVING

While danger was gathering round New York, and its inhabitants were
in mute suspense and fearful anticipations, the General Congress
at Philadelphia was discussing, with closed doors, what John Adams
pronounced: “The greatest question ever debated in America, and as great
as ever was or will be debated among men.” The result was, a resolution
passed unanimously on the 2d of July; “that these United Colonies are,
and of right ought to be, free and independent States.”

“The 2d of July,” adds the same patriot statesman, “will be the most
memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it
will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary
festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by
solemn acts of devotion to Almighty God. It ought to be solemnized with
pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and
illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this
time forth forevermore.”

The glorious event has, indeed, given rise to an annual jubilee; but
not on the day designated by Adams. The FOURTH of July is the day of
national rejoicing, for on that day the “Declaration of Independence,”
 that solemn and sublime document, was adopted.

Tradition gives a dramatic effect to its announcement. It was known
to be under discussion, but the closed doors of Congress excluded the
populace. They awaited, in throngs, an appointed signal. In the steeple
of the State House was a bell, imported twenty-three years previously
from London by the Provincial Assembly of Pennsylvania. It bore the
portentous text from Scripture: “Proclaim Liberty throughout all the
land, unto all the inhabitants thereof.” A joyous peal from that bell
gave notice that the bill had been passed. It was the knell of British
domination.




THE SIGNING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE

BY H. A. GUERBER [4]

[Footnote 4: From The Story of the Thirteen Colonies. Copyright, 1898,
by H. A. Guerber. American Book Company, publishers.]


John Hancock, President of Congress, was the first to sign the
Declaration of Independence, writing his name in large, plain letters,
and saying:--

“There! John Bull can read my name without spectacles. Now let him
double the price on my head, for this is my defiance.”

Then he turned to the other members, and solemnly declared:--

“We must be unanimous. There must be no pulling different ways. We must
all hang together.”

“Yes,” said Franklin, quaintly: “we must all hang together, or most
assuredly we shall all hang separately.”

We are told that Charles Carroll, thinking that his writing looked
shaky, added the words, “of Carrollton,” so that the king should not be
able to make any mistake as to whose name stood there.


A BRAVE GIRL

BY JAMES JOHONNOT (ADAPTED) [41]


[Footnote 41: From Stories of Heroic Deeds. Copyright, 1887, by D.
Appleton and Company. American Book Company, publishers.]


In the year 1781 the war was chiefly carried on in the South, but the
North was constantly troubled by bands of Tories and Indians, who would
swoop down on small settlements and make off with whatever they could
lay their hands on.

During this time General Schuyler was staying at his house, which stood
just outside the stockade or walls of Albany. The British commander sent
out a party of Tories and Indians to capture the general.

When they reached the outskirts of the city they learned from a Dutch
laborer that the general's house was guarded by six soldiers, three
watching by night and three by day. They let the Dutchman go, and as
soon as the band was out of sight he hastened to Albany and warned the
general of their approach.

Schuyler gathered his family in one of the upper rooms of his house,
and giving orders that the doors and windows should be barred, fired a
pistol from a top-story window, to alarm the neighborhood.

The soldiers on guard, who had been lounging in the shade of a tree,
started to their feet at the sound of the pistol; but, alas! too late,
for they found themselves surrounded by a crowd of dusky forms, who
bound them hand and foot, before they had time to resist.

In the room upstairs was the sturdy general, standing resolutely at the
door, with gun in hand, while his black slaves were gathered about him,
each with a weapon. At the other end of the room the women were huddled
together, some weeping and some praying.

Suddenly a deafening crash was heard. The Indian band had broken
into the house. With loud shouts they began to pillage and to destroy
everything in sight. While they were yet busy downstairs, Mrs. Schuyler
sprang to her feet and rushed to the door; for she had suddenly
remembered that the baby, who was only a few months old, was asleep in
its cradle in a room on the first floor.

The general caught his wife in his arms, and implored her not to go to
certain death, saying that if any one was to go he would. While this
generous struggle between husband and wife was going on, their young
daughter, who had been standing near the door, glided by them, and
descended the stairs.

All was dark in the hall, excepting where the light shone from the
dining-room in which the Indians were pillaging the shelves and fighting
over their booty. How to get past the dining-room door was the question,
but the brave girl did not hesitate. Reaching the lower hall, she walked
very deliberately forward, softly but quickly passing the door, and
unobserved reached the room in which was the cradle.

She caught up the baby, crept back past the open door, and was just
mounting the stairs, when one of the savages happened to see her.

“WHIZ”--and his sharp tomahawk struck the stair rail within a few inches
of the baby's head. But the frightened girl hurried on, and in a few
seconds was safe in her father's arms.

As for the Indians, fearing an attack from the near-by garrison, they
hastened away with the booty they had collected, and left General
Schuyler and his family unharmed.




THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY

BY JOHN ANDREWS (ADAPTED) [5]


[Footnote 5: From a letter written to a friend in 1773.]


On November 29, 1773, there arrived in Boston Harbor a ship carrying an
hundred and odd chests of the detested tea. The people in the country
roundabout, as well as the town's folk, were unanimous against allowing
the landing of it; but the agents in charge of the consignment persisted
in their refusal to take the tea back to London. The town bells were
rung, for a general muster of the citizens. Handbills were stuck up
calling on “Friends! Citizens! Countrymen!”

Mr. Rotch, the owner of the ship, found himself exposed not only to the
loss of his ship, but to the loss of the money-value of the tea itself,
if he should attempt to send her back without clearance papers from the
custom-house; for the admiral kept a vessel in readiness to seize
any ship which might leave without those papers. Therefore, Mr. Rotch
declared that his ship should not carry back the tea without either
the proper clearance or the promise of full indemnity for any losses he
might incur.

Matters continued thus for some days, when a general muster was called
of the people of Boston and of all the neighboring towns. They met, to
the number of five or six thousand, at ten o'clock in the morning, in
the Old South Meeting-House; where they passed a unanimous vote THAT THE
TEA SHOULD GO OUT OF THE HARBOR THAT AFTERNOON!

A committee, with Mr. Rotch, was sent to the custom-house to demand a
clearance. This the collector said he could not give without the duties
first being paid. Mr. Rotch was then sent to ask for a pass from
the governor, who returned answer that “consistent with the rules of
government and his duty to the king he could not grant one without they
produced a previous clearance from the office.”

By the time Mr. Rotch returned to the Old South Meeting-House with
this message, the candles were lighted and the house still crowded with
people. When the governor's message was read a prodigious shout was
raised, and soon afterward the moderator declared the meeting dissolved.
This caused another general shout, outdoors and in, and what with
the noise of breaking up the meeting, one might have thought that the
inhabitants of the infernal regions had been let loose.

That night there mustered upon Fort Hill about two hundred strange
figures, SAID TO BE INDIANS FROM NARRAGANSETT. They were clothed in
blankets, with heads muffled, and had copper-colored countenances. Each
was armed with a hatchet or axe, and a pair of pistols. They spoke a
strange, unintelligible jargon.

They proceeded two by two to Griffin's Wharf, where three tea-ships lay,
each with one hundred and fourteen chests of the ill-fated article on
board. And before nine o'clock in the evening every chest was knocked
into pieces and flung over the sides.

Not the least insult was offered to any one, save one Captain Conner,
who had ripped up the linings of his coat and waistcoat, and, watching
his opportunity, had filled them with tea. But, being detected, he was
handled pretty roughly. They not only stripped him of his clothes, but
gave him a coat of mud, with a severe bruising into the bargain. Nothing
but their desire not to make a disturbance prevented his being tarred
and feathered.

The tea being thrown overboard, all the Indians disappeared in a most
marvelous fashion.

The next day, if a stranger had walked through the streets of Boston,
and had observed the calm composure of the people, he would hardly have
thought that ten thousand pounds sterling of East India Company's tea
had been destroyed the night before.




A GUNPOWDER STORY

BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE (ADAPTED)

[Footnote 6: From Stories of the Old Dominion. Used by permission of the
American Book Company, publishers.]


In the autumn of 1777 the English decided to attack Fort Henry, at
Wheeling, in northwestern Virginia. This was an important border fort
named in honor of Patrick Henry, and around which had grown up a small
village of about twenty-five log houses.

A band of Indians, under the leadership of one Simon Girty, was supplied
by the English with muskets and ammunition, and sent against the fort.
This Girty was a white man, who, when a boy, had been captured by
Indians, and brought up by them. He had joined their tribes, and was a
ferocious and bloodthirsty leader of savage bands.

When the settlers at Wheeling heard that Simon Girty and his Indians
were advancing on the town, they left their homes and hastened into the
fort. Scarcely had they done so when the savages made their appearance.

The defenders of the fort knew that a desperate fight must now take
place, and there seemed little probability that they would be able to
hold out against their assailants. They had only forty two fighting men,
including old men and boys, while the Indian force numbered about five
hundred.

What was worse they had but a small amount of gunpowder. A keg
containing the main supply had been left by accident in one of the
village houses. This misfortune, as you will soon see, brought about the
brave action of a young girl.

After several encounters with the savages, which took place in the
village, the defenders withdrew to the fort. Then a number of Indians
advanced with loud yells, firing as they came. The fire was returned
by the defenders, each of whom had picked out his man, and taken deadly
aim. Most of the attacking party were killed, and the whole body of
Indians fell back into the near-by woods, and there awaited a more
favorable opportunity to renew hostilities.

The men in the fort now discovered, to their great dismay, that their
gunpowder was nearly gone. What was to be done? Unless they could get
another supply, they would not be able to hold the fort, and they and
their women and children would either be massacred or carried into
captivity.

Colonel Shepherd, who was in command, explained to the settlers exactly
how matters stood. He also told them of the forgotten keg of powder
which was in a house standing about sixty yards from the gate of the
fort.

It was plain to all that if any man should attempt to procure the keg,
he would almost surely be shot by the lurking Indians. In spite of this
three or four young men volunteered to go on the dangerous mission.

Colonel Shepherd replied that he could not spare three or four strong
men, as there were already too few for the defense. Only one man should
make the attempt and they might decide who was to go. This caused a
dispute.

Just then a young girl stepped forward and said that SHE was ready
to go. Her name was Elizabeth Zane, and she had just returned from a
boarding-school in Philadelphia. This made her brave offer all the more
remarkable, since she had not been bred up to the fearless life of the
border.

At first the men would not hear of her running such a risk. She was told
that it meant certain death. But she urged that they could not spare
a man from the defense, and that the loss of one girl would not be an
important matter. So after some discussion the settlers agreed that she
should go for the powder.

The house, as has already been stated, stood about sixty yards from the
fort, and Elizabeth hoped to run thither and bring back the powder in a
few minutes. The gate was opened, and she passed through, running like a
deer.

A few straggling Indians were dodging about the log houses of the town;
they saw the fleeing girl, but for some reason they did not fire upon
her. They may have supposed that she was returning to her home to rescue
her clothes. Possibly they thought it a waste of good ammunition to fire
at a woman, when they were so sure of taking the fort before long. So
they looked on quietly while, with flying skirts, Elizabeth ran across
the open, and entered the house.

She found the keg of powder, which was not large. She lifted it with
both arms, and, holding the precious burden close to her breast, she
darted out of the house and ran in the direction of the fort.

When the Indians saw what she was carrying they uttered fierce yells
and fired. The bullets fell like hail about her, but not one so much as
touched her garments. With the keg hugged to her bosom, she ran on, and
reached the fort in safety. The gate closed upon her just as the bullets
of the Indians buried themselves in its thick panels.

The rescued gunpowder enabled the little garrison to hold out until help
arrived from the other settlements near Wheeling. And Girty, seeing that
there were no further hopes of taking Fort Henry, withdrew his band.

Thus a weak but brave girl was the means of saving strong men with their
wives and children. It was a heroic act, and Americans should never
forget to honor the name of Elizabeth Zane.




THE CAPTURE OF FORT TICONDEROGA

BY WASHINGTON IRVING (ADAPTED)

Some bold spirits in Connecticut conceived the project of surprising the
old forts of Ticonderoga and Crown Point, already famous in the French
War. Their situation on Lake Champlain gave them the command of the main
route into Canada so that the possession of them would be all-important
in case of hostilities. They were feebly garrisoned and negligently
guarded, and abundantly furnished with artillery and military stores so
needed by the patriot army.

At this juncture Ethan Allen stepped forward, a patriot, and volunteered
with his “Green Mountain Boys.” He was well fitted for the enterprise.
During the border warfare over the New Hampshire Grants, he and his
lieutenants had been outlawed by the Legislature of New York and
rewards offered for their apprehension. He and his associates had armed
themselves, set New York at defiance, and had sworn they would be the
death of any one who should try to arrest them.

Thus Ethan Allen had become a kind of Robin Hood among the mountains.
His experience as a frontier champion, his robustness of mind and
body, and his fearless spirit made him a most desirable leader in the
expedition against Fort Ticonderoga. Therefore he was appointed at the
head of the attacking force.

Accompanied by Benjamin Arnold and two other officers, Allen and his
party of soldiers who had been enlisted from several States, set out
and arrived at Shoreham, opposite Fort Ticonderoga on the shore of Lake
Champlain. They reached the place at night-time. There were only a few
boats on hand, but the transfer of men began immediately. It was slow
work. The night wore away; day was about to break, and but eighty-three
men, with Allen and Arnold, had crossed. Should they wait for the rest
to cross over, day would dawn, the garrison wake, and their enterprise
might fail.

Allen drew up his men, addressed them in his own emphatic style, and
announced his intention of making a dash at the fort without waiting for
more force.

“It is a desperate attempt,” said he, “and I ask no man to go against
his will. I will take the lead, and be the first to advance. You that
are willing to follow, poise your firelocks!”

Not a firelock but was poised!

They mounted the hill briskly but in silence, guided by a boy from the
neighborhood.

The day dawned as Allen arrived at a sally-port. A sentry pulled trigger
on him, but his piece missed fire. He retreated through a covered way.
Allen and his men followed. Another sentry thrust at an officer with his
bayonet, but was struck down by Allen, and begged for quarter. It was
granted on condition of his leading the way instantly to the quarters of
the commandant, Captain Delaplace, who was yet in bed.

Being arrived there, Allen thundered at the door, and demanded a
surrender of the fort. By this time his followers had formed into two
lines on the parade-ground, and given three hearty cheers.

The commandant appeared at the door half-dressed, the frightened face
of his pretty wife peering over his shoulder. He gazed at Allen in
bewildered astonishment.

“By whose authority do you act?” exclaimed he.

“In the name of the Continental Congress!” replied Allen, with a
flourish of his sword, and an oath which we do not care to subjoin.

There was no disputing the point. The garrison, like the commandant,
had been startled from sleep, and made prisoners as they rushed forth
in their confusion. A surrender accordingly took place. The captain
and forty-eight men who composed his garrison were sent prisoners to
Hartford, in Connecticut.

And thus without the loss of a single man, one of the important forts,
commanding the main route into Canada, fell into the hands of the
patriots.




WASHINGTON AND THE COWARDS

BY WASHINGTON IRVING (ADAPTED)

During the evacuation of New York by Washington, two divisions of the
enemy, encamped on Long Island, one British under Sir Henry Clinton, the
other Hessian under Colonel Donop, emerged in boats from the deep wooded
recesses of Newtown Inlet, and under cover of the fire from the ships
began to land at two points between Turtle and Kip's Bays.

The breastworks were manned by patriot militia who had recently served
in Brooklyn. Disheartened by their late defeat, they fled at the first
advance of the enemy. Two brigades of Putnam's Connecticut troops,
which had been sent that morning to support them, caught the panic, and,
regardless of the commands and entreaties of their officers, joined in
the general scamper.

At this moment Washington, who had mounted his horse at the first sound
of the cannonade, came galloping to the scene of confusion. Riding in
among the fugitives he endeavored to rally and restore them to order.
All in vain. At the first appearance of sixty or seventy redcoats, they
broke again without firing a shot, and fled in headlong terror.

Losing all self-command at the sight of such dastardly conduct,
Washington dashed his hat upon the ground in a transport of rage.

“Are these the men,” exclaimed he, “with whom I am to defend America!”

In a paroxysm of passion and despair he snapped his pistols at some of
them, threatened others with his sword, and was so heedless of his own
danger that he might have fallen into the hands of the enemy, who were
not eighty yards distant, had not an aide-de-camp seized the bridle of
his horse, and absolutely hurried him away.

It was one of the rare moments of his life when the vehement element of
his nature was stirred up from its deep recesses. He soon recovered his
self-possession, and took measures against the general peril.





LABOR DAY

(FIRST MONDAY IN SEPTEMBER)




THE SMITHY

A HINDU FABLE

BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU (ADAPTED)

Once words ran high in a smithy.

The furnace said: “If I cease to burn, the smithy must close.”

The bellows said: “If I cease to blow, no fire, no smithy.”

The hammer and anvil, also, each claimed the sole credit for keeping up
the smithy.

The ploughshare that had been shaped by the furnace, the bellows, the
hammer and the anvil, cried: “It is not each of you alone, that keeps up
the smithy, but ALL TOGETHER.”




THE NAIL

BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM (TRANSLATED)[7]


[Footnote 7: From the Riverside Fourth Reader.]


A merchant had done good business at the fair; he had sold his wares,
and filled his bag with gold and silver. Then he set out at once on his
journey home, for he wished to be in his own house before night.

At noon he rested in a town. When he wanted to go on, the stable-boy
brought his horse, saying:

“A nail is wanting, sir, in the shoe of his left hind foot.”

“Let it be wanting,” answered the merchant; “the shoe will stay on for
the six miles I have still to go. I am in a hurry.”

In the afternoon he got down at an inn and had his horse fed. The
stable-boy came into the room to him and said: “Sir, a shoe is wanting
from your horse's left hind foot. Shall I take him to the blacksmith?”

“Let it still be wanting,” said the man; “the horse can very well hold
out for a couple of miles more. I am in a hurry.”

So the merchant rode forth, but before long the horse began to limp. He
had not limped long before he began to stumble, and he had not stumbled
long before he fell down and broke his leg. The merchant had to leave
the horse where he fell, and unstrap the bag, take it on his back, and
go home on foot.

“That unlucky nail,” said he to himself, “has made all this trouble.”




THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER

BY HORACE E. SCUDDER

There was once a shoemaker who worked very hard and was honest. Still,
he could not earn enough to live on. At last, all he had in the world
was gone except just leather enough to make one pair of shoes. He cut
these out at night, and meant to rise early the next morning to make
them up.

His heart was light in spite of his troubles, for his conscience was
clear. So he went quietly to bed, left all his cares to God, and fell
asleep. In the morning he said his prayers, and sat down to work, when,
to his great wonder, there stood the shoes, already made, upon the
table.

The good man knew not what to say or think. He looked at the work. There
was not one false stitch in the whole job. All was neat and true.

That same day a customer came in, and the shoes pleased him so well that
he readily paid a price higher than usual for them. The shoemaker took
the money and bought leather enough to make two pairs more. He cut out
the work in the evening, and went to bed early. He wished to be up with
the sun and get to work.

He was saved all trouble, for when he got up in the morning, the work
was done. Pretty soon buyers came in, who paid him well for his goods.
So he bought leather enough for four pairs more.

He cut out the work again overnight, and found it finished in the
morning as before. So it went on for some time. What was got ready at
night was always done by daybreak, and the good man soon was well-to-do.

One evening, at Christmas-time, he and his wife sat over the fire,
chatting, and he said: “I should like to sit up and watch to-night, that
we may see who it is that comes and does my work for me.” So they left
the light burning, and hid themselves behind a curtain to see what would
happen.

As soon as it was midnight, there came two little Elves. They sat upon
the shoemaker's bench, took up all the work that was cut out, and began
to ply their little fingers. They stitched and rapped and tapped at such
a rate that the shoemaker was amazed, and 

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