Third Reader: The Alexandra Readers
by W. A. McIntyre · English · Gutenberg #51441 · 448,895 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Third Reader: The Alexandra Readers
Author: W. A. McIntyre
John Dearness
John C. Saul
Release date: March 14, 2016 [eBook #51441]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIRD READER: THE ALEXANDRA READERS ***
[Illustration: THE CANADIAN FLAG]
THE ALEXANDRA READERS
THIRD READER
BY
W. A. McINTYRE, B.A., LL.D.
PRINCIPAL, NORMAL SCHOOL, WINNIPEG
JOHN DEARNESS, M.A.
VICE-PRINCIPAL, NORMAL SCHOOL, LONDON
AND
JOHN C. SAUL, M.A.
AUTHORIZED BY THE DEPARTMENTS OF EDUCATION
FOR USE IN THE SCHOOLS OF ALBERTA
AND SASKATCHEWAN
PRICE 45 CENTS
TORONTO
MORANG EDUCATIONAL COMPANY LIMITED
1908
COPYRIGHT BY
MORANG EDUCATIONAL COMPANY LIMITED
1908
COPYRIGHT IN GREAT BRITAIN
CONTENTS
PAGE
_Canada! Maple Land!_ 9
The Shoemaker and the Elves _Jacob Grimm_ 10
_Song of the Golden Sea_ _Jean Blewett_ 13
_Work_ _Mary N. Prescott_ 14
Fortune and the Beggar _Ivan Kriloff_ 15
_The Sprite_ Frederick George Scott 17
A Crust of Bread _Selected_ 19
_Two Surprises_ _Anonymous_ 23
The Rich Man and the Cobbler _Jean de la Fontaine_ 25
_The Drought_ _R. K. Kernighan_ 30
_The Eagle_ _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 31
The Golden Windows _Laura E. Richards_ 32
_A Song of Seasons_ _Elizabeth Roberts Macdonald_ 36
A Miser’s Treasure _Grace H. Kupfer_ 38
_Drifted out to Sea_ _Rosa Hartwick Thorpe_ 42
The Daisy and the Lark _Hans Christian Andersen_ 44
_The Splendor of the Days_ _Jean Blewett_ 48
_Before the Rain_ _Thomas Bailey Aldrich_ 49
Webster and the Woodchuck _Selected_ 50
_The Fairies of Caldon Low_ _Mary Howitt_ 53
The Last Lesson in French _Alphonse Daudet_ 57
_The Brook Song_ _James Whitcomb Riley_ 62
_The Better Land_ _Felicia Dorothea Hemans_ 63
Cædmon _Grace H. Kupfer_ 65
_The Bluebell_ _Anonymous_ 67
_Lullaby of an Infant Chief_ _Sir Walter Scott_ 69
The Minstrel’s Song _Maude Lindsay_ 69
_The Use of Flowers_ _Mary Howitt_ 74
_The Miller of the Dee_ _Charles Mackay_ 76
The Story of Moween _Selected_ 77
_A Hindu Fable_ _John Godfrey Saxe_ 81
The Boy Musician _Bertha Leary Saunders_ 83
_The Sparrows_ _Celia Thaxter_ 87
_The Time and the Deed_ _Jean Blewett_ 90
The Flax _Hans Christian Andersen_ 91
_Jeannette and Jo_ _Mary Mapes Dodge_ 96
The Maid of Orleans _Maude Barrow Dutton_ 98
_Birds_ _Eliza Cook_ 102
_The Owl_ _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 103
Iktomi and the Coyote _Zitkala-S̈a_ 104
_Golden Rod_ _Frank Dempster Sherman_ 108
_November_ _Helen Hunt Jackson_ 109
Sir Edwin Landseer _Selected_ 110
_The Two Church Builders_ _John Godfrey Saxe_ 115
How Siegfried made the Sword _Selected_ 118
_Grass and Roses_ _James Freeman Clarke_ 123
_The Wounded Curlew_ _Celia Thaxter_ 124
The Gold and Silver Shield _Selected_ 125
_The White-throat Sparrow_ _Sir James D. Edgar_ 128
_The Sandpiper_ _Celia Thaxter_ 129
Crœsus _James Baldwin_ 131
_The Frost Spirit_ _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 135
_A Song of the Sleigh_ _James T. Fields_ 137
The Christmas Dinner _Charles Dickens_ 138
_Christmas Song_ _Phillips Brooks_ 144
Bergetta’s Misfortune _Celia Thaxter_ 146
_Storm Song_ _Bayard Taylor_ 150
_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea_ _Allan Cunningham_ 152
The Indians _Selected_ 153
_Speak Gently_ _David Bates_ 157
_Daybreak_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 158
The Choice of Hercules _James Baldwin_ 159
_The Walker of the Snow_ _Charles Dawson Shanly_ 162
The Frog Travellers _William Elliot Griffis_ 165
_The Three Bells_ _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 169
How the Indian Knew _Selected_ 171
_Hohenlinden_ _Thomas Campbell_ 172
_The Clouds_ _Archibald Lampman_ 174
Shoeing _Estelle M. Hurll_ 175
_The Village Blacksmith_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 179
The Search for a Western Sea _Helen Palk_ 181
_The Moss Rose_ _F. A. Krummacher_ 185
_Woodman, Spare that Tree!_ _George P. Morris_ 186
Dick Whittington _Selected_ 187
_Somebody’s Mother_ _Anonymous_ 195
_The Lord is my Shepherd_ _The Book of Psalms_ 197
Black Beauty’s Breaking In _Anna Sewell_ 198
_The Door of Spring_ _Ethelwyn Wetherald_ 204
_The Crocus’s Song_ _Hannah Flagg Gould_ 206
A Sound Opinion _Selected_ 207
_The Soldier’s Dream_ _Thomas Campbell_ 211
_March of the Men of Harlech_ _William Duthie_ 212
Hugh John Smith becomes a Soldier _Samuel R. Crockett_ 213
_England’s Dead_ _Felicia Dorothea Hemans_ 219
A Child’s Dream of a Star _Charles Dickens_ 221
_Excelsior_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 226
The Sentinel’s Pouch _Selected_ 228
_The Milkmaid_ _Jeffreys Taylor_ 232
Tom, the Water-baby _Charles Kingsley_ 234
_An April Day_ _Caroline Bowles Southey_ 241
_Pussy Willow_ _Anonymous_ 243
Laura Secord _Helen Palk_ 244
_The Maple Leaf Forever_ _Alexander Muir_ 249
_The Colors of the Flag_ _Frederick George Scott_ 250
How the Mountain was Clad _Björnstjerne Björnson_ 252
_Lucy Gray_ _William Wordsworth_ 256
Beautiful Joe _Marshall Saunders_ 259
_Somebody’s Darling_ _Marie Lacoste_ 267
_Home, Sweet Home_ _John Howard Payne_ 269
The Beavers _Julia Augusta Schwartz_ 270
_The Brook_ _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 276
The Little Postboy _Bayard Taylor_ 278
_Hiawatha’s Friends_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 288
The White Ship _Charles Dickens_ 295
_The Arab and his Steed_ _Caroline Norton_ 299
A Bridge of Monkeys _Mayne Reid_ 303
_We are Seven_ _William Wordsworth_ 306
The Mirror _From the Japanese_ 309
_The Wreck of the Hesperus_ _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 314
The Black Douglas _Sir Walter Scott_ 318
_Bruce and the Spider_ _Eliza Cook_ 322
The Old Man of the Meadow _Julia MacNair Wright_ 325
_John Gilpin_ _William Cowper_ 329
A Forest Fire _Susannah Moodie_ 340
_The Horses of Gravelotte_ _Gerok_ 344
_Four-leaf Clovers_ _Ella Higginson_ 346
Aladdin _Arabian Nights’ Entertainment_ 347
_The Rapid_ _Charles Sangster_ 357
_Long Life_ _Horatio Bonar_ 358
Little Daffydowndilly _Nathaniel Hawthorne_ 359
_The Earth is the Lord’s_ _The Book of Psalms_ 369
_The Singing Leaves_ _James Russell Lowell_ 370
The Clocks of Rondaine _Frank R. Stockton_ 374
_The Camel’s Nose_ _Lydia Huntley Sigourney_ 384
_Lord Ullin’s Daughter_ _Thomas Campbell_ 385
_God Save the King_ 388
THIRD READER
CANADA! MAPLE LAND!
Canada! Maple land! Land of great mountains!
Lake-land and River-land! Land ’twixt the seas!
Grant us, God, hearts that are large as our heritage,
Spirits as free as the breeze!
Grant us Thy fear that we walk in humility--
Fear that is reverent--not fear that is base;
Grant to us righteousness, wisdom, prosperity,
Peace--if unstained by disgrace.
Grant us Thy love and the love of our country;
Grant us Thy strength, for our strength’s in Thy name;
Shield us from danger, from every adversity,
Shield us, O Father, from shame!
Last born of Nations! the offspring of freedom!
Heir to wide prairies, thick forests, red gold!
God grant us wisdom to value our birthright,
Courage to guard what we hold!
THE SHOEMAKER AND THE ELVES
There was once an honest shoemaker who worked very hard at his trade;
yet through no fault of his own he grew poorer and poorer. At last he
had only just enough leather left to make one pair of shoes. In the
evening he cut out the leather so as to be ready to make the shoes the
next day.
He rose early in the morning, and went to his bench. But what did he
see? There stood the pair of shoes, already made. The poor man could
hardly believe his eyes, and he did not know what to think. He took
the shoes in his hand to look at them closely. Every stitch was in its
right place. A finer piece of work was never seen.
Very soon a customer came, and the shoes pleased him so well that he
willingly paid a higher price than usual for them. The shoemaker now
had enough money to buy leather for two pairs of shoes. In the evening
he cut them out with great care, and went to bed early so that he might
be up in good time the next day. But he was saved all trouble; for when
he rose in the morning, two pairs of well-made shoes stood in a row
upon his bench.
Presently in came customers, who paid him a high price for the shoes,
and with the money that he received, he bought enough leather to make
four pairs of shoes. Again he cut the work out overnight and again
he found it finished in the morning. The shoemaker’s good fortune
continued. All the shoes he cut out in the day were finished at night.
The good man rose early, and he was busy every moment of the day. Every
pair found ready sale. “Never did shoes wear so long,” said the buyers.
[Illustration]
One evening, about Christmas time, the shoemaker said to his wife,
“Let us watch to-night and see who it is that does this work for us.”
So they left a light burning and hid themselves behind a curtain which
hung in the corner of the room. As soon as it was midnight there came
two little dwarfs. They sat down upon the shoemaker’s bench, and began
to work with their tiny fingers, stitching and rapping and tapping
away. Never had the good shoemaker and his wife seen such rapid work.
The elves did not stop till the task was quite finished, and the shoes
stood ready for use upon the table. This was long before daybreak, and
then they bustled away as quick as lightning.
The next day the shoemaker’s wife said to her husband: “These little
folks have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them and do
them a service in return. They must be cold, for they have nothing on
their backs to keep them warm. I shall make each of them a suit of
clothes, and you shall make some shoes for them.”
This the shoemaker was very glad to do. When the little suits and the
new shoes were finished, they were laid on the bench instead of the
usual work. Again the good people hid themselves in the corner of the
room to watch. About midnight the elves appeared. When they found
the neat little garments waiting for them, they showed the greatest
delight. They dressed in a moment, and jumped and capered and sprang
about until they danced out of the door and over the green.
Never were they seen again, but everything went well with the shoemaker
and his wife from that time forward as long as they lived.--JACOB GRIMM.
* * * * *
I am only one;
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything;
But still I can do something.
And because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.
SONG OF THE GOLDEN SEA
Sing, ye ripening fields of wheat,
Sing to the breezes passing by,
Sing your jubilant song and sweet,
Sing to the earth, the air, the sky!
Earth that held thee and skies that kissed
Morning and noon and night for long,
Sun and rain and dew and mist,
All that has made you glad and strong!
The harvest fields of the far, far west
Stretch out a shimmering sea of gold!
Every ripple upon its breast
Sings peace, and plenty and wealth untold!
Far as the eye can reach it goes,
Farther yet, ’till there seems no end,
Under a sky where blue and rose
With the gold and turquoise softly blend.
Here, where sweep the prairies lone,
Broad and beautiful in God’s eyes,
Here in this young land, all our own,
The garner-house of the old world lies.
--JEAN BLEWETT.
_From “The Cornflower and Other Poems,” by permission._
WORK
Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been?
“I’ve been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky;
I’ve been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;
I’ve been laughing at work while others sigh;
Let those laugh who win!”
Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?
“I’m urging the corn to fill out its cells;
I’m helping the lily to fashion its bells;
I’m swelling the torrent and brimming the wells;
Is that worth pursuing?”
Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?
“I’ve been watching the nest where my fledglings lie;
I’ve sung them to sleep with a lullaby;
By and by I shall teach them to fly,
Up and away, every one!”
Honeybee, honeybee, where are you going?
“To fill my basket with precious pelf;
To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;
To find out the sweetest flower that grows,
Be it a thistle or be it a rose,--
A secret worth the knowing!”
--MARY N. PRESCOTT.
FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR
One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from house to house. He
carried an old wallet in his hand, and was asking at every door for a
few cents to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at his lot, he
kept wondering why it was that people who had so much money were never
satisfied, but were always wanting more.
“Here,” said he, “is the master of this house--I know him well. He was
always a good business man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long
time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped then. He would have
turned over his business to some one else, and then he could have spent
the rest of his life in ease. But what did he do instead? He began
building ships and sending them to sea to trade with foreign lands. He
thought he would get mountains of gold.
“But there were great storms on the water; his ships were wrecked, and
his riches were swallowed up by the waves. Now his hopes all lie at the
bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished like the dreams
of a night. There are many such cases. Men seem never to be satisfied
unless they can gain the whole world. As for me, if I had only enough
to eat and to wear I would not wish anything more.”
Just at that moment Fortune came down the street. She saw the beggar
and stopped. She said to him: “Listen! I have long desired to help you.
Hold your wallet and I shall pour this gold into it. But I shall pour
only on this condition: All that falls into the wallet shall be pure
gold, but every piece that falls upon the ground shall become dust. Do
you understand?”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” said the beggar.
[Illustration]
“Then have a care,” said Fortune. “Your wallet is old; so do not load
it too heavily.”
The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait. He quickly opened his
wallet, and a stream of yellow dollars was poured into it. The wallet
soon began to grow heavy.
“Is that enough?” asked Fortune.
“Not yet.”
“Isn’t it cracking?”
“Never fear.”
The beggar’s hands began to tremble. Ah, if the golden stream would
only pour forever!
“You are the richest man in the world now!”
“Just a little more,” said the beggar; “add just a handful or two.”
“There, it’s full. The wallet will burst.”
“But it will hold a little more, just a little more!”
Another piece was added and the wallet split. The treasure fell upon
the ground and was turned to dust. Fortune had vanished.
The beggar had now nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from
top to bottom. He was as poor as before.
--_From the Russian of_ IVAN KRILOFF.
THE SPRITE
A little sprite sat on a moonbeam
When the night was waning away,
And over the world to the eastwards
Had spread the first flush of the day.
The moonbeam was cold and slippery,
And a fat little fairy was he;
Around him the white clouds were sleeping,
And under him slumbered the sea.
Then the old moon looked out of her left eye,
And laughed when she thought of the fun,
For she knew that the moonbeam he sat on
Would soon melt away in the sun;
So she gave a slight shrug of her shoulder,
And winked at a bright little star--
The moon was remarkably knowing,
As old people always are.
“Great madam,” then answered the fairy,
“No doubt you are mightily wise,
And know possibly more than another
Of the ins and the outs of the skies.
But to think that we don’t in our own way
An interest in sky-things take
Is a common and fatal blunder
That sometimes you great ones make.
“For I’ve looked up from under the heather,
And watched you night after night,
And marked your silent motion
And the fall of your silvery light.
I have seen you grow larger and larger,
I have watched you fade away;
I have seen you turn pale as a snowdrop
At the sudden approach of day.
“So don’t think for a moment, great madam,
Though a poor little body I be,
That I haven’t my senses about me,
Or am going to drop into the sea.
I have had what you only could give me--
A pleasant night ride in the sky;
But a new power arises to eastwards,
So, useless old lady, good-by.”
He whistled a low, sweet whistle,
And up from the earth so dark,
With its wings bespangled with dewdrops,
There bounded a merry lark.
He’s mounted the tiny singer
And soared through the heavens away,
With his face all aglow in the morning,
And a song for the rising day.
--FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.
A CRUST OF BREAD
The boy was lying under a big shady tree eating a large crust of bread.
He had been romping with his dog in the garden, enjoying the sweet
flowers and the bright sunshine. Now he rested in the cool shade of the
apple-tree with the dog curled up at his feet. The birds were warbling
their gayest songs in the topmost branches, and the leaves cast their
dancing shadows on the soft carpet of green below.
As the dog was fast asleep, the boy had no one with whom to play. Just
then a lady, beautifully dressed and holding a wand in her hand, stood
before him. She smiled, and then placed her wand on the crust of bread,
after which she at once vanished. She had no sooner gone than the boy
rubbed his eyes in wonder, for the crust of bread was talking in a
gentle voice.
“Would you like to hear my story?” it said. The boy nodded his head, as
if to say yes, and the crust began:--
“Once upon a time I was a little baby seed. I lived in a large home
called a granary. In this home were many other baby seeds just like
me. No one could tell one from the other, as we all belonged to the
same family and looked so much alike. We lived there very quietly until
one day my sister cried, ‘Hark! do you hear that noise? The mice are
coming!’ Then she told us the mice were fond of little grains of wheat,
and that if they were to eat us we would never grow to be like our
mother. We heard them many times after that, but we never saw them.
“One day a farmer came and put us into a large sack. It was so dark in
the sack, and we lay so very near together that I thought we should
smother. Soon I felt myself sliding. I tried to cling to the sack,
but the other grains in their rush to the sunlight took me along with
them. In our wild race we ran into a tube, and, going faster and
faster, we soon fell into the seed-drill.
“Then I felt myself sliding again, for the seed-drill was moving
forward. I could hear the driver call out in loud tones to the horses,
‘Get up!’ and round and round went the big wheels of the drill. All at
once I went under cover in the rich ground. At first I did not like to
be shut in from the sunlight. But one day when I heard the crows, I was
glad that I was under the coverlet of the ground. I heard their cry of
‘Caw, caw,’ and how frightened I was! I knew that the crows were near,
and that they liked the little baby wheat grains. This made me thank
the farmer and Mother Nature for giving me such a good home. The crows
could not find me, and by and by they flew away.
“Mother Nature now warmed me, and the rains fed me. I went to sleep,
but one bright morning I awoke. The rain had been tapping on our great
brown house, telling us to awake from our nap. I had grown so large
while sleeping that my brown coat burst open. The sun had warmed my
bed. I put a little white rootlet out and sent it down into the ground.
The gentle spring breeze and the warm days brought my first blade
into the sunlight above the ground, and peeping out I was glad to see
everything growing fresh and green. I could see the tender sprouting
grass and the opening buds. I could hear the bluebird’s song and the
robin’s warble. I could smell the balmy air of spring.
“Mother Nature sent her children every day to help me. The rain came
through the soil, and brought me food and drink. The sun fairies warmed
my sprouting leaves, and the wind brought me fresh air. In June I wore
a dainty green dress of slender, graceful leaves. As my sisters and I
stood in the great field on the plain, and were wafted to and fro by
the winds, we looked like the waves of the rolling deep.
“So I grew and grew, and one morning after the dew had given me my cool
bath, and the sun fairies had dried my leaves, the south wind whispered
her song to me, and I found myself a full-grown plant. I was proud of
my spikelets of flowers, and now could wave with my sisters in the
rolling seas of wheat. Down at the base of our little spikelets were
seed cups in which slept the little baby seeds. The wind rocked them to
sleep, and, sleeping, they grew to the full-sized wheat grain.
“By and by we became tall stalks of golden wheat, and the farmer was
glad to look at us. When we were fully ripe, the great reaping-machine
drawn by a number of horses came along and cut us down. Then we were
picked up and sent whirling through the buzzing jaws of the thrasher.
Our grains of wheat were screened from the chaff and straw, and fell
into sacks. Then we were put on trains and transported to the mammoth
granaries to be stored away until the flour-mills wanted us.
“At last we reached the mills. There we were turned into beautiful
white flour and shipped to the market. So in time we, as flour, reached
the housewife’s or baker’s well-stocked kitchen, where we were put into
trays, and, being mixed with a little salt, yeast, and some water, were
kneaded into loaves of bread and baked. This is the story of my life
from a little grain of wheat until I became the crust of bread that you
are eating.”
The sun was sinking in the west, the birds were winging their flight
homewards, and night was fast coming on. The dog yawned, and,
stretching himself out, was ready for another romp with his master.
The boy awoke from his dream and hurried home to help with the evening
meal, and to do his share of the world’s work.--SELECTED.
_From “The New Education Readers,” by permission of the American Book
Company._
TWO SURPRISES
A workman plied his clumsy spade
As the sun was going down;
The German king with his cavalcade
Was coming into town.
The king stopped short when he saw the man--
“My worthy friend,” said he,
“Why not cease work at eventide,
When the laborer should be free?”
“I do not slave,” the old man said,
“And I am always free;
Though I work from the time I leave my bed
Till I can hardly see.”
“How much,” said the king, “is thy gain in a day?”
“Eight groschen,” the man replied.
“And canst thou live on this meagre pay?”--
“Like a king,” he said with pride.
“Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,
And two for a debt I owe;
Two groschen to lend and two to spend
For those who can’t labor, you know.”
“Thy debt?” said the king. Said the toiler, “Yea,
To my mother with age oppressed,
Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,
And now hath need of rest.”
“To whom dost lend of thy daily store?”
“To my three boys at school. You see,
When I am too feeble to toil any more,
They will care for their mother and me.”
“And thy last two groschen?” the monarch said.
“My sisters are old and lame;
I give them two groschen for raiment and bread,
All in the Father’s name.”
Tears welled up in the good king’s eyes--
“Thou knowest me not,” said he;
“As thou hast given me one surprise,
Here is another for thee.
“I am thy king; give me thy hand”--
And he heaped it high with gold--
“When more thou needest, I command
That I at once be told.
“For I would bless with rich reward
The man who can proudly say,
That eight souls he doth keep and guard
On eight poor groschen a day.”
--ANONYMOUS.
THE RICH MAN AND THE COBBLER
In old Paris, very rich people and quite poor people used to live close
by each other. Up one stair might be found a very rich man; up two
stairs a man not quite so rich; up three stairs a man who had not very
much money. On the very lowest floor, a little below the street, were
to be found the poorest folks of all. It was on this low floor that a
cobbler used to live and mend shoes and sing songs. For he was a very
happy cobbler, and went on singing all day, and keeping time with his
hammer or his needle.
[Illustration: THE RICH MAN AND HIS FRIEND]
Up one stair, or on what is called the first floor, lived a very rich
man, so rich that he did not know how rich he was--so rich that he
could not sleep at nights for trying to find out how much money he had,
and if it were quite safe.
Everybody knows that it is easier to sleep in the morning than at
night. So nobody will wonder when I say that this rich man lay awake
all night and always fell asleep in the morning. But no sooner did
he fall asleep than he was wakened again. It was not his money that
wakened him this time--it was the cobbler. Every morning, just as the
rich man fell asleep the cobbler awoke, and in almost no time was
sitting at his door, sewing away and singing like a lark.
The rich man went to a friend and said, ”I can’t sleep at night for
thinking of my money, and I can’t sleep in the morning for listening to
that cobbler’s singing. What am I to do?” This friend was a wise man,
and told him of a plan.
Next forenoon, while the cobbler was singing away as usual, the
rich man came down the four steps that led from the pavement to the
cobbler’s door.
“Now here’s a fine job,” thought the happy cobbler. “He’s going to get
me to make a grand pair of boots, and won’t he pay me well!”
But the rich man did not want boots or anything. He had come to give,
not to get. In his hand he had a leather bag filled with something
that jingled. “Here, cobbler,” said the rich man, “I have brought you a
present of a hundred crowns.”
“A hundred crowns!” cried the cobbler; “but I’ve done nothing. Why do
you give me this money?”
“Oh, it’s because you’re always so happy.”
“And you’ll never ask it back?”
“Never.”
“Nor bring lawyers about it and put me in prison?”
“No, no. Why should I?”
“Well, then, I’ll take the money, and I thank you very, very much.”
When the rich man had gone the cobbler opened the bag, and was just
about to pour out the money into his leather apron to count how much
it was, when he saw a man in the street looking at him. This would
never do, so he went into the darkest part of his house and counted the
hundred crowns. He had never seen so much money in his life before, but
somehow he did not feel so happy as he felt he should.
[Illustration]
Just then his wife came in quietly, and gave the poor cobbler such a
fright that he lost his temper and scolded her, a thing he had never
done in his life.
Next he hid the bag below the pillow of the bed, because he could see
that place from the door where he worked. But by and by he began to
think that if he could see it from the door so could other people. So
he went in and changed the bag to the bottom of the bed. Two or three
times every hour he went in to see that the bag was all right. His wife
wanted to know what was the matter with the bed, but he told her to
mind her own business. The next time she was not looking he slipped the
bag into the bottom of an old box, and from that time he kept changing
it about from place to place whenever he got a chance. If he had told
his wife it would not have been so bad, but he was afraid even of her.
Next morning the rich man fell asleep as usual, and was not disturbed
by the cobbler’s song. The next morning was the same, and the next, and
the next. Everybody noticed what a change had come over the cobbler. He
no longer sang. He did little work, for he was always running out and
in to see if his money was all right; and he was very unhappy.
On the sixth day he made up his mind what to do. I think he talked it
over with his wife at last, but I am not sure. Anyway, he went up his
four steps, and then up the one stair that led to the rich man’s room.
When he had entered, he went up to the table and laid down the bag,
and said, “Sir, here are your hundred crowns; give me back my song.”
Next morning things were as bad as ever for the poor rich man, who had
to remove, they say, to another part of Paris where the cobblers are
not so happy.
--_From the French of_ JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.
THE DROUGHT
Hath Heaven’s blessing passed away?
The sky’s sweet smile quite gone?
There is no sacred rain by day,
No beaded dew at dawn.
How can Thy helpless creatures live
When drought destroys the sod?
Upon our knees we pray Thee give
Thy creatures food, O God!
The little stream hath ceased to run,
The clover-bloom is dead,
The meadows redden in the sun,
The very weeds are fled.
Their heads the mournful cattle shake
Beside the thirsting wood.
Lord, hear the humble prayer we make,
To give Thy creatures food.
The panting sheep gasp in the shade,
Their matted wool is wet,
And where the cruel share is laid
The striving horses sweat;
They welcome death--’tis pain to live--
Restore Thy blessed sod;
Oh, hear our humble prayer and give
Thy creatures food, O God!
R. K. KERNIGHAN.
_By special permission._
THE EAGLE
He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
--ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
* * * * *
Men must reap the things they sow,
Force from force must ever flow.
THE GOLDEN WINDOWS
[Illustration]
All day long the little boy worked hard, in field and barn and shed,
for his people were poor farmers, and could not pay a workman; but at
sunset there came an hour that was all his own, for his father had
given it to him. Then the boy would go up to the top of a hill and
look across at another hill that rose some miles away. On this far
hill stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamonds. They shone
and blazed so that it made the boy wink to look at them; but after a
while the people in the house put up shutters, as it seemed, and then
it looked like any common farm-house. The boy supposed they did this
because it was supper-time; and then he would go into the house and
have his supper of bread and milk and so to bed.
One day the boy’s father called him and said: “You have been a good
boy, and have earned a holiday. Take this day for your own; but
remember that God gave it, and try to learn some good thing.”
The boy thanked his father and kissed his mother; then he put a piece
of bread in his pocket, and set out to find the house with the golden
windows.
It was pleasant walking. His bare feet made marks in the white dust,
and when he looked back, the footprints seemed to be following him, and
making company for him. His shadow, too, kept beside him, and would
dance or run with him as he pleased; so it was very cheerful. By and
by he felt hungry; and he sat down by a brown brook that ran through
the alder hedge by the roadside, and ate his bread, and drank the clear
water. Then he scattered the crumbs for the birds, as his mother had
taught him to do, and went on his way.
After a long time he came to a high green hill; and when he had climbed
the hill, there was the house on the top; but it seemed that the
shutters were up, for he could not see the golden windows. He came up
to the house, and then he could well have wept, for the windows were of
clear glass, like any others, and there was no gold anywhere about them.
A woman came to the door, and looked kindly at the boy, and asked him
what he wanted.
“I saw the golden windows from our hilltop,” he said, “and I came to
see them, but now they are only glass.”
The woman shook her head and laughed.
“We are poor farming people,” she said, “and are not likely to have
gold about our windows; but glass is better to see through.”
She told the boy to sit down on the broad stone step at the door, and
brought him a cup of milk and a cake, and bade him rest; then she
called her daughter, a child of his own age, and nodded kindly at the
two, and went back to her work.
The little girl was barefooted like himself, and wore a brown cotton
gown, but her hair was golden like the windows he had seen, and her
eyes were blue like the sky at noon. She led the boy about the farm,
and showed him her black calf with the white star on its forehead, and
he told her about his own at home, which was red like a chestnut, with
four white feet. Then when they had eaten an apple together, and so had
become friends, the boy asked her about the golden windows. The little
girl nodded, and said she knew all about them, only he had mistaken the
house.
“You have come quite the wrong way!” she said. “Come with me, and I
shall show you the house with the golden windows, and then you will see
for yourself.”
They went to a knoll that rose behind the farm-house, and as they went
the little girl told him that the golden windows could be seen only at
a certain hour, about sunset.
“Yes, I know that!” said the boy.
When they reached the top of the knoll, the girl turned and pointed;
and there on a hill far away stood a house with windows of clear gold
and diamond, just as he had seen them. And when they looked again, the
boy saw that it was his own home.
Then he told the little girl that he must go. He promised to come
again, but he did not tell her what he had learned; and so he went
back down the hill, and the little girl stood in the sunset light and
watched him.
The way home was long, and it was dark before the boy reached his
father’s house; but the lamplight and firelight shone through the
windows, making them almost as bright as he had seen them from the
hilltop; and when he opened the door, his mother came to kiss him, and
his little sister ran to throw her arms about his neck, and his father
looked up and smiled from his seat by the fire.
“Have you had a good day?” asked his mother.
Yes, the boy had had a very good day.
“And have you learned anything?” asked his father.
“Yes,” said the boy. “I have learned that our house has windows of gold
and diamond.”
--LAURA E. RICHARDS.
_From “The Golden Windows,” by permission of Little, Brown & Company._
A SONG OF SEASONS
Sing a song of Spring-time!
Catkins by the brook,
Adder’s-tongues uncounted,
Ferns in every nook;
The cataract on the hillside
Leaping like a fawn;
Sing a song of Spring-time,--
Ah, but Spring-time’s gone!
Sing a song of Summer!
Flowers among the grass,
Clouds like fairy frigates,
Pools like looking-glass,
Moonlight through the branches,
Voices on the lawn;
Sing a song of Summer,--
Ah, but Summer’s gone!
Sing a song of Autumn!
Grain in golden sheaves,
Woodbine’s crimson clusters
Round the cottage eaves,
Days of crystal clearness,
Frosted fields at dawn;
Sing a song of Autumn,--
Ah, but Autumn’s gone!
Sing a song of Winter!
North-wind’s bitter chill,
Home and ruddy firelight,
Kindness and good-will,
Hemlock in the churches,
Daytime soon withdrawn;
Sing a song of Winter,--
Ah, but Winter’s gone!
Sing a song of loving!
Let the seasons go;
Hearts can make their gardens
Under sun or snow;
Fear no fading blossom,
Nor the dying day;
Sing a song of loving,--
That will last for aye!
--ELIZABETH ROBERTS MACDONALD.
_By permission of the publishers, L. C. Page & Co., Boston._
* * * * *
Striving not to be rich or great,
Never questioning fortune or fate,
Contented slowly to earn, and wait.
A MISER’S TREASURE
There once lived, in a little English town, a skilful linen weaver
named Silas Marner. He was of a simple, trusting nature. He thought no
wrong of anybody, and had never harmed any one in word or deed. Among
his friends in the town there was one man whom he loved so dearly that
he would gladly have given his life for him.
This man, however, far from being a true friend, acted most dishonestly
and unfaithfully. Having committed a robbery himself, he cast the blame
on Silas; and the weaver, who was too simple to see through the trick
that had been played upon him, was forced to leave his native town,
not only a disgraced, but a broken-hearted, man. The wickedness of the
man whom he had thought his true friend, and the readiness of all his
fellow-townsmen to believe evil of him, changed his whole nature and
made him suspicious of and bitter against all men.
He wandered forth and settled at last in the village of Raveloe,
far away from his old home. There he took up his abode in a little
weather-beaten cottage at the outskirts of the town, and would have
nothing to do with his neighbors beyond furnishing them with the fine
linen he wove so well, and taking his pay in gold.
All day long he sat spinning at his loom, seeing no one and thinking
only of his wrongs; and at night he had nothing to do but count his
gold and watch with delight how the pile grew larger and larger every
week. At last the gold, taking the place of his former interests,
became the one thing in life he cared for. He hoarded it and gloated
over it like a miser; and before long, though he still worked steadily
at his loom, he thought no more of his work, but only of the gold it
would bring him to add to his store. Thus passed his life for a long
time.
But one evening when Silas had gone out to carry a bundle to a
neighboring house, and had left his door ajar because he meant to be
back in a short time, a thief, attracted by the light and the open
door, entered the weaver’s hut and stole the bags of gold. When he
returned, and, as usual, lifted the stone under which his treasure was
hidden, he found nothing but the empty hole.
At first he could not believe that the money was gone. He hunted
everywhere through his little cottage, turning again and again to the
empty hole in the ground, to make sure that his eyes had not deceived
him. When at last the truth forced itself upon him that his gold was
really gone, he uttered a cry of anger and dismay, and rushed forth
into the night, weeping and wailing and searching in vain for his lost
treasure.
His neighbors, who soon heard what had happened, felt very sorry for
him, and tried to show, by many little kind acts, their friendliness
for the now desolate man. But he would have nothing to do with any of
them. He shut himself up in his cheerless cottage, and though, from
force of habit, he still worked at his loom, he had no longer any
interest in life.
One bitterly cold night, Silas again had occasion to go out after dark.
This time he left his door wide open, for now he had nothing left to
lose. But while he was gone, a little golden-haired child, whose poor
mother lay frozen to death in the snow on the roadside, had spied the
light in Marner’s cottage and had crept to it for safety. Once inside
the warm room, the child had fallen asleep, her golden head resting
upon the very spot from which the miser’s treasure had been stolen.
When Silas entered the cottage and saw the glitter of gold on the
floor, he was so startled that for a moment he stood stock-still. His
first thought was that his treasure had been restored to him, and with
a cry of joy he rushed forward to seize it. But instead of the cold,
hard gold, he felt soft, warm curls; and the next minute the little
child, who was awakened by his touch, began to cry.
Silas Marner, dazed as he was by the strange, living thing he had
found in the place of his lost gold, did all he could to comfort the
frightened little stranger; and soon, warm and no longer hungry, she
was nestling her golden head against his arm, and laughing and babbling
as contentedly as though she had always known her protector.
That was the beginning of a new happiness for Silas, much more
satisfying than the miser’s love he had formerly felt for his gold. The
lonely, helpless child aroused his pity and affection. As the mother
was dead and no relatives came to claim the little girl, he decided
to take care of her himself, and soon found himself loving her with a
deep, fatherly tenderness.
He knew so little about children, however, that he needed the advice of
a woman to help him bring up Eppie, as he had called the little girl;
and so, gradually, he began to mingle more and more with the people
of the village. As for the simple Raveloe folk, when they saw Silas
Marner’s tenderness for the child, they felt that they had not really
understood the lonely man. Before long all the villagers were on the
best of terms with Silas and Eppie, and he had cast behind him all the
hatred and bitterness that had led him to shun his fellow-men.
Eppie grew up strong and beautiful, and by the most tender love
repaid Silas Marner for all his care of her through the years of her
childhood. She had led him back to love and faith in human nature; and
he never again regretted his lost treasure, which had been so richly
replaced by the golden-haired child.
--GRACE H. KUPFER.
_From “Lives and Stories Worth Remembering,” by permission of the
American Book Company._
DRIFTED OUT TO SEA
Two little ones, grown tired of play,
Roamed by the sea, one summer day,
Watching the great waves come and go,
Prattling, as children will, you know,
Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings;
Sometimes hinting at graver things.
At last they spied within their reach
An old boat cast upon the beach;
Helter-skelter, with merry din,
Over its sides they scrambled in,--
Ben, with his tangled, nut-brown hair,
Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair.
Rolling in from the briny deep,
Nearer, nearer, the great waves creep,
Higher, higher, upon the sands,
Reaching out with their giant hands,
Grasping the boat in boisterous glee,
Tossing it up and out to sea.
The sun went down, ’mid clouds of gold;
Night came, with footsteps damp and cold;
Day dawned; the hours crept slowly by;
And now across the sunny sky
A black cloud stretches far away,
And shuts the golden gates of day.
A storm comes on, with flash and roar,
While all the sky is shrouded o’er;
The great waves rolling from the west,
Bring night and darkness on their breast.
Still floats the boat through driving storm,
Protected by God’s powerful arm.
The home-bound vessel, _Sea-bird_, lies
In ready trim, ’twixt sea and skies:
Her captain paces, restless now,
A troubled look upon his brow,
While all his nerves with terror thrill,--
The shadow of some coming ill.
The mate comes up to where he stands,
And grasps his arm with eager hands.
“A boat has just swept past,” says he,
“Bearing two children out to sea;
’Tis dangerous now to put about,
Yet they cannot be saved without.”
“Nought but their safety will suffice!
They must be saved!” the captain cries.
“By every thought that’s just and right,
By lips I hoped to kiss to-night,
I’ll peril vessel, life, and men,
And God will not forsake us then.”
With anxious faces, one and all,
Each man responded to the call;
And when at last, through driving storm,
They lifted up each little form,
The captain started with a groan:
“My God is good, they are my own!”
--ROSA HARTWICK THORPE.
_By permission of the publishers._
THE DAISY AND THE LARK
In the country, close by the roadside, stood a pleasant house. In
front lay a little garden, enclosed by a fence, and full of blossoming
flowers. Near the hedge, in the soft green grass, grew a little daisy.
The sun shone as brightly and warmly upon her as it shone upon the
large and beautiful garden flowers.
The daisy grew from day to day. Every morning she unfolded her white
rays, and lifted up a little golden sun in the centre of her blossom.
She never remembered how little she was. She never thought that she was
hidden down in the grass, while the tall beautiful flowers grew in the
garden. She was too happy to care for such things. She lifted her face
towards the warm sun, she looked up to the blue sky, and she listened
to the lark singing high in the air.
[Illustration]
One day the little daisy was as joyful as if it were a great holiday,
and yet it was only Monday. The little children were at school. They
sat at their desks learning their lessons. The daisy, on her tiny stem,
was learning from the warm sun and the soft wind how good God is. Then
the lark sang his sweet song. “How beautiful, how sweet the song is!”
said the daisy. “What a happy bird to sing so sweetly and fly so high!”
But she never dreamed of being sorry because she could not fly or sing.
The tall garden flowers by the fence were very proud and conceited. The
peonies thought it very grand to be so large, and puffed themselves
out to be larger than the roses. “See how bright my colors are!” said
the tulips. And they stood bolt upright to be seen more plainly. They
did not notice the little daisy. She said to herself, “How rich and
beautiful they are! No wonder the pretty bird likes them. I am glad I
can live near them.”
Just then the lark flew down. “Tweet, tweet, tweet,” he cried, but he
did not go near the peonies and tulips. He hopped into the grass near
the lowly daisy. She trembled for joy. The little bird sang beside her:
“Oh, what sweet, soft grass, and what a beautiful little flower, with
gold in its heart and silver on its dress!” How happy the little daisy
felt! And the bird kissed it with his beak, sang to it, and then flew
up into the blue air above.
The daisy looked up at the peonies and the tulips, but they were quite
vexed, and turned their backs upon her. She did not care, she was so
happy. When the sun was set, she folded up her leaves and went to
sleep. All night long she dreamed of the warm sun and the pretty little
bird. The next morning, when she stretched out her white leaves to the
warm air and the light, she heard the voice of the lark, but his song
was sad. Poor little lark! He might well be sad: he had been made a
prisoner in a cage that hung by the open window. He sang of the happy
time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free.
Just then two boys came into the garden. They came straight to the
daisy. One of them carried a sharp knife in his hand. “We can cut a
nice piece of turf for the lark, here,” he said. And he cut a square
piece of turf around the daisy, so that the little flower stood in the
centre. He carried the piece of turf with the daisy growing in it, and
placed it in the lark’s cage.
“There is no water here,” said the captive lark. “All have gone, and
forgotten to give me a drop of water to drink. My throat is hot and
dry. I feel as if I were burning.” And he thrust his beak into the cool
turf to refresh himself a little with the green grass. Within it was
the daisy. He nodded to her, and kissed her with his beak.
“Poor little flower! Have you come here, too?”
“How I wish I could comfort him,” said the daisy. And she tried to fill
the air with perfume.
The poor bird lay faint and weak on the floor of the cage. His heart
was broken. In the morning the boys came, and when they found the bird
was dead, they wept many bitter tears. They dug a little grave for him,
and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf was thrown on the ground.
The daisy had given her little life to make the captive bird glad.
--HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS
Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the grasses brown and lean
Pipe their gladness--sweeter, shriller--one would think the world
was green.
O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!
See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!
Mark the warm October haze!
Mark the splendor of the days!
And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow;
If you listen, you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low--
“We are naked,” so the fields say, “stripped of all our golden dress.”
“Heed it not,” October answers, “for I love ye none the less.
Share my beauty and my cheer
While we rest together here,
In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year.”
All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime’s light and grace,
All the riches of the harvest crown her head and light her face;
And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pass,
While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered grass,
O the warm October haze!
O the splendor of the days!
O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!
--JEAN BLEWETT.
BEFORE THE RAIN
We knew it would rain, for all the morn
A spirit, on slender ropes of mist,
Was lowering its golden buckets down
Into the vapory amethyst
Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens--
Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers,
Dipping the jewels out of the sea,
To scatter them over the land in showers.
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed
The white of their leaves; the amber grain
Shrunk in the wind--and the lightning now
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
--THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
WEBSTER AND THE WOODCHUCK
On a farm among the hills of New Hampshire, in the United States, there
once lived a boy whose name was Daniel Webster. He was a tiny fellow
for one of his age. His hair was jet black, and his eyes were so dark
and wonderful that nobody who once saw them could ever forget them. He
was not strong enough to help much on the farm; and so he spent much
of his time in playing in the woods and fields. He loved the trees and
flowers and the harmless wild creatures that made their homes among
them.
But he did not play all the time. Long before he was old enough to go
to school, he learned to read; and he read so well that everybody liked
to hear him. The neighbors, when driving past his father’s house, would
stop their horses and call for the boy to come out and read to them.
It happened one summer that a woodchuck made its burrow in the side of
a hill near Mr. Webster’s house. On warm, dark nights it would come
down into the garden and eat the tender leaves of the cabbages and
other plants that were growing there. Nobody knew how much harm it
might do in the end. Daniel and his elder brother Ezekiel made up their
minds to catch the little thief. They tried this thing and that, but
for a long time he was too cunning for them. Then they built a strong
trap where the woodchuck would be sure to walk into it; and the next
morning, there he was.
“We have him at last!” cried Ezekiel. “Now, Mr. Woodchuck, you’ve done
mischief enough, and I’m going to kill you.” But Daniel pitied the
little animal. “No, don’t hurt him,” he said. “Let us carry him over
the hills, far into the woods, and let him go.” Ezekiel, however, would
not agree to this. His heart was not so tender as his little brother’s.
He was bent on killing the woodchuck, and laughed at the thought of
letting it go.
“Let us ask father about it,” said Daniel.
“All right,” said Ezekiel; “I know what he will decide.”
They carried the trap, with the woodchuck in it, to their father, and
asked what they should do.
“Well, boys,” said Mr. Webster, “we shall settle the question in this
way. We shall hold a court here. I shall be the judge, and you shall
be the lawyers. You shall each plead your case, for or against the
prisoner, and I shall decide what his punishment shall be.”
Ezekiel, as the prosecutor, made the first speech. He told about the
mischief that had been done. He showed that all woodchucks are bad and
cannot be trusted. He spoke of the time and labor that had been spent
in trying to catch the thief, and declared that if they should now set
him free he would be a worse thief than before.
“A woodchuck’s skin,” he said, “may perhaps be sold for ten cents.
Small as that sum is, it will go a little way towards paying for the
cabbages he has eaten. But, if we set him free, how shall we ever
recover even a penny of what we have lost? Clearly, he is of more value
dead than alive, and therefore he ought to be put out of the way at
once.”
Ezekiel’s speech was a good one, and it pleased Mr. Webster very much.
What he said was true and to the point, and it would be hard for Daniel
to make any answer to it.
Daniel began by pleading for the poor animal’s life. He looked up into
his father’s face, and said:--
“God made the woodchuck. He made him to live in the bright sunlight and
the pure air. He made him to enjoy the free fields and the green woods.
The woodchuck has a right to his life, for God gave it to him.
“God gives us our food. He gives us all that we have. And shall we
refuse to share a little of it with this poor dumb creature who has as
much right to God’s gifts as we have?
“The woodchuck is not a fierce animal like the wolf or the fox. He
lives in quiet and peace. A hole in the side of a hill, and a little
food, is all he wants. He has harmed nothing but a few plants, which he
ate to keep himself alive. He has a right to life, to food, to liberty;
and we have no right to say he shall not have them.
“Look at his soft, pleading eyes. See him tremble with fear. He cannot
speak for himself, and this is the only way in which he can plead for
the life that is so sweet to him. Shall we be so cruel as to kill him?
Shall we be so selfish as to take from him the life that God gave him?”
The father’s eyes were filled with tears as he listened. His heart was
stirred. He did not wait for Daniel to finish his speech, but sprang
to his feet, and as he wiped the tears from his eyes, he cried out,
“Ezekiel, let the woodchuck go!”
--SELECTED.
THE FAIRIES OF CALDON LOW
“And where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?”
“I’ve been to the top of Caldon Low
The midsummer night to see!”
“And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon Low?”
“I saw the glad sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow.”
“And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon hill?”
“I heard the drops the water made,
And the oars of the green corn fill.”
“Oh! tell me all, my Mary--
All, all that ever you know;
For you must have seen the fairies
Last night on the Caldon Low.”
“Then take me on your knee, mother;
And listen, mother of mine;
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine;
“And their harp-strings rang so merrily
To their dancing feet so small;
But oh! the words of their talking
Were merrier far than all.”
“And what were the words, my Mary,
That then you heard them say?”--
“I’ll tell you all, my mother;
But let me have my way.
“Some of them played with the water,
And rolled it down the hill;
‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turn
The poor old miller’s mill;
“‘For there has been no water
Ever since the first of May;
And a busy man will the miller be
At the dawning of the day.
“‘Oh! the miller, how he will laugh
When he sees the mill-dam rise!
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh
Till the tears fill both his eyes!’
“And some they seized the little winds
That sounded over the hill;
And each put a horn unto his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill;
“‘And there,’ they said, ‘the merry winds go
Away from every horn;
And they shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow’s corn.
“‘Oh! the poor blind widow,
Though she has been blind so long,
She’ll be blithe enough when the mildew’s gone,
And the corn stands tall and strong.’
“And some they brought the brown lint-seed,
And flung it down from the Low;
‘And this,’ they said, ‘by the sunrise,
In the weaver’s croft shall grow.
“‘Oh! the poor, lame weaver,
How he will laugh outright
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!’
“And then outspoke a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin;
‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he,
‘And I want some more to spin.
“‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another;
A little sheet for Mary’s bed,
And an apron for her mother.’
“With that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon Low
There was no one left but me.
“And all on the top of the Caldon Low
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones
That round about me lay.
“But, coming down from the hilltop,
I heard afar below,
How busy the jolly miller was,
And how the wheel did go.
“And I peeped into the widow’s field,
And, sure enough, were seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn,
All standing stout and green.
“And down by the weaver’s croft I stole,
To see if the flax were sprung;
And I met the weaver at his gate,
With the good news on his tongue.
“Now this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;
So, prithee, make my bed, mother,
For I’m tired as I can be.”
--MARY HOWITT.
THE LAST LESSON IN FRENCH
I was very late that morning on my way to school, and was afraid of
being scolded, as the master had told us he should question us on the
verbs, and I did not know the first word, for I had not studied my
lesson. For a moment I thought of playing truant. The air was so warm
and bright, and I could hear the blackbirds whistling in the edge of
the woods, and the Prussians who were drilling in the meadow behind the
sawmill. I liked this much better than learning the rules for verbs,
but I did not dare to stop, so I ran quickly towards school.
As I passed the mayor’s office, I saw people standing before the
little bulletin-board. For two years it was there that we received
all the news of battles, of victories, and defeats. “What is it now?”
I thought, without stopping to look at the bulletin. Then, as I ran
along, the blacksmith, who was there reading the bill, cried out to me,
“Not so fast, little one, you shall reach your school soon enough.” I
thought he was laughing at me and ran faster than ever, reaching the
school yard quite out of breath.
Usually, at the beginning of school, a loud noise could be heard from
the street. Desks were being opened and closed, and lessons repeated at
the top of the voice. Occasionally the heavy ruler of the master beat
the table, as he cried, “Silence, please, silence!” I hoped to be able
to take my seat in all this noise without being seen; but that morning
the room was quiet and orderly. Through the open window I saw my
schoolmates already in their places. The master was walking up and down
the room with the iron ruler under his arm and a book in his hand. As I
entered he looked at me kindly, and said, without scolding, “Go quickly
to your place, little Franz; we were just going to begin without you.
You should have been here five minutes ago.”
I climbed over my bench and sat down at once at my desk. Just then
I noticed, for the first time, that our master wore his fine green
coat with the ruffled frills, and his black silk embroidered cap. But
what surprised me more was to see some of the village people seated
on the benches at the end of the room. One of them was holding an old
spelling-book on his knee; and they all looked sadly at the master.
While I was wondering at this, our schoolmaster took his place, and in
the same kind tone in which he had received me, he said: “My children,
this is the last time that I shall give you a lesson. An order has come
from Berlin that no language but German may be taught in the schools of
Alsace and Lorraine. A new master will come to-morrow who shall teach
you in German. To-day is your last lesson in French. I beg of you to
pay good attention.”
These words frightened me. This is what they had posted on the
bulletin-board, then! This is what the blacksmith was reading. My last
lesson in French! I hardly knew how to write, and I never should learn
now. How I longed for lost time, for hours wasted in the woods and
fields, for days when I had played and should have studied. My books
that a short time ago had seemed so tiresome, so heavy to carry, now
seemed to me like old friends. I was thinking of this when I heard my
name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to
be able to say the rules without a mistake? But I could not say a word
and stood at my bench without daring to lift my head. Then I heard the
master speaking to me.
“I shall not scold you, little Franz. You are punished enough now.
Every day you have said to yourself: ‘I have plenty of time. I shall
learn my lesson to-morrow.’ Now you see what has happened.”
Then he began to talk to us about the French language, saying that it
was the most beautiful tongue in the world, and that we must keep it
among us and never forget it. Finally he took the grammar and read us
the lesson. I was surprised to see how I understood. Everything seemed
easy. I believe, too, that I never listened so well; and it seemed
almost as if the good man were trying to teach us all he knew in this
last lesson.
[Illustration]
The lesson in grammar ended, we began our writing. For that day the
master had prepared some new copies, on which were written, “Alsace,
France; Alsace, France.” They seemed like so many little flags floating
about the schoolroom. How we worked! Nothing was heard but the voice
of the master and the scratching of pens on the paper. There was no
time for play now. On the roof of the schoolhouse some pigeons were
softly cooing, and I said to myself, “Shall they, too, be obliged to
sing in German?”
From time to time, when I looked up from my page, I saw the master
looking about him as if he wished to impress upon his mind everything
in the room.
After writing, we had a history lesson, and then the little ones
recited. Oh, I shall remember that last lesson!
Suddenly, the church clock struck the hour of noon. The master rose
from his chair. “My friends,” said he, “my friends,--I--I--” But
something choked him; he could not finish the sentence. He turned to
the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and wrote in large letters,
“VIVE LA FRANCE!” Then he stood leaning against the wall, unable to
speak. He signed to us with his hand: “It is ended. You are dismissed.”
--_From the French of_ ALPHONSE DAUDET.
* * * * *
Do not look for wrong and evil--
You will find them if you do:
As you measure for your neighbor,
He will measure back to you.
THE BROOK SONG
Little Brook! Little Brook!
You have such a happy look--
Such a very merry manner as you swerve and curve and crook--
And your ripples, one and one,
Reach each other’s hands and run,
Like laughing little children in the sun.
Little Brook, sing to me,
Sing about a bumble bee,
That tumbled from a lily-bell, and grumbled mumblingly,
Because he wet the film
Of his wings and had to swim,
While the water-bugs raced round and laughed at him!
Little Brook--sing a song
Of a leaf that sailed along,
Down the golden braided centre of your current swift and strong,
And a dragon-fly that lit
On the tilting rim of it,
And rode away and wasn’t scared a bit.
And sing how--oft in glee
Came a truant boy like me,
Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting melody,
Till the gurgle and refrain,
Of your music in his brain,
Wrought a happiness as keen to him as pain.
Little Brook--laugh and leap!
Do not let the dreamer weep:
Sing him all the songs of summer till he sinks in softest sleep;
And then sing soft and low
Through his dreams of long ago--
Sing back to him the rest he used to know!
--JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
_By permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.
Copyright, 1901._
THE BETTER LAND
“I hear thee speak of the better land;
Thou call’st its children a happy band:
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fireflies glance through the myrtle boughs?”
“Not there, not there, my child!”
“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze;
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?”
“Not there, not there, my child!”
“Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand,--
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?”
“Not there, not there, my child!
“Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy,
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy--
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair--
Sorrow and death may not enter there:
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb--
It is there, it is there, my child!”
--FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.
* * * * *
Whoever you are, be noble;
Whatever you do, do well;
Whenever you speak, speak kindly,
Give joy wherever you dwell.
CÆDMON
On one of the dark, rugged cliffs that jut out into the sea from the
eastern part of England, stood, many centuries ago, the monastery of
Whitby. At this time the people of England were still very ignorant.
Only the monks and nuns knew how to read or write. The rest of the
people were either warriors, or else simple-minded shepherds and
farmers.
In this monastery lived a servant whose duty it was to attend to the
sheep and cattle. In the evenings, very often, his companions were in
the habit of gathering together in the common hall or banquet room.
There it was the custom, while the feast was going on, for each one
in turn to take the harp as it was passed around the table, and make
up some simple song to entertain his friends. Although these people
knew nothing about reading or writing, they were wonderfully clever at
singing songs and accompanying themselves on the harp.
Only the herdsman who attended to the sheep and cattle, and whose name
was Cædmon, could never sing. So whenever the feasting time came, and
his comrades began to pass the harp from one to another, he, being
ashamed of his lack of skill, would leave the banquet hall to go alone
to the little house where he slept.
One night, after he had left his comrades, and had attended to all
the wants of the cattle under his care, he, as usual, went to sleep,
and in his sleep he had a wonderful dream. He dreamed that to his door
came a beautiful youth, with a light shining about his head, who said
to him, “Cædmon, sing for me.” Cædmon answered: “But thou knowest I
cannot sing. That is why I left my companions in the banquet hall, and
came here to my lonely hut.” “Try,” said the beautiful youth, “and thou
shalt find that thou canst sing.” Then Cædmon in wonder asked, “What
shall I sing about?”--”Sing of the beauty of the world, and the glory
of the stars and the skies, and of all that is on the earth,” was the
answer.
Then in his sleep Cædmon sang a beautiful song, just as the youth
had commanded him. But the strangest thing was that when he awoke he
remembered every word of the song, and not only that, but he found he
could sing a song about any thought that came into his mind; whereas,
formerly, he had never been able to sing at all.
Wonderful, indeed, all this seemed to the humble shepherd. He told his
companions about his dream, and they led him to the abbess, who was
chief in the monastery, and bade him sing his songs for her.
So he sang. All the wise monks came to hear him, and tears came into
their eyes at the beauty of his song; for when he sang, the sky and the
earth and the sea these men had known all their lives seemed suddenly
to be filled with a new glory. They all said that Cædmon had received
a wonderful gift from God, and that he must use it in a holy way.
From that day on some one else guarded the sheep and the cattle in
the monastery of Whitby; and the former shepherd learned to read and
write, and became one of the monks of the abbey. Many and beautiful
and holy were the songs he wrote. They were written in Anglo-Saxon,
the language spoken by the ancestors of the English people, and this
simple shepherd, Cædmon, who was the first of the Anglo-Saxon poets,
was therefore really the father of all English poetry.
--GRACE H. KUPFER.
THE BLUEBELL
There is a story I have heard--
A poet learned it from a bird,
And kept its music, every word--
A story of a dim ravine,
O’er which the towering tree-tops lean,
With one blue rift of sky between;
And there, two thousand years ago,
A little flower, as white as snow,
Swayed in the silence to and fro.
Day after day with longing eye,
The floweret watched the narrow sky,
And fleecy clouds that floated by.
And through the darkness, night by night,
One gleaming star would climb the height,
And cheer the lonely floweret’s sight.
Thus, watching the blue heavens afar,
And the rising of its favorite star,
A slow change came--but not to mar;
For softly o’er its petals white
There crept a blueness like the light
Of skies upon a summer night;
And in its chalice, I am told,
The bonny bell was found to hold
A tiny star that gleamed like gold.
And bluebells of the Scottish land
Are loved on every foreign strand
Where stirs a Scottish heart or hand.
Now, little people, sweet and true,
I find a lesson here for you,
Writ in the floweret’s bell of blue:
The patient child whose watchful eye
Strives after all things pure and high,
Shall take their image by and by.
--ANONYMOUS.
LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF
O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.
O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
--SIR WALTER SCOTT.
THE MINSTREL’S SONG
Once in the olden time a king called his heralds together to hear his
bidding. And all the swift runners gathered before the king, each with
a trumpet in his hand. And the king sent them forth into every part of
the kingdom to sound their trumpets and to call aloud:--
“Hear, O ye minstrels! Our gracious king bids ye come to his court and
play before the queen.”
The minstrels were men who went about from castle to castle and from
palace to cot, singing beautiful songs and playing on harps. Wherever
they roamed they were always sure of a welcome. They sang of the brave
deeds that the knights had done, and of wars and battles. They sang
of the mighty hunters that hunted in the great forests. They sang of
fairies and goblins, of giants and elves. And because there were no
storybooks in those days, everybody, from little children to the king,
was glad to see them come.
When the minstrels heard the king’s message, they made haste to the
palace; and it so happened that three of them met on the way and
decided to travel together.
One of these minstrels was a young man named Harmonious; and while the
others talked of the songs that they would sing, he gathered the wild
flowers that grew by the roadside.
“I can sing of drums and battles,” said the oldest minstrel, whose hair
was white, and whose step was slow.
“I can sing of ladies and their fair faces,” said the youngest
minstrel. But Harmonious whispered, “Listen! listen!”
“Oh! we hear nothing but the wind in the tree-tops,” said the others.
“We have not time to stop and listen.”
Then they hurried on and left Harmonious; and he stood under the trees
and listened, for he heard the wind singing of its travels through the
wide world. It was telling how it raced over the blue sea, tossing the
waves and rocking the white ships. It sang of the hill where the trees
made harps of their branches, and of the valleys where all the flowers
danced gayly to its music. And this was the chorus of the song:--
“Nobody follows me where I go,
Over the mountains or valley below;
Nobody sees where the wild winds blow,--
Only the Father in Heaven can know.”
Harmonious listened until he knew the whole song. Then he ran on, and
soon reached his friends, who were still talking of the grand sights
that they were to see. “We shall behold the king, and we shall speak to
him,” said the oldest minstrel. “And we shall see his golden crown and
the queen’s jewels,” added the youngest.
[Illustration]
Now their path led them through the wood, and as they talked,
Harmonious said, “Hush! listen!” But the others answered: “Oh! that is
only the sound of the brook, trickling over the stones. Let us make
haste to the king’s court.”
But Harmonious stayed to hear the song that the brook was singing, of
journeying through mosses and ferns and shady ways, and of tumbling
over the rocks in shining waterfalls, on its way to the sea.
“Rippling and bubbling through shade and sun
On to the beautiful sea I run;
Singing forever, though none be near,--
For God in Heaven can always hear.”
Thus sang the little brook. Harmonious listened until he knew every
word of the song, and then he hurried on.
When he reached the others, he found them still talking of the king
and the queen, so he could not tell them of the brook. As they talked,
he heard something again that was wonderfully sweet, and he cried,
“Listen! listen!”
“Oh! that is only a bird,” the others replied. “Let us make haste to
the king’s court.”
But Harmonious would not go, for the bird sang so joyfully that
Harmonious laughed aloud when he heard the song. It was singing a song
of green trees; and in every tree there was a nest, and in every nest
there were eggs.
“Merrily, merrily, listen to me
Flitting and flying from tree to tree;
Nothing fear I, by land or sea,--
For God in Heaven is watching me.”
“Thank you, little bird,” said Harmonious; “you have taught me a song.”
And he made haste to join his comrades.
When they had come into the palace, they received a hearty welcome, and
were feasted in the great hall before they came into the throne room.
The king and queen sat on their thrones side by side. The king thought
of the queen and the minstrels; but the queen thought of her old home
in a far-off country, and of the butterflies she had chased when she
was a little child.
One by one the minstrels played before them. The oldest minstrel sang
of battles and drums, and the soldiers of the king shouted with joy.
The youngest minstrel sang of ladies and their fair faces, and all the
ladies of the court clapped their hands.
Then came Harmonious. And when he touched his harp and sang, the song
sounded like the wind blowing, the sea roaring, and the trees creaking.
Then it grew very soft, and sounded like a trickling brook, dripping on
stones and running over little pebbles. And while the king and queen
and all the court listened in surprise, Harmonious’s song grew sweeter,
sweeter, sweeter. It was as if you heard all the birds in spring. And
then the song was ended.
The queen clapped her hands, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs,
and the king came down from his throne to ask Harmonious if he came
from fairy-land with such a wonderful song. But Harmonious answered:--
“Three singers sang along our way,
And I learned the song from them to-day.”
Now all the minstrels looked up in surprise when they heard these words
from Harmonious; and the oldest minstrel said to the king: “Harmonious
is surely mad! We met no singers on our way to-day.” But the queen
said: “That is an old, old song. I heard it when I was a little child,
and I can name the singers three.” And so she did. Can you?
--MAUDE LINDSAY.
_From “Mother Stories,” by permission of Milton Bradley Company._
THE USE OF FLOWERS
God might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.
We might have had enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have had no flowers.
The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;
Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.
The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashioned with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night,--
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountain high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passes by?
Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth?--
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth:
To comfort man, to whisper hope
Whene’er his faith is dim;
For Whoso careth for the flowers
Will much more care for him.
--MARY HOWITT.
THE MILLER OF THE DEE
There dwelt a miller, hale and bold,
Beside the river Dee;
He worked and sang from morn till night--
No lark more blithe than he;
And this the burden of his song
Forever used to be:
“I envy nobody--no, not I--
And nobody envies me!”
“Thou’rt wrong, my friend,” said good King Hal,
“As wrong as wrong can be;
For could my heart be light as thine,
I’d gladly change with thee.
And tell me now, what makes thee sing,
With voice so loud and free,
While I am sad, though I’m a king,
Beside the river Dee?”
The miller smiled and doffed his cap,
“I earn my bread,” quoth he;
“I love my wife, I love my friend,
I love my children three;
I owe no penny I cannot pay;
I thank the river Dee
That turns the mill that grinds the corn
That feeds my babes and me.”
“Good friend,” said Hal, and sighed the while,
“Farewell, and happy be;
But say no more, if thou’dst be true,
That no one envies thee;
Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,
Thy mill my kingdom’s fee;
Such men as thou are England’s boast,
O miller of the Dee!”
--CHARLES MACKAY.
THE STORY OF MOWEEN
This is a story a hunter told me as we sat by the camp-fire on the top
of the mountain, after a day’s climb through the woods:--
“When I was a child, my home was on the edge of a great forest. There
were but few people near us, and not a town for miles and miles. Many
wild animals lived in the woods, which were so wide and deep that most
of the animals had never seen a human being.
“One day my father and a neighbor were out hunting. There was no
breeze, and the woods were very still. They were walking down a
hillside, stepping quietly over the fallen trunks and dry leaves, when
suddenly, ‘Look! look!’ my father whispered to his companion.
[Illustration]
“A strip of water gleamed through the trees, and a mother bear and
three cubs were walking along the shore. The bear caught the sound or
the scent of some one near, for she stopped, rose on her hind legs, and
snuffed the air, and all the little bears did exactly what she did. ‘We
have surprised Bruin giving her children a lesson,’ said my father. But
as he turned to speak, and before he could say a word to prevent, his
companion had shot the mother bear. She tumbled down on the sand, and
the little bears began to whimper and cry.
“Father never spoke to that man again, though he was a neighbor; and a
neighbor means a good deal when the nearest one lives two miles away.
“The cubs were brave fellows; they did not run away even when the men
went up to them, but stayed by their mother, whimpering a little. ‘It
was pitiful to see them,’ father said. He was not willing to go away
and leave the little fellows, for they were too small to take care of
themselves; and now they had no mother to teach them bear language and
bear ways. He picked up one and carried it, and the others followed. So
he brought the three bears home to be my playmates, and glad I was to
see them. They cried at first and missed their mother; but they soon
became accustomed to living with people. What frolics we had! Every
morning we would scamper up and down the road. When some one called in
to the house and I ran in, they would come running and tumbling after
me. We played house and school and soldier together, and though I often
wished they could talk with me, in every other way they were good
comrades.
“They were always good-natured. You have heard a dog growl over a bone;
the bears preferred lumps of sugar, which they took without growling.
How they liked sweet things! They would come into the pantry and beg
for cake; and when my mother wanted to give us all a treat, she would
make molasses candy.
“Did we sell them? No, sir! Father said their mother had been so
cruelly treated that they deserved extra kindness, and they were free
to come and go as they would.
“One morning I woke up to find that two of them had gone off to the
woods,--their natural home. Only Moween had chosen to stay with us
rather than to go with his brothers. He lived with us until he was a
big bear. Sometimes he would roam into the woods to find honey, but he
always came back. I used to like to go nutting with him, for he would
climb up the tree and shake the branches until the nuts came pattering
down.
“One afternoon a German, leading a bear by a chain, stopped at the
house. He had lost his way, and we asked him to rest and spend the
night with us. He explained in broken English that he had been
travelling about the country with his dancing bear. The bear danced for
us, but Moween seemed frightened and ran away when he saw the newcomer.
The dancing bear, on his part, seemed afraid of Moween. However, at
supper-time, Moween returned, and the bears seemed to make friends.
What they said to each other I do not know, but when morning came both
bears were gone. The dancing bear had slipped his chain. Their trail
led into the forest, and we followed it a mile or two, but did not find
them.
“This time my pet bear did not come back. Every spring I used to expect
him, for when the maple trees were tapped, we had ‘sugarings off’ which
were always feasts for Moween. But I have not seen him since, though I
never see a bear without wishing that he were my old playmate, Moween.”
_By permission of the Outlook Magazine._
--SELECTED.
A HINDU FABLE
It was six men of Hindustan,
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.
The _First_ approached the elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
“I clearly see the elephant
Is very like a wall!”
The _Second_, feeling round the tusk,
Cried: “Ho! what have we here,
So very round, and smooth, and sharp!
To me it is quite clear,
This wonder of an elephant
Is very like a spear!”
The _Third_ approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
“I see,” quoth he, “the elephant
Is very like a snake!”
The _Fourth_ reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee:
“What most this wondrous beast is like
To me is plain,” said he;
“’Tis clear enough the elephant
Is very like a tree!”
The _Fifth_, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: “Even the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an elephant
Is very like a fan!”
The _Sixth_ no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail,
That fell within his scope:
“I see,” quoth he, “the elephant
Is very like a rope!”
And so these men of Hindustan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong;
Though each was partly in the right
And all were in the wrong.
--JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
THE BOY MUSICIAN
There was a time, long ago, when people believed that fairies hovered
over a sleeping babe, and gave to the little one the charm of beauty,
or the joy of strength, or the power of genius.
[Illustration: MOZART]
If this were true, then fairies must have visited the cradle of little
Wolfgang Mozart. We might easily believe that one of them said, “I
shall give thee a loving heart;” and that another whispered, “Thou
shalt delight in sweet sounds; music shall be thy language.”
The little Mozart lived in Germany more than a hundred years ago. His
father was a musician, and his sister, Anna, had already made rapid
progress in music. At all of her lessons the baby brother was an
interested listener, and he often amused himself in trying to repeat
the exercises he had heard. Before he was four years old, he began to
compose music. His little pieces were written for him by his father, in
a book which was kept for that purpose.
One Sunday the father came home from church and found Wolfgang at a
table busy over a piece of paper. His fat little hand grasped the pen
with much firmness, and at every visit to the ink-bottle he plunged it
to the very bottom. The paper was very badly blotted with ink, but the
baby composer calmly wiped away the blots with his finger and wrote
over them.
[Illustration: MOZART PLAYING BEFORE THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA]
“What are you doing there?” asked his father.
“Writing a piece of music for the piano,” replied Wolfgang.
“Let me see it.”
“No, no, it is not ready!”
The father took up the paper, and laughed at the big blots and the
notes which were scarcely readable. But upon looking over the work more
carefully, he saw that it was written according to rule, and that it
was a wonderful composition for so young a child.
The father now devoted all his time to the education of his two
children. They progressed so rapidly that they were a marvel to their
native town. When Anna was ten years old and Wolfgang six, they were
taken by their father and mother to Vienna, and there the Emperor
listened to their music. The courtiers and the royal family praised the
gifted children and filled their hands with costly presents.
Soon after their return home, a noted violinist called to ask Herr
Mozart’s opinion of some new music. As they were about to practise the
different parts, little Wolfgang begged to play second violin.
“You cannot join our rehearsal,” said his father. “You have had no
instruction on the violin.”
“I do not need any lessons to play second violin,” the boy persisted.
“Run away and do not disturb us,” was the father’s reply, and the
little boy walked out of the room, crying bitterly. The visitor begged
that the child be permitted to play with him, and Wolfgang was called
back.
“Play then,” said the father; “but play very softly.”
The child was comforted. He brushed away his tears and began playing,
softly at first, as he had been commanded; then he forgot everything
but the notes before him, and the music swelled higher and higher. All
were amazed, and tears of gladness stood in the father’s eyes.
Another concert tour was planned, and Wolfgang and his sister travelled
with their parents from city to city, giving concerts at the courts of
kings. Great crowds went to hear them, and everywhere they were greeted
with enthusiasm and delight.
When Wolfgang was eleven years old, he went to Italy to study music.
The fair, slender lad was looked upon as a marvel by the Italian
musicians. The father and son reached Rome at the time of the great
Easter festival. A beautiful piece of music had been set apart as
sacred to this yearly service. For two hundred years it had been
carefully guarded, and all musicians were forbidden to copy it.
Wolfgang listened intently; and when he came again the next day to the
church, he brought with him a folded paper on which he had written from
memory the whole of the sacred music.
“Truly such wonderful gifts come from Heaven!” said the priests, in awe
and admiration.
Mozart remained for nearly two years in Italy, studying with the finest
musicians and hearing the best music. After his return to his native
land, he continued his musical studies and gave his whole life to his
art.
It seems impossible that the boy, who in his early years received
such honors, should in his manhood meet poverty and neglect. Such
was Mozart’s sad fortune, but in spite of his discouragements he
struggled on, and became one of the greatest of musical composers.
He has given to the world a wealth of beauty that has made his name
immortal.--BERTHA LEARY SAUNDERS.
THE SPARROWS
In the far-off land of Norway,
Where the winter lingers late
And long for the singing-birds and flowers,
The little children wait;
When at last the summer ripens
And the harvest is gathered in,
And food for the bleak, drear days to come
The toiling people win;
Through all the land the children
In the golden fields remain
Till their busy little hands have gleaned
A generous sheaf of grain;
All the stalks by the reapers forgotten
They glean to the very least,
To save till the cold December,
For the sparrows’ Christmas feast.
And then through the frost-locked country
There happens a wonderful thing:
The sparrows flock north, south, east, west,
For the children’s offering.
Of a sudden, the day before Christmas,
The twittering crowds arrive,
And the bitter, wintry air at once
With their chirping is all alive.
They perch upon roof and gable,
On porch and fence and tree,
They flutter about the windows
And peer in curiously.
And meet the eyes of the children,
Who eagerly look out
With cheeks that bloom like roses red,
And greet them with welcoming shout.
On the joyous Christmas morning,
In front of every door
A tall pole, crowned with clustering grain,
Is set the birds before.
And which are the happiest, truly
It would be hard to tell:
The sparrows who share in the Christmas cheer,
Or the children who love them well!
How sweet that they should remember,
With faith so full and sure,
That the children’s bounty awaited them
The whole wide country o’er!
When this pretty story was told me
By one who had helped to rear
The rustling grain for the merry birds
In Norway, many a year,
I thought that our little children
Would like to know it, too,
It seems to me so beautiful,
So blessed a thing to do,
To make God’s innocent creatures see
In every child a friend,
And on our faithful kindness
So fearlessly depend.
--CELIA THAXTER.
THE TIME AND THE DEED
Art going to do a kindly deed?
’Tis never too soon to begin;
Make haste, make haste, for the moments speed,
The world, my dear one, has pressing need
Of your tender thought and kindly deed.
’Tis never too soon to begin.
But if the deed be a selfish one,
’Tis ever too soon to begin;
If some heart will be sorer when all is done,
Put it off! put it off from sun to sun,
Remembering always, my own dear one,
’Tis ever too soon to begin.
--JEAN BLEWETT.
THE FLAX
The flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers as
delicate as the wings of a moth, or even more so. The sun shone, and
the showers watered it, so that it became very beautiful.
“People say that I look exceedingly well,” said the flax, “and that I
am so fine and long, that I shall make an excellent piece of linen.
How fortunate I am! it makes me so happy; it is such a pleasant thing
to know that something can be made of me. How the sunshine cheers me,
and how sweet and refreshing is the rain! no one in the world can feel
happier than I do.”
[Illustration: HANS ANDERSEN]
One day some people came, who took hold of the flax and pulled it up
by the roots; this was painful. Then it was laid in water as if they
intended to drown it, and, after that, placed near a fire as if it were
to be roasted; all this was very shocking.
“I cannot expect to be happy always,” said the flax; “I must have my
trials, and so learn what life really is.” And certainly there were
plenty of trials in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted,
and broken, and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it.
At last it was put on the spinning-wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the
wheel, so quickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts.
“Well, I have been very happy,” he thought in the midst of his pain,
“and must be contented with the past;” and contented he remained till
he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful piece of white linen.
All the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making this one
piece. “How wonderful it is that, after all I have suffered, I am made
something of at last; I am the luckiest person in the world--so strong
and fine; and how white, and what a length! This is something different
from being a mere plant and bearing flowers. I cannot be happier than I
am now.”
After some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed under the
scissors, and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked with needles.
This certainly was not pleasant; but at last it was made into garments.
“See now, then,” said the flax, “I have become something of importance.
This was my destiny; it is quite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use
in the world, as every one ought to be; it is the only way to be happy.”
Years passed away; and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely
hold together. “It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other.
“We would gladly have held together a little longer, but we must not
forget that there is an end to all things.” And at length they fell
into rags and tatters, and thought it was all over with them, for they
were torn to shreds, and steeped in water and made into a pulp, and
dried, and they knew not what besides, till all at once they found
themselves beautiful white paper.
“Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious surprise, too,” said the
paper. “I am now finer than ever, and I shall be written upon, and who
can tell what fine things I may have written upon me? This is wonderful
luck!” And sure enough, the most beautiful stories and poetry were
written upon it. Then people heard the stories and poetry read, and it
made them wiser and better; for all that was written was sensible and
good, and a great blessing was contained in the words on the paper.
“I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper, “when I was only
a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I imagine that I
should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to men? I cannot
understand it myself, and yet it is really so. I suppose now I shall
be sent on my travels about the world, so that people may read me. It
cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is more than probable, for I have more
splendid thoughts written upon me than I had pretty flowers in olden
times. I am happier than ever.”
But the paper did not go on its travels. It was sent to the printer,
and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to make a book,
or rather hundreds of books; for so many more persons could gain
pleasure from a printed book than from the written paper; and if the
paper had been sent about the world, it would have been worn out before
it had got half through its journey.
“This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written paper; “I really
did not think of that. I shall remain at home and be held in honor,
like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new books. They
shall do some good. I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he
who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen
upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.”
Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into
a tub that stood in the wash-house. “After work, it is well to rest,”
said the paper. “Now I am able for the first time to think of my life
and all the good that I have done. What shall be done with me now, I
wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward.”
Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out,
and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold
at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written
upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for they
wished to see the paper burn, because it flamed up so prettily, and
afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running
one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind.
The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon
alight. “Oh, oh!” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame.
It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole
was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the air, higher
than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower; and
they gleamed as the white linen had never been able to gleam. All the
written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and
thoughts turned into fire.
“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the
flames, and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the
flames darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Nothing
remained of the paper but black ashes with the red sparks dancing over
them. The children thought that this was the end, but the sparks sang,
“The most beautiful is yet to come.”
--HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
* * * * *
Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;
Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright;
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,
And find a harvest-home of light.
JEANNETTE AND JO
Two girls I know--Jeannette and Jo,
And one is always moping;
The other lassie, come what may,
Is ever bravely hoping.
Beauty of face and girlish grace
Are theirs, for joy or sorrow;
Jeannette takes brightly every day,
And Jo dreads each to-morrow.
One early morn they watched the dawn--
I saw them stand together;
Their whole day’s sport, ’twas very plain,
Depended on the weather.
“‘Twill storm!” cried Jo. Jeannette spoke low:
“Yes, but ’twill soon be over.”
And, as she spoke, the sudden shower
Came, beating down the clover.
“I told you so!” cried angry Jo:
“It always is a-raining!”
Then hid her face in dire despair,
Lamenting and complaining.
But sweet Jeannette, quite hopeful yet,--
I tell it to her honor,--
Looked up and waited till the sun
Came streaming in upon her.
The broken clouds sailed off in crowds,
Across a sea of glory.
Jeannette and Jo ran, laughing, in--
Which ends my simple story.
Joy is divine. Come storm, come shine,
The hopeful are the gladdest;
And doubt and dread, children, believe
Of all things are the saddest.
In morning’s light, let youth be bright;
Take in the sunshine tender;
Then, at the close, shall life’s decline
Be full of sunset splendor.
And ye who fret, try, like Jeannette,
To shun all weak complaining;
And not, like Jo, cry out too soon--
“It always is a-raining!”
--MARY MAPES DODGE.
* * * * *
A kindly act is a kernel sown,
That will grow to a goodly tree,
Shedding its fruit when time has flown,
Down the gulf of eternity.
THE MAID OF ORLEANS
In the midst of those terrible times, during which for one hundred
years England and France were at war, there was born in the little
village of Domrémy a peasant girl, named Jeanne d’Arc. When she was
old enough she used to tend her father’s sheep, and as she sat on the
hillside, watching them day by day, she often looked out over the
ruined houses and blackened fields and wondered if the English would
ever come again to frighten her people and burn their peaceful homes.
Her father, too, feared the same, and so taught his little daughter to
ride a horse and to use simple weapons.
Later she heard that the dreaded English were back in France, not in
her own village, but besieging the brave town of Orleans. News came
that the Dauphin, who was now governing France, dared not go to Rheims
to be crowned, because the English troops held the place. One day as
Jeanne sat musing over all these rumors, wishing that she were a man
so that she might go and fight for her country, she saw a vision and
heard voices bidding her leave her home and deliver the Dauphin from
his enemies, so that he might be crowned king. So loudly and so plainly
did she hear these voices that she felt she must go to the French court
at once. She was so poor that she thought at first that she must go
afoot, but some kind neighbors gave her a horse. Then she put on men’s
clothing, instead of her coarse red dress, cut off her long black
hair, and rode bravely off alone.
[Illustration: Ingres JEANNE D’ARC]
The journey was long and perilous, for the country was
still full of robbers and free lances, but when it was over she found
that her troubles had only begun. The nobles met her strange story with
laughter and scorn, and refused to let her see the king. But finally
her sweetness and gentle manner prevailed, and she was led into the
presence of her sovereign. The story runs that the king, to test her,
had put on the simple robe of a courtier, and stood among the rest
of the nobles when Jeanne entered. But Jeanne went to him, without
hesitation, saluted, and said:--
“In God’s name, it is you, sire, and none other.”
There she stood, a simple shepherd lass, who could neither read nor
write, before a roomful of men of noble birth; but she was not afraid,
for she brought with her the faith that she was to save France.
Gradually, her soft voice, ringing with enthusiasm and loyalty, aroused
the king and his lords, and he granted Jeanne her request--she was to
go and relieve Orleans.
He gave her a big horse and pure white armor, and she herself sent for
a sword having five crosses on the blade, that she had seen in a dream
lying behind an altar in a certain church.
But at Orleans the people who were defending the city mistrusted her.
They tried to hide their plans from her, and made a secret attack in
the night on the enemy. But the shouts of war woke her from her sleep.
She hastily called for her horse and galloped into the midst of the
fight. The soldiers cheered her wildly, and now even the unwilling
captains were forced to listen to her. In the days that followed,
Jeanne, though twice wounded, was always at the front, urging on the
French and terrifying the English, who took her for a witch. She
entered Orleans on Friday, and a week from the following Sunday the
English had turned their backs forever on the city.
Jeanne did not linger to enjoy her triumph. Amid the tears of joy and
the cheering of the people, she rode out of the city the next day to
perform the rest of her task,--to crown the Dauphin king of France.
From far and near people came to see her, and a large army sprang up
around her and the king, eager to march towards Rheims. Still the court
delayed, for the nobles were jealous of Jeanne’s glory, but she was
firm in her faith and the people were with her.
The French first attacked the English who were holding Troyes. After
a six days’ siege the king was discouraged, for the food was growing
very scarce, but Jeanne begged him to hold out two days longer. When
he agreed, she mounted her horse and led the attack against the town.
The English, in terror, opened their gates before the assault began.
Thus the last difficulty was surmounted and the army marched safely to
Rheims. Here the king was crowned in the big cathedral, the brave young
peasant girl standing by his side.
Jeanne was now ready to go back to her father and mother, and the
tending of her sheep, but the voices still called her to drive the
English from the land. She stayed with the king and army, trying to
hasten an attack on the English. But the indolent king, listening to
idle tales from his jealous nobles, forgot all Jeanne had done for him
and France, and began to believe that she was a witch. At last Jeanne
was captured by the enemy. The English believed her to be a witch and
tried her for sorcery. The French king made no effort to ransom her,
and she was condemned to be burned at the stake. The sentence was
carried out, and thus the poor peasant girl gave up her life for the
ungrateful country she had saved from ruin.
--MAUDE BARROW DUTTON.
_From “Little Stories of France,” by permission of the American Book
Company._
BIRDS
Birds--birds, ye are beautiful things,
With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;
Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell,
Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?
Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark;
Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;
Ye build and ye brood ’neath the cottager’s eaves,
And ye sleep on the sod ’mid the bonny green leaves.
Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;
Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;
Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;
Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.
Beautiful birds, ye come thickly around
When the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;
Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,
And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.
--ELIZA COOK.
THE OWL
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round;
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
--ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
IKTOMI AND THE COYOTE
Afar off upon a large level land, a summer sun was shining bright.
Here and there over the rolling green were tall bunches of coarse gray
weeds. Iktomi in his fringed buckskins walked alone across the prairie
with a black bare head glossy in the sunlight. He walked through the
grass without following any well-worn footpath.
From one large bunch of coarse weeds to another he wound his way about
the great plain. He lifted his foot lightly and placed it gently
forward like a wildcat prowling noiselessly through the thick grass.
He stopped a few steps away from a very large bunch of wild sage. From
shoulder to shoulder he tilted his head. Still farther he bent from
side to side. Far forward he stooped, stretching his long thin neck
like a duck, to see what lay under a fur coat beyond the bunch of
coarse grass.
A sleek gray-faced prairie wolf! his pointed black nose tucked in
between his four feet drawn snugly together; his handsome bushy tail
wound over his nose and feet; a coyote fast asleep in the shadow of
a bunch of grass!--this is what Iktomi spied. Carefully he raised one
foot and cautiously reached out with his toes. Gently, gently he lifted
the foot behind and placed it before the other. Thus he came nearer and
nearer to the round fur ball lying motionless under the sage grass.
Now Iktomi stood beside it, looking at the closed eyelids that did not
quiver the least bit. Pressing his lips into straight lines and nodding
his head slowly, he bent over the wolf. He held his ear close to the
coyote’s nose, but not a breath of air stirred from it.
“Dead!” said he at last. “Dead, but not long since he ran over these
plains! See! there in his paw is caught a fresh feather. He is nice
fat meat!” Taking hold of the paw with the bird feather fast on it,
he exclaimed, “Why, he is still warm! I’ll carry him to my dwelling
and have a roast for my evening meal. Ah-ha!” he laughed, as he seized
the coyote by its two fore paws and its two hind feet and swung him
overhead across his shoulders. The wolf was large and the teepee was
far across the prairie. Iktomi trudged along with his burden, smacking
his hungry lips together. He blinked his eyes hard to keep out the
salty perspiration streaming down his face.
All the while the coyote on his back lay gazing into the sky with
wide-open eyes. His long white teeth fairly gleamed as he smiled and
smiled.
“To ride on one’s own feet is tiresome, but to be carried like a
warrior from a brave fight is great fun!” said the coyote in his heart.
He had never been borne on any one’s back before and the new experience
delighted him. He lay there lazily on Iktomi’s shoulders, now and then
blinking blue winks. Did you never see a bird blink a blue wink? This
is how it first became a saying among the plains people. When a bird
stands aloof watching your strange ways, a thin bluish white tissue
slips quickly over his eyes and as quickly off again; so quick that you
think it was only a mysterious blue wink. Sometimes when children grow
drowsy they blink blue winks, while others who are too proud to look
with friendly eyes upon people blink in this cold bird-manner.
The coyote was affected by both sleepiness and pride. His winks were
almost as blue as the sky. In the midst of his new pleasure the swaying
motion ceased. Iktomi had reached his dwelling-place. The coyote felt
drowsy no longer, for in the next instant he was slipping out of
Iktomi’s hands. He was falling, falling through space, and then he
struck the ground with such a bump he did not wish to breathe for a
while. He wondered what Iktomi would do, so he lay still where he fell.
Humming a dance-song, Iktomi hopped and darted about at an imaginary
dance and feast. He gathered dry willow sticks and broke them in two
against his knee. He built a large fire out-of-doors.
The flames leaped up high in red and yellow streaks. Now Iktomi
returned to the coyote, who had been looking on through his eyelashes.
Taking him again by his paws and hind feet, he swung him to and fro.
Then as the wolf swung towards the red flames, Iktomi let him go. Once
again the coyote fell through space. Hot air smote his nostrils. He saw
red dancing fire, and now he struck a bed of crackling embers. With a
quick turn he leaped out of the flames. From his heels were scattered a
shower of red coals upon Iktomi’s bare arms and shoulders. Dumfounded,
Iktomi thought he saw a spirit walk out of his fire. His jaws fell
apart. He thrust a palm to his face, hard over his mouth! He could
scarce keep from shrieking.
Rolling over and over on the grass and rubbing the sides of his head
against the ground, the coyote soon put out the fire on his fur.
Iktomi’s eyes were almost ready to jump out of his head as he stood
cooling a burn on his brown arm with his breath.
Sitting on his haunches, on the opposite side of the fire from where
Iktomi stood, the coyote began to laugh at him. “Another day, my
friend, do not take too much for granted. Make sure the enemy is stone
dead before you make a fire!”
Then off he ran so swiftly that his long bushy tail hung out in a
straight line with his back.
--ZITKALA-S̈A.
_From “Old Indian Legends,” by permission of Ginn and Company._
GOLDEN-ROD
[Illustration]
Spring is the morning of the year,
And summer is the noontide bright;
The autumn is the evening clear
That comes before the winter’s night,
And in the evening, everywhere
Along the roadside, up and down,
I see the golden torches flare
Like lighted street lamps in the town.
I think the butterfly and bee,
From distant meadows coming back,
Are quite contented when they see
These lamps along the homeward track.
But those who stay too late get lost;
For when the darkness falls about,
Down every lighted street the Frost
Will go and put the torches out!
--FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.
_By permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company._
NOVEMBER
November woods are bare and still;
November days are clear and bright;
Each noon burns up the morning’s chill;
The morning’s snow is gone by night;
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie “down to sleep.”
I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweep
When all wild things lie “down to sleep.”
Each day I find new coverlids
Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
Sometimes the viewless mother bids
Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight;
I hear their chorus of “good-night”;
And half I smile, and half I weep,
Listening while they lie “down to sleep.”
November woods are bare and still;
November days are bright and good;
Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill;
Life’s night rests feet which long have stood;
Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood,
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can lay us “down to sleep.”
--HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
SIR EDWIN LANDSEER
In the great South Kensington Museum in England there are many
beautiful pictures, painted by famous artists. In one corner there is
a little lead-pencil sketch of a donkey’s head, and visitors to the
gallery used to ask the guide how it came there. The old man would
point to the name below the sketch and say, “Why, that is Sir Edwin
Landseer’s, and done when he was only five years old.” This is true,
for the little drawing is marked, “E. Landseer, five years old.”
The little boy who did such wonderful work lived in a happy home in
the great city of London. Not far from his home was a beautiful field
called Hampstead Heath, and it was on this delightful playground that
Edwin and his older brothers spent some of the happiest hours of their
lives. While the others were burying each other in the grass, riding
the old horse, or romping with the dogs, little curly-headed Edwin
would be sitting under a tree, trying to make pictures. Sometimes his
sister would sit by his side and watch the pencil as his baby fingers
guided it. Very soon she would see a horse’s head on the paper and
would recognize their own old Dobbin. “How good it is!” she would
exclaim, “What a famous little artist you are!”
[Illustration: SIR EDWIN LANDSEER]
Edwin learned some wonderful lessons on Hampstead Heath. When he would
beg to be taught to draw, his father would say: “Study things as God
has made them, my boy. Your own eyes must be your first teachers.”
Of course the little boy was sent to school. He loved to read, but did
not like to study. Sometimes his teacher would see him with his eyes
shut and his hand moving on the desk. He was thinking of a picture.
Drawing was not taught in the schools in those days and boys were
punished if they were caught drawing pictures during school hours; so
Edwin often ran away from his teachers, and they would find him in a
quiet corner, with his slate, drawing the picture of some animal.
Wherever animals were to be seen in London, there Edwin was to be
found. He generally carried his sketch book with him, and pictured the
animals eating, walking about, asleep, or at play. Sometimes he would
go to the London Zoölogical Gardens, and after he had watched the wild
beasts for hours he would come away with many sketches. There was
also a great market in London where wild animals were to be seen, and
the boy, who was generally followed by two or more dogs, became very
familiar to the people who came to the market.
[Illustration: Landseer THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERD’S CHIEF MOURNER]
When he was old enough Edwin was sent to the Artists’ Academy in
London. He was a great favorite in the school, and one famous artist
always called him the “Dog-boy.” He was very happy here and for the
next few years devoted his time to the study of animals and how to
paint them.
After a time Landseer had so many pictures, and wished to keep so many
dogs, sheep, and deer, that it seemed necessary that he should have a
home of his own where he could receive his friends. A pretty little
cottage in St. John’s Wood near London was found to be just the place
he desired. There was an old-fashioned garden filled with large trees
and beautiful flowers. The new home was named “Maida Vale,” in honor of
Sir Walter Scott’s favorite dog.
An old barn was fitted up for a studio, which was soon made beautiful
with pictures of all kinds of animals. There were graceful greyhounds,
kind-faced sheep dogs, faithful terriers, soft rabbits, cunning
kittens, spirited race horses, and fleet-footed deer. The pictures
looked so real that a witty friend of the artist used to call out
before he entered the studio, “Landseer, keep your dogs off me; I want
to come in.” On another occasion this same friend said, “O, give me
a pin to take the thorn out of that dog’s foot! See what pain he is
suffering!”
Everybody wished to visit this delightful studio, and meet the great
painter who was so kind and witty, who loved flowers and children so
well, and who had so many interesting friends around him. His visitors
were astonished at his great power in training dogs, and gaining their
love. When asked the secret, he would smile and say, “I just peep into
their hearts.” One day he was entertaining some friends at Maida Vale
when the door was pushed open and four great dogs bounded in. One
lady was frightened, and as a fierce-looking dog ran past her and put
his nose in Landseer’s hand, she said, “How fond of you that dog is!”
“Yes,” said the artist, quietly, “but I never saw this dog before in my
life.”
Landseer was a great friend of Sir Walter Scott, whom he often visited
at his home. How he loved the wild scenery and the tender-hearted
fearless people of that North Country! How he loved to climb the
mountains and watch the shy, beautiful deer as they bounded over the
crags! No artist ever painted deer like Landseer.
One day when he was at work in his studio, Landseer was told that
Queen Victoria was riding up the garden path. He went to meet her, and
she told him she wished him to see her mounted on her horse, so that
he might paint her picture. She invited him to be her guest, and he
painted a great many pictures of her children and their pets. In 1850,
the Queen decided to confer on him the honor of knighthood; so the
artist, who was now known all over the world, became Sir Edwin Landseer.
After this he received many great honors. He spent the last years of a
happy, busy life in the pretty Maida Vale cottage. As he grew old he
talked about his “worn-out, old pencil,” and complained that drawing
tired him. It was a trial for him to give up his work, and his eyes
were often sad as he looked at his beautiful pictures.
Landseer died in 1873, and was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral, in
London. Copies of his pictures are in every land and in almost every
home. He will always be remembered as a lover of animals as well as a
great artist.
--SELECTED.
THE TWO CHURCH BUILDERS
A famous king would build a church,
A temple vast and grand;
And, that the praise might be his own,
He gave a strict command
That none should add the smallest gift
To aid the work he planned.
And when the mighty dome was done,
Within the noble frame,
Upon a tablet broad and fair,
In letters all aflame
With burnished gold, the people read
The royal builder’s name.
Now when the king, elate with pride,
That night had sought his bed,
He dreamed he saw an angel come
(A halo round his head),
Erase the royal name, and write
Another in its stead.
What could it mean? Three times that night
That wondrous vision came;
Three times he saw that angel hand
Erase the royal name,
And write a woman’s in its stead,
In letters all aflame.
Whose could it be? He gave command
To all about his throne
To seek the owner of the name
That on the tablet shone;
And so it was the courtiers found
A widow poor and lone.
The king, enraged at what he heard,
Cried, “Bring the culprit here!”
And to the woman, trembling sore,
He said, “’Tis very clear
That you have broken my command;
Now, let the truth appear!”
“Your Majesty,” the widow said,
“I can’t deny the truth;
I love the Lord--my Lord and yours--
And so, in simple sooth,
I broke Your Majesty’s command
(I crave your royal ruth),
“And since I had no money, sire,
Why, I could only pray
That God would bless Your Majesty;
And when along the way
The horses drew the stones, I gave
To one a wisp of hay.”
“Ah! now I see,” the king exclaimed:
“Self-glory was my aim;
The woman gave for love of God,
And not for worldly fame.
’Tis my command the tablet bear
The pious widow’s name.”
--JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
* * * * *
Teach me to feel another’s woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
HOW SIEGFRIED MADE THE SWORD
In Saxon land there once lived a young prince named Siegfried. His
father, who was renowned for his wisdom and good deeds, was king of a
rich and happy country that reached to the great North Sea. His mother,
the gentle queen, was beloved by all, both high and low, for her
goodness of heart and her kindly charity to all who were in distress.
Both the king and the queen left nothing undone to fit the young prince
for a happy and useful life. They chose for him the best and wisest
teachers; every day they saw that something was added to his store of
knowledge and his stock of happiness. As he grew in stature it was
their concern that he should grow in skill and strength also. No other
youth of his age could run more swiftly or ride more easily; no other
youth could shoot the arrow with surer aim or throw the spear with
greater force.
But the wise old king knew that a good man’s life consisted of more
than learning lessons and playing games. “All work is noble,” said
he to Siegfried; “he who yearns to win fame must not shun toil. Even
princes should learn how to earn their bread by the labor of their
hands.” So the king sent his son to live with a smith called Mimer,
that he might learn the smith’s trade and hear his words of wisdom.
This Mimer had built his smithy among the hills by the edge of a great
forest. On the side of one of the hills overlooking the forest there
was a fountain in which skill and wisdom lay hidden. By drinking daily
at this fountain as the sun was rising, Mimer had become the most
skilful of smiths and the wisest of men.
Siegfried had now to lay aside his courtly garments and put on a coarse
blouse and leathern apron; for the dainties of a king’s table he had
to exchange the humble fare of a smith’s apprentice. But he did not
complain. His days were mirthful and happy; the sound of his hammer
echoed musically among the hills, and the sparks from his forge flew
like showers of stars from morn till night. He took such delight in his
work that he soon became the cleverest workman in the smithy except
Mimer himself. He could twist the links of the heaviest chains and
fashion the most delicate ornaments of steel.
One morning the apprentices saw that their master wore a troubled look.
He told them that Amilias, the chief smith in another land, had made
a coat of armor which he boasted that neither sword could pierce, nor
spear could scratch, and he had sent a challenge to the chief smiths of
all other lands to equal his workmanship, or acknowledge him as their
master. He had been toiling all the day and night to forge a sword that
would pierce the armor, but he had failed. He asked, “Is there any one
here skilful enough to forge such a sword?”
All the apprentices shook their heads. But Siegfried spoke up: “Give
me leave; I shall try to forge the sword that shall cut the armor of
Amilias.” All the others laughed at him in scorn, but Mimer said to
them, “Let us see what he can do; if he fail, I shall make him repent
his pride.”
Siegfried went to his task. For seven days the sparks flew from his
anvil. On the eighth day the sword was tempered and he brought it to
Mimer. “This seems, indeed,” said Mimer, “a fair edge. Let us try
its keenness.” Then he threw a thread upon the water, and as it lay
there he struck it with the sword. The blade passed through the thread
without disturbing the ends or the surface of the water. “Well done,
lad!” exclaimed the smith; “never have I seen a keener edge.”
But Siegfried said to himself, “I can make a better sword than that,
and there yet is time.” So for three days more he welded it in a white
hot fire and tempered it in buttermilk and oatmeal. Then in sight of
Mimer and the apprentices he threw a ball of wool upon the water, and
whirling the blade in air brought it down upon the ball and parted it
clean in two without moving a thread out of place.
Still there was time, and back to his corner of the smithy went
Siegfried again. His hammer rang with a cheerier sound than ever. For
seven weeks he worked at the forge, and at last, pale but smiling, he
stood before Mimer with the finished gleaming sword. Mimer looked at
the edge which gleamed like a ray of light, but he said nothing, and
seemed lost in thought. Then Siegfried, taking the weapon in his own
hand, swung the blade high over his head, and brought it down upon the
anvil. The huge iron block was divided in two. Then to the brook they
went, and throwing a fleece of wool upon the water the sword stroke
separated it as easily as the ball had been cut before. “With that
sword,” cried Mimer, “I shall not fear to meet Amilias.”
Heralds were sent abroad through the two kingdoms to proclaim the day
when the test would be made. Other kings heard of the contest and came
with their retinues of warriors to witness the trial. There were four
kings with their queens and many fair ladies and courtly knights in
armor. Multitudes gathered to the height of land that separated the
kingdoms.
When everything was ready, Amilias clad in the coat of armor went to
the top of the hill and sat upon a great rock, where he was in full
sight of all the people. He smiled to see Mimer toiling up the steep
hill with that slight sword by his side; the countrymen of Amilias gave
a shout of triumph, so sure were they of their champion’s success.
But Mimer’s countrymen waited in breathless silence. They had faith
in Mimer, but they greatly feared. Only Siegfried’s father seemed
confident. He whispered to his queen, “Wisdom and skill are stronger
than steel.”
When Mimer reached the top of the hill, he paused a moment to take
breath and to cast a glance on the crowds below.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready,” answered Amilias, with a composed smile, so little did he
fear; “strike your strongest!”
Mimer swung the gleaming blade,--for a moment the lightning seemed to
play around his head, and then descending, it made a sweep through the
air from right to left. The spectators thought to hear the clash of
steel, but no sound came to their ears save a hiss like that which a
hot poker would make in a bucket of water.
“Stand!” cried Mimer.
Amilias began to obey when, lo! he fell in halves, for the sword had
cut through the war coat and the body incased within. One half rolled
down the steep hill and fell into the river, fathoms deep, where for
many a day, when the water was clear, it could be seen lying among the
gravel and rocks.
The king was right: wisdom and skill had proved themselves stronger
than steel.
--SELECTED.
* * * * *
He who has a thousand friends,
Has not a friend to spare;
But he who has one enemy,
Will meet him everywhere.
GRASS AND ROSES
I looked where the roses were blooming,
They stood among grasses and weeds:
I said, “Where such beauties are growing,
Why suffer these paltry weeds?”
Weeping, the poor things faltered:
“We have neither beauty nor bloom,
We are grass in the roses’ garden,
But the Master gives us room.
“Slaves of a generous master,
Born from a world above,
We came to this place in His wisdom,
We stay to this hour from His love.
“We have fed His humblest creatures,
We have served Him truly and long;
He gave no grace to our features,
We have neither color nor song.
“Yet He who has made the flowers
Placed _us_ on the selfsame sod;
_He_ knows our reason for being,--
We are grass in the garden of God.”
--JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.
THE WOUNDED CURLEW
By yonder sandy cove where, every day,
The tide flows in and out,
A lonely bird in sober brown and gray
Limps patiently about;
And round the basin’s edge, o’er stones and sand,
And many a fringing weed,
He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,
Crying, with none to heed.
But sometimes from the distance he can hear
His comrades’ swift reply;
Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,
Sounding from sea and sky.
And then, oh, then, his tender voice, so sweet,
Is shaken with his pain,
For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,
Never to soar again.
Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,
Once glad and blithe and free,
And in prison limits frets and strives
His ancient self to be.
The little sandpipers about him play,
The shining waves they skim,
Or round his feet they seek their food and stay
As if to comfort him.
My pity cannot help him, though his plaint
Brings tears of wistfulness;
Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,
None may his wrong redress.
Oh, bright-eyed boy! was there no better way
A moment’s joy to gain
Than to make sorrow that must mar the day
With such despairing pain?
Oh, children! drop the gun, the cruel stone!
Oh, listen to my words,
And hear with me the wounded curlew moan--
Have mercy on the birds!
--CELIA THAXTER.
THE GOLD AND SILVER SHIELD
In the olden times a British prince set up a statue to the goddess
of Victory, at a point where four roads met. In her right hand she
held a spear, and her left rested upon a shield. The outside of this
shield was of gold, and the inside of silver, and on each side was an
inscription.
[Illustration: THE GOLD AND SILVER SHIELD]
It happened one day that two knights--one in black armor, the other in
white--arrived at the same time, but from opposite directions, at the
statue. As neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to examine
the beautiful workmanship and read the inscription.
“This golden shield,” said the Black Knight, after examining it for
some time,--”this golden shield--”
“Golden shield!” cried the White Knight, who was as closely observing
the other side; “why, if I have my eyes, it is silver.”
“Eyes you have, but they see not,” replied the Black Knight; “for if
ever I saw a golden shield in my life, this is one.”
“Oh, yes, it is so likely that any one would expose a golden shield on
the public road!” said the White Knight, with a sarcastic smile. “For
my part I wonder that even a silver one is not too strong a temptation
for some people who pass this way.”
The Black Knight could not bear the sarcastic smile with which this was
spoken, and the dispute grew so warm that it ended in a challenge.
The knights turned their horses, and rode back to have sufficient
space; then fixing their lances in their rests, they charged at each
other with the greatest fury. The shock was so violent, and the blows
on each side were so heavy, that they both fell to the ground, bleeding
and stunned.
In this condition a good Druid who was travelling that way found them.
He was a skilful physician, and had with him a balsam of wonderful
healing power. This he applied to their wounds, and when the knights
had recovered their senses, he began to inquire into the cause of their
quarrel.
“Why, this man,” cried the Black Knight, “will have it that yonder
shield is silver!”
“And he will have it that it is gold!” cried the White Knight.
“Ah,” said the Druid, with a sigh, “you are both in the right, and both
in the wrong. If either of you had taken time to look at both sides of
the shield, all this passion and bloodshed might have been avoided.
“However, there is a very good lesson to be learned from the evils that
have befallen you. In the future, never enter into any dispute till you
have fairly considered both sides of the question.”--SELECTED.
THE WHITE-THROAT SPARROW
From the leafy maple ridges,
From the thickets of the cedar,
From the alders by the river,
From the bending willow branches,
From the hollows and the hillsides,
Through the lone Canadian forest,
Comes the melancholy music,
Oft repeated,--never changing,--
“All-is-vanity-vanity-vanity.”
Where the farmer ploughs his furrow,
Sowing seed with hope of harvest,
In the orchard white with blossom,
In the early field of clover,
Comes the little brown-clad singer
Flitting in and out of bushes,
Hiding well behind the fences,
Piping forth his song of sadness,--
“Poor-hu-manity-manity-manity.”
--SIR JAMES D. EDGAR.
THE SANDPIPER
Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I,
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,--
One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud black and swift across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
Stand out the white lighthouses high.
Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,--
One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry.
He starts not at my fitful song,
Or flash of fluttering drapery.
He has no thought of any wrong;
He scans me with a fearless eye.
Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky:
For are we not God’s children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
--CELIA THAXTER.
* * * * *
A kind face is a beautiful face.
CRŒSUS
Some thousands of years ago there lived in Asia a king whose name was
Crœsus. The country over which he ruled was not very large, but its
people were prosperous and famed for their wealth. Crœsus himself was
said to be the richest man in the world; and so well known is his name
that, to this day, it is not uncommon to say of a very wealthy person
that he is “as rich as Crœsus.”
King Crœsus had everything that could make him happy--lands and houses
and slaves, fine clothing to wear, and beautiful things to look at. He
could not think of anything that he needed to make him more comfortable
or contented. “I am the happiest man in the world,” he said.
It happened one summer that a great man from across the sea was
travelling in Asia. The name of this man was Solon, and he was the
lawmaker of Athens in Greece. He was noted for his wisdom; and,
centuries after his death, the highest praise that could be given to a
learned man was to say, “He is as wise as Solon.”
Solon had heard of Crœsus, and so one day he visited him in his
beautiful palace. Crœsus was now happier and prouder than ever before,
for the wisest man in the world was his guest. He led Solon through
his palace and showed him the grand rooms, the fine carpets, the soft
couches, the rich furniture, the pictures, the books. Then he invited
him out to see his gardens and his orchards and his stables; and he
showed him thousands of rare and beautiful things that he had collected
from all parts of the world.
In the evening as the wisest of men and the richest of men were dining
together, the king said to his guest, “Tell me now, O Solon, who do you
think is the happiest of all men?” He expected that Solon would say
“Crœsus.”
The wise man was silent for a minute, and then he said, “I have in mind
a poor man who once lived in Athens and whose name was Tellus. He, I
doubt not, is the happiest of all men.”
This was not the answer that Crœsus wished; but he hid his
disappointment and asked, “Why do you think so?”
“Because,” answered his guest, “Tellus was an honest man who labored
hard for many years to bring up his children and to give them a good
education; and when they were grown and able to do for themselves,
he joined the Athenian army and gave his life bravely in the defence
of his country. Can you think of any one who is more deserving of
happiness?”
“Perhaps not,” answered Crœsus, half choking with disappointment. “But
who do you think ranks next to Tellus in happiness?” He was quite sure
now that Solon would say “Crœsus.”
“I have in mind,” said Solon, “two young men whom I knew in Greece.
Their father died when they were mere children, and they were very
poor. But they worked manfully to keep the house together and to
support their mother, who was in feeble health. Year after year they
toiled, nor thought of anything but their mother’s comfort. When at
length she died, they gave all their love to Athens, their native city,
and nobly served her as long as they lived.”
Then Crœsus was angry. “Why is it,” he asked, “that you make me of
no account and think that my wealth and power are nothing? Why is it
that you place these poor working people above the richest king in the
world?”
“O king,” said Solon, “no man can say whether you are happy or not
until you die. For no man knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or
what misery may be yours in place of all this splendor.”
Many years after this there arose in Asia a powerful king whose name
was Cyrus. At the head of a great army he marched from one country to
another, overthrowing many a kingdom and attaching it to his great
empire of Babylon. King Crœsus with all his wealth was not able to
stand against this mighty warrior. He resisted as long as he could.
Then his city was taken, his beautiful palace was burned, his orchards
and gardens were destroyed, his treasures were carried away, and he
himself was made prisoner.
“The stubbornness of this man Crœsus,” said King Cyrus, “has caused us
much trouble and the loss of many good soldiers. Take him and make an
example of him for other petty kings who may dare to stand in our way.”
Thereupon the soldiers seized Crœsus and dragged him to the
market-place, handling him roughly all the time. Then they built up a
great pile of dry sticks and timber taken from the ruins of his once
beautiful palace. When this was finished, they tied the unhappy king in
the midst of it, and one ran for a torch to set it on fire.
“Now we shall have a merry blaze,” said the savage fellows. “What good
can all his wealth do him now?”
As poor Crœsus, bruised and bleeding, lay upon the pyre without a
friend to soothe his misery, he thought of the words which Solon had
spoken to him years before: “No man can say whether you are happy or
not until you die,” and he moaned, “O Solon! O Solon! Solon!”
It so happened that Cyrus was riding by at that very moment and heard
his moans. “What does he say?” he asked of the soldiers.
“He says, ‘Solon, Solon, Solon!’” answered one.
Then the king rode nearer and asked Crœsus, “Why do you call on the
name of Solon?”
Crœsus was silent at first; but after Cyrus had repeated his question
kindly, he told all about Solon’s visit at his palace and what he had
said.
The story affected Cyrus deeply. He thought of the words, “No man
knows what misfortunes may overtake you, or what misery may be yours
in place of all this splendor.” And he wondered if some time he, too,
would lose all his power and be helpless in the hands of his enemies.
“After all,” said he, “ought not men to be merciful and kind to those
who are in distress? I shall do to Crœsus as I would have others do to
me.” And he caused Crœsus to be given his freedom; and ever afterwards
treated him as one of his most honored friends.
--JAMES BALDWIN.
_From “Thirty More Famous Stories,” by permission of the American Book
Company._
THE FROST SPIRIT
He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--You may trace his
footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill’s
withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant
green came forth,
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down
to earth.
He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--from the frozen
Labrador--
From the icy bridge of the Northern Seas, which the white bear
wanders o’er,
Where the fisherman’s sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless
forms below
In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues
grow!
He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--on the rushing Northern
blast,
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went
past.
With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla
glow
On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.
He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--and the quiet lake
shall feel
The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater’s
heel;
And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the
leaning grass,
Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.
He comes--he comes--the Frost Spirit comes!--let us meet him as we
may,
And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away;
And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing
goes by!
--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
A SONG OF THE SLEIGH
Oh, swift we go o’er the fleecy snow
When moonbeams sparkle round;
When hoofs keep time to music’s chime,
As merrily on we bound.
On a winter’s night, when hearts are light,
And health is on the wind,
We loose the rein and sweep the plain,
And leave our cares behind.
With a laugh and song we glide along
Across the fleeting snow!
With friends beside, how swift we ride
On the beautiful track below!
Oh, the raging sea has joys for me,
When gale and tempests roar;
But give me the speed of a foaming steed,
And I’ll ask for the waves no more.
--JAMES T. FIELDS.
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER
Up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a
twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a
goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda
Cratchit, the second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while
Master Peter Cratchit, who was wearing a monstrous shirt collar
belonging to his father, plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes,
and rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired.
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming
that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for
their own. Then these young Cratchits danced about the table, while
Master Peter Cratchit, whose collar nearly choked him, blew the fire
until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid
to be let out and peeled.
“What has become of your father?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your
brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day by half
an hour.”
“Here’s Martha, Mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
“Here’s Martha, Mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah!
There’s _such_ a goose, Martha!”
[Illustration: BOB CRATCHIT AND TINY TIM]
“Why, bless your heart, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs.
Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and
bonnet for her.
“We had a great deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the
girl, “and had to clear away this morning, Mother!”
“Well, never mind, as long as you are here,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit
down before the fire, my dear, and warm yourself.”
“No, no! There’s Father coming,” cried the two young Cratchits, who
were everywhere at once.
“Hide, Martha, hide!”
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with
at least three feet of comforter hanging down before him; and his
threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, and Tiny Tim upon his
shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his legs
supported by an iron frame!
“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.
“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.
“Not coming!” said Bob. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”
Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in
joke; so she came out from behind the closet door, and ran into his
arms, while the two young Cratchits caught up Tiny Tim and carried him
off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the
kettle.
“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when Bob had
hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.
“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful,
sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever
heard. He told me that he hoped the people saw him in the church,
because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember
upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”
Bob’s voice trembled when he told them this, and trembled more when he
said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny
Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister
to his stool before the fire. Then Master Peter and the two young
Cratchits went to bring the goose, with which they soon returned in
high glee.
Such excitement followed that you might have thought a goose the rarest
of all birds; and in truth it was something very like it in that house.
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy, ready beforehand in a little saucepan,
hissing hot. Master Peter mashed the potatoes; Miss Belinda sweetened
the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside
him in a tiny corner at the table.
The two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting
themselves. Then climbing into their chairs, they held their fingers
over their lips, lest they should call for goose before their turn came
to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It
was followed by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly
all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast. When
she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one
murmur of delight arose all round the board. Even Tiny Tim, excited
by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his
knife, and feebly cried, “Hurrah!”
There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was
such a goose cooked. Its tenderness, flavor, and size were wonderful to
think of. With apple sauce and mashed potatoes, it was enough dinner
for the whole family. Indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight,
looking at one small bone upon the dish, they hadn’t eaten all of it
yet. But every one had had enough, even the youngest Cratchits. But
now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the
room to take the pudding up and bring it in. Suppose it should not be
done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody
should have climbed over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it,
while they were merry with the goose! The two young Cratchits almost
went black in the face when they thought of what might have happened.
Halloo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the kettle.
A smell like a washing-day. That was the cloth. A smell like an
eating-house and a baker’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s
next door to that! That was the pudding. In half a minute Mrs.
Cratchit entered--flushed, but smiling proudly--with the pudding, like
a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, and decked with Christmas
holly. Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said it was the best
pudding he had ever seen. Everybody had something to say about it, but
nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family.
At last the dinner was all done, the hearth swept, and the fire
made. All the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, and watched the
chestnuts on the fire as they sputtered and cracked. Then Bob said,
“Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”
Which all the family re-echoed.
“God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
--CHARLES DICKENS.
* * * * *
Darkness before, all joy behind!
Yet keep thy courage, do not mind:
He soonest reads the lesson right
Who reads with back against the light.
CHRISTMAS SONG
The earth has grown old with its burden of care,
But at Christmas it always is young;
The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair,
And its soul full of music breaks forth on the air,
When the song of the angels is sung.
It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night:
On the snowflakes which cover thy sod
The feet of the Christ Child fall gentle and white,
And the voice of the Christ Child tells out with delight
That mankind are the children of God.
On the sad and the lonely, the wretched, and poor,
That voice of the Christ Child shall fall,
And to every blind wanderer opens the door
Of a hope that he dared not to dream of before,
With a sunshine of welcome for all.
The feet of the humblest may walk in the field
Where the feet of the Holiest have trod.
This, this is the marvel to mortals revealed
When the silvery trumpets of Christmas have pealed,
That mankind are the children of God.
--PHILLIPS BROOKS.
[Illustration: Blashfield CHRISTMAS CHIMES]
BERGETTA’S MISFORTUNE
Old Bergetta lay asleep on the doorstep in the sun. Her two little
white fore paws were gathered in under her chin, and she had encircled
herself with her tail in the most compact and comfortable way. Her
three companion cats were all out of her way at that moment. She forgot
their existence. She was only conscious of the kindly rays that sank
into her soft fur and made her so very sleepy and comfortable.
Presently a sound broke the stillness, very slight and far off, but
she heard it, and pricked up her pretty pink-lined ears and listened
intently. Two men, bearing a large basket between them, came in sight,
approaching the house from the beach. The basket seemed heavy; the men
each held a handle of it, and very silently went with it round to the
back entrance of the house.
Bergetta settled her head once more upon her folded paws, and tried to
go to sleep again. But the thought of the basket prevented. She got up,
stretched herself, and lightly and noiselessly made her way round the
house to the back door and went in. The basket stood in the middle of
the floor, and the three other cats sat at a respectful distance from
it near each other, surveying it doubtfully.
Bergetta wasn’t afraid; she went slowly towards it to find out what
it contained, but when quite close to it she became aware of a
curious noise--a rustling, crunching, dull, clashing sound which was
as peculiar as alarming. She stopped and listened; all the other cats
listened. Suddenly a queer object thrust itself up over the edge, and
a most extraordinary shape began to rise gradually into sight. Two
long, dark, slender feelers waved about aimlessly in the air for a
moment; two clumsy claws grasped the rim of the basket, and by their
help a hideous dark bottle-green-colored body patched with vermilion,
bristling with points and knobs, and cased in hard, strong, jointed
armor, with eight legs flying in all directions, each fringed at the
foot with short yellowish hair, and with the inner edges of the huge
misshapen claws lined with a row of sharp, uneven teeth, opening and
shutting with the grasp of a vise,--this ugly body rose into view
before the eyes of the astonished cats. It was a living lobster.
As the hard and horny monster raised itself out of the basket, it fell
with a loud noise all in a heap on the floor before Bergetta. She drew
back in alarm, and then sat down at a safe distance to observe this
strange creature. The other cats also sat down to watch, farther off
than Bergetta, but quite as much interested.
For a long time all was still. The lobster, probably rather shocked
by its fall, lay just where it had dropped. Inside the basket a
faint stirring and wrestling and clashing was heard from the other
lobsters,--that was all. Very soon Bergetta felt herself becoming
extremely bored with this state of things. She crept a little nearer
the basket.
“I needn’t be afraid of that thing,” thought she; “it doesn’t move any
more.”
[Illustration]
Nearer and nearer she crept, the other cats watching her, but not
stirring. At last she reached the lobster, that in its wrath and
discomfort sat blowing a cloud of rainbow bubbles from its mouth, but
making no other movement. Bergetta ventured to put out her paw and
touch its hard shell. It took no notice of this, though it saw Bergetta
with its queer eyes on stilts, which it wheeled about on all sides to
see what she was doing.
She tried another little pat, whereat the lobster waved its long
feelers, that streamed away over its back in the air, far beyond its
tail. That was charming! Bergetta was delighted. The monster was
really playful! She gave him another little pat with her soft paw, and
then coquettishly boxed his ears, or the place where his ears ought
to be. There was a movement of the curious shelly machinery about his
mouth, but he was yet too indifferent to mind anything much.
Bergetta continued to tease him. This was fun! First with the right
and then with the left paw she gave him little cuffs and pushes and
pats which moved him no more than a rock. At last he seemed to become
aware that he was being treated with somewhat more familiarity than
was agreeable from an entire stranger, and began to move his ponderous
front claws uneasily.
Still Bergetta continued to frisk about him, till he thrust out his
eight smaller claws with a gesture of displeasure, and opened and shut
the clumsy teeth of the larger ones in a way that was quite dreadful
to behold. “This is very funny,” thought Bergetta. “I wonder what it
means!” and she pushed her little white paw directly between the teeth
of the larger claw which was opening and shutting slowly. Instantly the
two sides snapped together with a tremendous grip, and Bergetta uttered
a scream of pain,--her paw was caught as in a vise and cut nearly
through with the uneven toothed edge.
Alas, alas! Here was a situation. In vain she tried to get away; the
lobster’s claw clasped her delicate paw in a grasp altogether too
close for comfort. Crying with fear and distress, Bergetta danced about
all over the room; and everywhere Bergetta danced, the lobster was
sure to go, too, clinging for dear life; up and down, over and across,
they went in the wildest kind of a jig, while all the other cats made
themselves as small as they could in the remotest corners, and watched
the performance with mingled awe and consternation. Such a noise!
Bergetta crying and the lobster clattering, and the two cutting such
capers together! At last some one heard the noise, and coming to the
rescue thrust a stick between the clumsy teeth and loosened the grip of
the merciless claw; and poor Bergetta, set at liberty, limped off to
console herself as best she might.
--CELIA THAXTER.
STORM SONG
The clouds are scudding across the moon;
A misty light is on the sea;
The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune,
And the foam is flying free.
Brothers, a night of terror and gloom
Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar:
Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room,
A thousand miles from shore.
Down with the hatches on those who sleep!
The wild and whistling deck have we;
Good watch, my brothers, to-night we’ll keep,
While the tempest is on the sea!
Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip,
And the naked spars be snapped away,
Lashed to the helm, we’ll drive our ship
In the teeth of the whelming spray!
Hark! how the surges o’erleap the deck!
Hark! how the pitiless tempest raves!
Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck,
Drifting over the desert waves.
Yet, courage, brothers! we trust the wave,
With God above us, our guiding chart:
So, whether to harbor or ocean grave,
Be it still with a cheery heart.
--BAYARD TAYLOR.
* * * * *
I am glad a task to me is given,
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health and strength and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say:
“Head, you may think; Heart, you may feel;
But Hand, you shall work alway.”
[Illustration: Ruysdael MARINE VIEW]
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee!
“O for a soft and gentle wind!”
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,--
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud!
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,--
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
--ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
THE INDIANS
When the people from the Old World first settled in this country,
they found a race here whom they called Indians. This same race still
inhabit this country, but they are few in numbers as compared with the
whites, and they live mostly in the far West.
The Indians then did not dress like those you may see now, but their
faces and figures have not changed very much. They have a dark skin,
straight, black hair, black eyes, high cheek-bones, flat noses, white
teeth, and wear no beards. In stature they are tall and straight.
The houses in which the Indians lived were not at all like our homes,
and they were called huts or wigwams. These wigwams were sometimes
made of poles set in the ground in a circle. But when a large hut was
wanted, the poles were planted in two long rows. The poles were bent
over at the top, then fastened together and all covered with bark.
Sometimes the poles were driven into the ground in such a way that they
met at the top. A hole was left for smoke near the top, and the rest of
the pole frame was covered with bark on the outside and with skins on
the inside.
The Indians had no furniture, not even beds, and every one sat and
slept on skins or on mats made from rushes by the squaws. These mats
and skins were kept upon the ground, but each person had a place for
his own.
The food of the Indians consisted of fish and game, together with such
fruits and nuts as they were able to pick and gather, besides the corn
for cakes. Potatoes and corn are both natives of this country and were
first used by the Indians. For drinking purposes, water was commonly
used, but they made a great many drinks with berries, leaves, and roots.
The faces of the Indians were frequently painted in many colors, and
to make the paint last long, holes were sometimes pricked into the skin
by means of thorns. The painting then was much like the tattooing done
now in many islands of the sea. Sometimes they tattooed in this way
nearly the whole of their bodies.
In the warm parts of the country they wore little in the way of dress,
often no more than a kind of short skirt which did not reach to the
knees; but they took great delight in having large strings of beads
round their necks, besides birds’ claws, squirrels’ heads, and the
like. Where it was colder, bearskins were worn in winter, with the fur
left on the pelt. In summer lighter skins were chosen, and sometimes
the fur was taken off. Large garments were, in the main, made from the
skins of the otter, beaver, or raccoon. The men had a sort of leather
breeches which they used when hunting, and they wore moccasins for
shoes.
Feathers, sometimes in head-dresses, sometimes in garments, were used
by the Indians, to show degrees of honor won in war. Bows and arrows
were used by them for hunting, and likewise for weapons to defend
themselves. The work of making bows and arrows must have taken a great
deal of time, for the arrow shafts were whittled out of wood, and the
arrow-heads were chipped out of flint and other stones. They used
spears with which to fish, as well as hooks and lines.
The wood for their boats was obtained by burning down trees near the
ground, and then burning off the branches and tops. In this way they
managed to get logs the right length, and then they burned them out on
one side, after which they scraped out the charred parts with shells.
These made very strong boats. A lighter canoe was built of a frame
covered with bark.
In times of peace the Indians hunted and fished. Such a thing as a
store or market was not needed. Each family had to catch all the fish
or kill all the game that might be required for its wants. The boys
early learned the art of fishing and hunting, and in summer they fished
from the shore or from a canoe. In winter they bored holes through
the ice and used a hook and line or a long spear. This spear, at the
pointed end, was shaped like a fish.
Many stories are told how these hunters and fishermen by tricks took
their game. Sometimes they would drive a whole herd of deer or buffalo
out upon a narrow neck of land running far into the water, and then cut
off all escape by building a row of fires across the neck. In this way
they kept the herd together until they killed all they wanted.
The war-dance was a great thing among Indians, and they thought the
only way to get honor was by following the war-path. Therefore many
hours were spent in learning war-dances and in being able to hit a
small mark a great way off with the bow and arrow. By the time an
Indian lad reached sixteen and was able to do these things well, he
was old enough to go to war and to help fight the battles which so
often took place among the tribes.
Hunting and fishing and going to war were, however, not all the things
that the Indians did. They had many sports and games for children, and
also many for those who were grown up. They played ball on the grass,
a game like hockey with sticks on the ice, and lacrosse, which we have
now adopted as our national game.--SELECTED.
SPEAK GENTLY
Speak gently; it is better far
To rule by love than fear:
Speak gently; let no harsh words mar
The good we might do here.
Speak gently to the little child;
Its love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild;
It may not long remain.
Speak gently to the aged one;
Grieve not the care-worn heart:
The sands of life are nearly run;
Let such in peace depart.
Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;
Let no harsh tone be heard;
They have enough they must endure,
Without an unkind word.
Speak gently to the erring; know
They must have toiled in vain;
Perhaps unkindness made them so;
Oh, win them back again!
Speak gently: ’tis a little thing
Dropped in the heart’s deep well;
The good, the joy, which it may bring,
Eternity shall tell.
--DAVID BATES.
DAYBREAK
A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mists, make room for me.”
It hailed the ships, and cried, “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.”
And hurried landwards, far away,
Crying, “Awake! it is the day.”
It said unto the forest, “Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”
It touched the wood-bird’s folded wing,
And said, “O bird, awake and sing.”
And o’er the farms, “O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow; the day is near.”
It whispered to the fields of corn,
“Bow down and hail the coming morn.”
It shouted through the belfry-tower,
“Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour.”
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said, “Not yet! in quiet lie.”
--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE CHOICE OF HERCULES
One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad of twelve years, he was
sent out to do an errand which he disliked very much. As he walked
slowly along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts; and he
murmured because others no better than himself were living in ease and
pleasure, while for him there was little but labor and pain. Thinking
upon these things, he came after a while to a place where two roads
met; and he stopped, not certain which one to take.
The road on his right was hilly and rough, and there was no beauty
in it or about it; but he saw that it led straight towards the blue
mountains in the far distance. The road on his left was broad and
smooth, with shade trees on either side, where sang thousands of
beautiful birds; and it went winding in and out, through groves and
green meadows, where bloomed countless flowers; but it ended in fog and
mist long before reaching the wonderful mountains of blue.
While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he should go, he saw two
women coming towards him, each by a different road. The one who came
down the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw that she was
beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks were red, her eyes sparkled, her
voice was like the music of morning.
“O noble youth,” she said, “this is the road which you should choose.
It will lead you into pleasant ways where there is neither toil,
nor hard study, nor drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be
delighted with sweet sounds, and your eyes with things beautiful and
gay; and you need do nothing but play and enjoy the hours as they pass.”
By this time the other fair woman had drawn near, and she now spoke to
the lad.
“If you take my road,” said she, “you will find that it is rocky and
rough, and that it climbs many a hill and descends into many a valley
and quagmire. The views which you will sometimes get from the hilltops
are grand and glorious, while the deep valleys are dark and the uphill
ways are toilsome; but the road leads to the blue mountains of endless
fame, of which you can see faint glimpses, far away. They cannot be
reached without labor; there is nothing worth having but must be won
through toil. If you would have fruits and flowers, you must plant and
care for them; if you would gain the love of your fellow-men, you must
love them and suffer for them; if you would be a man, you must make
yourself strong by the doing of manly deeds.”
Then the boy saw that this woman, although her face seemed at first
very plain, was as beautiful as the dawn, or as the flowery fields
after a summer rain.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Some call me Labor,” she answered; “but others know me as Truth.”
“And what is your name?” he asked, turning to the first lady.
“Some call me Pleasure,” said she, with a smile; “but I choose to be
known as the Joyous One.”
“And what can you promise me at the end if I go with you?”
“I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I give at the beginning.”
“Labor,” said Hercules, “I shall follow your road. I want to be strong
and manly and worthy of the love of my fellows. And whether I shall
ever reach the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward of
knowing that my journey has not been without some worthy aim.”
--JAMES BALDWIN.
THE WALKER OF THE SNOW
Speed on, speed on, good Master!
The camp lies far away;
We must cross the haunted valley
Before the close of day.
How the snow-blight came upon me
I will tell you as I go,--
The blight of the Shadow-hunter,
Who walks the midnight snow.
To the cold December heaven
Came the pale moon and the stars,
As the yellow sun was sinking
Behind the purple bars.
The snow was deeply drifted
Upon the ridges drear,
That lay for miles around me
And the camps for which we steer.
’Twas silent on the hillside,
And by the solemn wood,
No sound of life or motion
To break the solitude,
Save the wailing of the moose-bird
With a plaintive note and low,
And the skating of the red leaf
Upon the frozen snow.
And said I, “Though dark is falling,
And far the camp must be,
Yet my heart it would be lightsome
If I had but company.”
And then I sang and shouted,
Keeping measure, as I sped,
To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe
As it sprang beneath my tread.
Nor far into the valley
Had I dipped upon my way,
When a dusky figure joined me,
In a capuchon of gray,
Bending upon the snow-shoes,
With a long and limber stride;
And I hailed the dusky stranger
As we travelled side by side.
But no token of communion
Gave he by word or look,
And the fear-chill fell upon me
At the crossing of the brook.
For I saw by the sickly moonlight
As I followed, bending low,
That the walking of the stranger
Left no footmarks on the snow.
Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me,
Like a shroud around me cast,
As I sank upon the snow-drift
Where the Shadow-hunter passed.
And the other trappers found me,
Before the break of day,
With my dark hair blanched and whitened
As the snow in which I lay.
But they spoke not as they raised me;
For they knew that in the night
I had seen the Shadow-hunter,
And had withered in his blight.
Sancta Maria speed us!
The sun is falling low,--
Before us lies the valley
Of the Walker of the Snow!
--CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY.
THE FROG TRAVELLERS
Long, long ago, before the white man came across the Sea of Peace to
Japan, before the screaming engines frightened the white heron from the
rice fields, and before the sparrows perched on telegraph wires, there
lived two frogs, one in a well at Kioto, the other in a pond at Ozaka.
In the land of Japan there is a proverb that “the frog in the well
knows not the great ocean.” The Kioto frog had heard this said many
times by the maids who came to draw water, and one day he became vexed
at their laughter.
“I shall stay here no longer,” he said to himself. “I shall go at once
to see this great ocean of which they talk. I do not believe it is half
as wide or as deep as my well, where I can see the stars even in the
daytime, but I shall at least know what it looks like.”
Then Mr. Frog told his family that he was going on a journey, going out
to Ozaka to see the great ocean. So Mrs. Frog gave him a package of
boiled rice and snails, and tying it round his neck, he set off on his
journey. When he came out of the well, he saw that the other animals
did not leap, but walked upright on their legs. He thought he must walk
in the same way, so he stood up on his hind legs and waddled off slowly
across the fields.
On this very same day the frog who lived in the pond decided to see
more of the world.
[Illustration: THE WELL AT KIOTO]
“Good-by,” he said to Mrs. Frog, as he jumped from a lily-pad into the
grass, “I am tired of sitting here in the sun thinking and blinking, so
I am going to Kioto.”
It so happened that the Kioto frog and the frog from Ozaka met on a
hill halfway between the two cities.
“Good morning,” said one, bowing his head to the ground three times.
“Good morning,” said the other, also bowing respectfully.
Then they sank down in a shady spot, for they were very tired and lame
from trying to walk on their hind feet.
“Where are you going?” asked the Ozaka frog. “This is a fine day for a
journey.”
“I set out to see the great ocean at Ozaka, of which I have heard so
often,” replied the frog who lived in the well, “but I am so tired that
I think I shall be satisfied with looking at it from the top of this
hill.”
“I am going to Kioto,” said the other frog.
“It is a long journey, my friend,” said the Kioto frog. “Why do you not
look at it from this hill and save yourself the trouble of walking all
the way?”
“That is a good plan, friend,” said the frog from Ozaka.
Then the two frogs climbed to the top of a flat rock, and stood up on
their hind legs, the Kioto frog facing the great ocean at Ozaka, and
the other facing the city of Kioto. A frog’s eyes, as you know very
well, are so placed that when he sits comfortably at home on his
lily-pad, he looks before him. But when he stands on his hind legs with
his head in the air, he sees only what is behind him. Standing in this
way, on top of the rock, the frogs looked long and steadily at the
landscape. At last, being very tired, they sat down again.
[Illustration]
“Ozaka looks exactly like my home,” said the Kioto frog; “and as for
the ocean, I saw nothing larger than the brook I swam across this
morning.”
“You are right,” said the other. “Kioto looks just like Ozaka. They are
as much alike as two grains of rice. I am glad that I met you, for you
have saved me much trouble. I shall return to my pond at once. Good-by,
my friend.”
Then the two frogs jumped to the ground and hurried off, leaping as
a frog should do, and thus reaching home in a short time. That night
they told their friends about their adventures, and still the frog in
the pond thinks he has seen the great world, and “the frog in the well
knows not the great ocean.”
--WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS.
* * * * *
A good action is never thrown away.
THE THREE BELLS
Beneath the low-hung night cloud
That raked her splintering mast
The good ship settled slowly,
The cruel leak gained fast.
Over the awful ocean
Her signal guns pealed out.
Dear God! was that thy answer
From the horror round about?
A voice came down the wild wind,
“Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry:
“Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow
Shall lay till daylight by!”
Hour after hour crept slowly,
Yet on the heaving swells
Tossed up and down the ship-lights,
The lights of the Three Bells!
And ship to ship made signals,
Man answered back to man,
While oft, to cheer and hearten,
The Three Bells nearer ran;
And the captain from her taffrail
Sent down his hopeful cry.
“Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted,
“The Three Bells shall lay by!”
All night across the waters
The tossing lights shone clear;
All night from reeling taffrail
The Three Bells sent her cheer,
And when the dreary watches
Of storm and darkness passed,
Just as the wreck lurched under,
All souls were saved at last.
Sail on, Three Bells, forever,
In grateful memory sail!
Ring on, Three Bells of rescue,
Above the wave and gale!
Type of the Love eternal,
Repeat the Master’s cry,
As tossing through our darkness
The lights of God draw nigh!
--JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
* * * * *
O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared?
HOW THE INDIAN KNEW
One day an Indian came back from a trip to his traps, and noticed,
when he reached his wigwam, that a deer that had hung inside had been
stolen. He at once set to work to find the thief.
Following the trail left by the evil-doer, the Indian soon met a
party of white men. He asked if they had seen a little old man, lame
and white, who had a short gun. The Indian added that the man he was
seeking was followed by a small bobtailed dog, and that he carried a
deer. Such a man, he said, had stolen the deer from his wigwam.
“Why did you not seize the thief when you saw him?” said they.
“I did not see him,” answered the Indian.
“How, then, do you know that he is little, and old, and lame, and
white, and has a short gun, and is followed by a little bobtailed dog?”
asked they.
“I know that he is short,” replied the Indian, “because he piled up
stones to stand on when he took down the meat. He must be old, because
his steps are short, as is shown by his tracks. His gun, I know, is
short, for I found the place where he had leaned it against a sapling
while he was taking down the deer, and the muzzle left a scratch on
the bark near the ground. The dog, sitting down in the sand, left the
print of a stumpy tail. I knew the man was white by the tracks of
his boots, for Indians wear moccasins, and do not turn out their toes
when walking; and I knew that he was lame, because the steps of the
left foot were shorter than those of the right, as was shown by the
footprints.”
And the Indian passed on in pursuit of the one who had robbed
him.--SELECTED.
HOHENLINDEN
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array’d,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush’d the steed, to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash’d the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part, where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.
--THOMAS CAMPBELL.
* * * * *
The butterfly, an idle thing,
Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
As do the bee and bird;
Nor does it, like the prudent ant,
Lay up the grain for times of want,
A wise and cautious hoard.
THE CLOUDS
The dew is gleaming in the grass,
The morning hours are seven;
And I am fain to watch you pass,
Ye soft white clouds of heaven.
Ye stray and gather, part and fold;
The wind alone can tame you;
I think of what in time of old
The poets loved to name you.
They called you sheep, the sky your sward;
A field without a reaper;
They called the shining sun your lord,
The shepherd wind your keeper.
Your sweetest poets I will deem
The men of old for moulding
In simple beauty, such a dream,
And I could lie beholding,
Where daisies in the meadow toss,
The wind from morn till even,
Forever shepherd you across
The shining field of heaven.
--ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.
_By special permission._
SHOEING
At the blacksmith’s shop the bay mare Betty is being fitted to new
shoes. Already the fore feet are nicely shod and the blacksmith now
has the near hind foot in hand. The other occupants of the place are a
small donkey and the bloodhound Laura.
Betty is a sensible horse and enjoys the shoeing process. When the
time comes around for her regular visit to the forge, she walks
off voluntarily and unattended to the familiar spot. No halter is
necessary to keep her standing; in fact, she would not tolerate such an
indignity. She takes her place by the window as if perfectly at home.
Blacksmith and horse are old friends who understand each other well.
The man has won the animal’s confidence by the care he has taken to fit
the shoes comfortably. Though a plain, rough fellow, he is of a kindly
nature and knows his business thoroughly. The shop is a quaint little
place such as one finds in English villages. The thick masonry of the
walls shows how old the building is; the floor is paved with large
blocks of stone. Between the anvil and the forge there is only space
enough for the horse to stand.
[Illustration: Landseer SHOEING]
At the stage of the process seen in the picture the preparations are
all over. The old shoes were first removed and the feet pared and
filed. New shoes were chosen as near the right size as possible, and
one by one shaped for each foot. And now, holding the shoe in his
long tongs, the blacksmith thrusts it into the fire, while he fans
the flames with the bellows. Thence it is transferred, a glowing red
crescent, to the anvil. Now the workman swings his hammer upon it with
ringing strokes, the sparks fly out in a shower, and the soft metal
is shaped at will. The shoe may be made a little broader or a little
longer, as the case may be; bent a trifle here or there, to accommodate
the foot to be fitted. The steel toe calk is welded in, the ends are
bent to form the heels, the holes for nails are punctured, the shoe
taking an occasional plunge into the flames during these processes.
Now there must be a preliminary trying-on. The shoe, still hot, is held
to the foot for which it is intended, and the air is filled with the
fumes of burning hoof. Yet the horse does not flinch, for the thick
hoof is a perfect protection for the sensitive parts of the foot. If
the careful blacksmith is not quite satisfied with the fit, there must
be more hammering on the anvil, and another trying-on. When the shoe is
satisfactory, it is thrust hissing into a barrel of cold water, and,
when cooled and hardened, is ready to be nailed on.
It is at this point in the story that we come upon Betty. The
blacksmith, after the approved method of his trade, holds the foot
firmly between his knees, and bends to his task. The nails, long and
flat, are in the tool-box on the floor beside him. A few firm blows of
the hammer drive each one into place, first on one side, then on the
other; the projecting points are twisted off every time, and finally
all the rough ends are filed smoothly on the outside of the hoof. Betty
is at last fully shod and will step complacently home.
The painter, Sir Edwin Landseer, has arranged the four figures of the
picture in such a way that we may see each one in a characteristic
pose. The bay mare is, of course, the chief attraction,--a fine
high-bred creature, with straight legs, arching neck, and gentle
face, marked on the forehead with a pure white star. Landseer exerted
his utmost skill in reproducing the texture of the glossy hide. Its
beautiful sheen is more striking by contrast with the shaggy hair of
the donkey. It was a clever thought to place this plebeian little beast
beside the aristocratic, high-spirited horse.
The donkey bends his head in a deprecating way below Betty’s handsome
neck, and the horse permits the companionship of an inferior with
gentle tolerance. There is something very appealing about the donkey,
a patient little beast of burden, meekly bearing his saddle. The
bloodhound shows no little curiosity as to the shoeing process, as if
it were something new to her. She sits on her haunches, thrusting her
head forward, the long ears drooping, the sensitive nose sniffing the
strange odors.
Among these dumb companions the blacksmith feels himself surrounded
by friends. He is a lover of pets, as we see by the bird-cage hanging
in the window. His sturdy frame looks equal to the demands of his
trade, which are, in fact, very onerous. It is grimy work, and only
the roughest clothes can be worn. A big leather apron with a cut down
the middle is, as it were, his badge of office. He does his work with
conscientious earnestness, concentrating all his thought and energy
upon each blow of the hammer. The task completed, he will take an
honest pride in the good piece of work he has done for Betty.
--ESTELLE M. HURLL.
_From “Landseer,” in “The Riverside Art Series,” by permission of
Houghton Mifflin and Company._
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp and black and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onwards, through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus, at the flaming forge of life,
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
--HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE SEARCH FOR A WESTERN SEA
Two hundred years ago the great country lying between Lake Superior and
the Rocky Mountains was unknown to the people who lived in the little
stockaded forts, where Quebec, Montreal, and Three Rivers now stand.
Great explorers had followed Columbus to America, and had sailed down
the mighty St. Lawrence and its tributaries. They all longed to find
the Great Western Sea, which Columbus had hoped would lead to Asia; but
over two hundred years had passed since his voyage, and no one had yet
reached the great water of the West.
When Pierre de la Vérendrye was a boy, living at Three Rivers, he heard
many wonderful stories of adventure told by fur traders and explorers
as they returned from expeditions to the North and West, and he longed
for the time to come when he would be old enough to join such a party.
When he was twenty-seven years old, he had charge of a trading-post on
Lake Nepigon, and heard from the neighboring Indians of great lakes and
rivers, and immense tracts of treeless country where herds of cattle
roamed. He had not forgotten the dream of his boyhood, and when these
tales of a land far west reached him, he made up his mind that he would
be the one to explore the country and find a way to the Western Sea.
Years passed by, and it was not until 1731 that his dream was realized.
He had spent years in preparing for the expedition. The governor
at Quebec had given him a license to trade with the Indians, and
Montreal merchants promised to supply him with money and goods. On the
eighth day of June the company set out from Montreal. It consisted of
Vérendrye, his three tall sons, Jean, Pierre and François, and fifty
followers. There were the priests, the hardy voyageurs, the wood
runners, and the Indian interpreters. They embarked in birch canoes
measuring from eighty to ninety feet in length. In the bottom of the
canoes were strongly wrapped packages of merchandise which were to be
exchanged on the way for furs.
In seventy-eight days they reached Kaministiquia, a fur post on Lake
Superior, where Fort William now stands. This was the last Western
post. All the country beyond this would be new to the eager voyageurs.
Sailing down the Pigeon River, they entered Rainy Lake and built Fort
St. Pierre on its left bank. Winter was approaching and their supply of
provisions was getting low, so it was necessary for some of the party
to return to the nearest trading-post to obtain provisions and goods
in exchange for valuable furs. The Cree Indians who inhabited this
district had gazed in wonder at the presents of ammunition offered to
them by the white men, and had gladly given generous supplies of furs
in exchange for these new possessions.
When spring came, the voyageurs accepted the friendly offer of the
Indians to guide them west to the Lake of the Woods. It was several
months before the next long stop was made. They had reached the head of
the lake when it was again necessary to stop and build a fort for their
winter stay. This fort, built of logs, chinked up with clay and moss,
and roofed with branches of trees, was called St. Charles.
The next year they reached Lake Winnipeg by way of the Winnipeg
River, and near its mouth they built Fort Maurepas, now known as Fort
Alexander. In 1738, after travelling over many miles of the surrounding
country, Vérendrye left this fort, crossed the southern end of Lake
Winnipeg, and entered the Red River, which he followed until he came
to its junction with the Assiniboine, and to the place where the city
of Winnipeg now stands. The land around the river was dotted with the
tepees of the Assiniboine Indians, who probably now looked upon a white
man for the first time. A rude fort called Fort Rouge was built, and
leaving his sons to trade with the Indians, Vérendrye pushed on up the
Assiniboine and in one week came to the “Portage of the Prairie.” This
was called by the explorer, Fort De La Reine.
Vérendrye had now spent seven years in his search for the Western Sea.
He had suffered many hardships. His men had often mutinied and deserted
him. Winter had overtaken him when supplies were low, and in these
times of famine he and his men had lived on roots and bark, coarse
parchment, and often on the flesh of the sleigh dogs. His eldest son,
Jean, had been cruelly murdered by the Indians, while he was journeying
to one of the eastern forts for supplies. Still the brave explorer’s
courage did not fail, and he pressed on hoping to find some sign, or
hear some word that would tell him his quest had not been in vain.
The merchants at Montreal upon whom Vérendrye depended for aid were
not interested in his work of exploration, but cared only for the
loads of valuable furs which he sent to them. Fur traders were jealous
of his success, and charged him with trading for his own profit,
and deceiving his partners. Leaving his sons to continue their
explorations, he returned to Quebec in 1746 to defend himself against
these false charges.
Nothing could be proved against him, but this was small comfort
to the worn-out traveller. His life had been one of suffering and
disappointment, and his countrymen did not realize the noble work he
had done, yet he was eager to return to his sons and continue the work
he had begun. In 1749 he was preparing for the journey back to the
West, when he was taken ill, and died suddenly at Montreal. Though his
work was not appreciated during his lifetime, he is now honored as the
pioneer explorer of the Great West.
--HELEN PALK.
THE MOSS ROSE
The angel of the flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,--
That spirit to whose charge ’tis given
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven.
Awaking from his light repose,
The angel whispered to the rose:
“O fondest object of my care,
Still fai
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