BACKBONE.
When you see a fellow mortal Without fixed and fearless views, Hanging on the skirts of others, Walking in their cast off shoes, Bowing low to wealth or favor, With abject, uncovered head, Ready to retract or waver, Willing to be drove or led; Walk yourself with firmer bearing, Throw your moral shoulders back, Show your spine has nerve and marrow, Just the things which his must lack. A stranger word Was never heard, In sense and tone, Than this backbone.
When you see a politician Crawling through contracted holes, Begging for some fat position, In the ring or at the polls, With no sterling manhood in him, Nothing stable, broad or ballast, Double-sided all around; Walk yourself with firmer bearing, Throw your moral shoulders back, Show your spine has nerve and marrow, Just the things which his must lack.
A modest song and plainly told— The text is worth a mine of gold; For many men most sadly lack, A noble stiffness in the back.
[A DOG SHEEP-STEALER.]
Sir Walter Scott immortalized the sagacity of a dog named Yarrow, who was the accomplice of his master, Millar, a shepherd, and of Murdison, a farmer, in the sheep-stealing expeditions which they carried on, more than a century ago, in the Tweed country. All that Millar had to do was to show Yarrow during the day the sheep which were to be stolen, and at night the dog made straight for the flock, got together the marked members of it, and drove them by roundabout paths to Murdison's farm.
Two things were particularly remarkable. In the first place, if Yarrow when thus employed met his master, he observed the utmost caution in recognizing him, lest he might make him the object of suspicion; in the second, the dog seemed to have an idea that his practice was dishonest, and that darkness was the fittest season for such deeds. In the event of the sheep proving unwilling to leave their pasture, Yarrow would use every effort to urge them onwards, but whenever day began to break, he abandoned the attempt.
The dog was said to have been hanged with his master, for sheep-stealing, but Sir Walter Scott states that this was not the case, and that he survived Millar a long time, though he did not exhibit any of his wonderful instinct when in his second master's possession. Of course it was a great crime to put his skill to such a bad use, but there can be no doubt that Yarrow's sagacity fully justified Sir Walter in describing him as an "accomplished" dog.
To persevere in one's duty, and to be silent, is the best answer to calumny.
GEORGE WASHINGTON.
[IF WE KNEW.]
PHOEBE CARY.
If we knew the woe and heartache Waiting for us down the road, If our lips could taste the wormwood, If our backs could feel the load— Would we waste the day in wishing For a time that ne'er can be; Would we wait in such impatience For our ships to come from sea?
If we knew the baby fingers Pressed against the window pane, Would be cold and stiff to-morrow— Never trouble us again— Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Would the prints of rosy fingers Vex us then as they do now?
Ah, those little ice-cold fingers, How they point our memories back To the hasty words and actions Strewn along our backward track!
[HOLIDAY SONG.]
D. BETHUNE DUFFIELD.
[A QUEER DUCKLING.]
How beautiful looked everything out in the fields! It was summer, and the corn was yellow, the oats were green, the hay-ricks were standing in the verdant meadows, and the stork was walking about on his long, red legs, chattering away in Egyptian—the language he had learned from his lady-mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests, in the middle of which lay deep lakes. Oh! it was lovely indeed to walk abroad in the country just then.
In a sunny spot stood an old country-house, encircled by canals. Between the wall and the water's edge there grew huge burdock-leaves, that had shot up to such a height that a little child might have stood upright under the tallest of them; and this spot was as wild as though it had been situated in the depths of a wood.
In this snug retirement a duck was sitting on her nest to hatch her young: but she began to think it a wearisome task, as the little ones seemed very backward in making their appearance; besides, she had but few visitors; for the other ducks preferred swimming about in the canals, instead of being at the trouble of climbing up the slope, and then sitting under a burdock leaf to gossip with her.
At length one egg cracked, and then another. "Peep! peep!" cried they, as each yolk became a live thing, and popped out its head.
"Quack! quack!" said the mother, and they tried to cackle like her, while they looked all about them under the green leaves; and she allowed them to look to their hearts' content, because green is good for the eyes.
"How large the world is, to be sure!" said the young ones. And truly enough, they had rather more room than when they were still in the egg-shell.
"Do you fancy this is the whole world?" cried the mother. "Why, it reaches far away beyond the other side of the garden, down to the parson's field; though I never went such a distance as that! but are you all there?" continued she, rising. "No, faith! you are not; for there still lies the largest egg. I wonder how long this business is to last—I really begin to grow quite tired of it." And she sat down once more.
"Well, how are you getting on?" inquired an old duck, who came to pay her a visit.
"This egg takes a deal of hatching," answered the sitting duck, "it won't break; but just look at the others, are they not the prettiest ducklings ever seen? They are the image of their father, who, by-the-bye, does not trouble himself to come and see me."
"Let me look at the egg that won't break," quoth the old duck. "Take my word for it, it must be a guinea-fowl's egg. I was once deceived in the same way, and I bestowed a deal of care and anxiety on the youngsters, for they are afraid of water. I could not make them take to it. I stormed and raved, but it was of no use. Let's see the egg. Sure enough, it is a guinea-fowl's egg. Leave it alone, and set about teaching the other children to swim."
"I'll just sit upon it a bit longer," said the duck; "for since I have sat so long, a few days more won't make much odds."
"Please yourself," said the old duck, as she went away.
At length the large egg cracked. "Peep! peep!" squeaked the youngster, as he crept out. How big and ugly he was, to be sure! The duck looked at him, saying: "Really this is a most enormous duckling! None of the others are like him. I wonder whether he is a guinea-chick after all? Well, we shall soon see when we get down to the water; for in he shall go, though I push him in myself."
On the following morning the weather was most delightful, and the sun was shining brightly on the green burdock-leaves. The mother duck took her young brood down to the canal. Splash into the water she went. "Quack! quack!" cried she, and forthwith one duckling after another jumped in. The water closed over their heads for a moment; but they soon rose to the surface again, and swam about so nicely, just as if their legs paddled them about of their own accord; and they had all taken to the water; even the ugly, gray-coated youngster swam about with the rest.
"Nay, he is no guinea-chick," said she, "only look how capitally he uses his legs, and how steady he keeps himself—he's every inch my own child! And really he's very pretty when one comes to look at him attentively. Quack! quack!" added she; now come along, and I'll take you into high society, and introduce you to the duck-yard; but mind you keep close to me, that nobody may tread upon you; and above all, beware of the cat."
They now reached the farm-yard, where there was a great hubbub. Two families were fighting for an eel's head, which, in the end, was carried off by the cat.
"See, children, that's the way with the world!" remarked the mother of the ducklings, licking her beak, for she would have been very glad to have had the eel's head for herself. "Now, move on!" said she, "and mind you cackle properly, and bow your head before that old duck yonder; she is the noblest born of them all, and is of Spanish descent, and that's why she is so dignified; and look! she has a red rag tied to her leg, which is the greatest mark of distinction that can be bestowed upon a duck, as it shows an anxiety not to lose her, and that she should be recognized by both beast and man. Now cackle—and don't turn in your toes; a well-bred duckling spreads his feet wide apart, like papa and mamma, in this sort of way. Now bend your neck and say 'Quack!'"
"WHAT A QUEER LOOKING CHAP ONE OF THE DUCKLINGS IS TO BE SURE!"
The ducklings did as they were bid; but the other ducks, after looking at them, only said aloud; "Now look! here comes another set, as if we were not numerous enough already. And bless me! what a queer looking chap one of the ducklings is to be sure—we can't put up with him!" And one of the throng darted forward and bit him in the neck.
"Leave him alone," said the mother, "he did no harm to anyone."
"No; but he is too big and uncouth," said the biting duck, "and therefore he wants a thrashing."
"Mamma has a sweet little family," said the old duck with the rag about her leg; "they are all pretty except one, who is rather ill-favored. I wish mamma could polish him a bit."
"I'm afraid that will be impossible, your grace," said the mother of the ducklings. "Its true, he is not pretty, but he has a very good disposition, and swims as well, or perhaps better than all the others put together. However, he may grow prettier, and perhaps become smaller; he remained too long in the egg-shell, and therefore his figure is not properly formed." And with this she smoothed down the ruffled feathers of his neck, adding: "At all events, as he is a male duck, it won't matter so much. I think he'll prove strong, and be able to fight his way through the world."
"The other ducklings are elegant little creatures," said the old duck. "Now, make yourself at home; and if you should happen to find an eel's head, you can bring it to me."
And so the family made themselves comfortable.
But the poor duckling who had been the last to creep out of his egg-shell, and looked so ugly, was bitten, pushed about, and made game of, not only by the ducks, but by the hens. They all declared he was much too big; and a guinea-fowl who fancied himself at least an emperor, because he had come into the world with spurs, now puffed himself up like a vessel in full sail and flew at the duckling, and blustered till his head turned completely red, so that the poor little thing did not know where he could walk or stand, and was quite grieved at being so ugly that the whole farm-yard scouted him.
Nor did matters mend the next day, or the following ones, but rather grew worse and worse. The poor duckling was hunted down by everybody. Even his sisters were so unkind to him, that they were continually saying, "I wish the cat would run away with you, you ugly creature!" While his mother added: "I wish you had never been born!" And the ducks pecked at him, the hens struck him, and the girl who fed the poultry used to kick him.
So he ran away, and flew over the palings. The little birds in the bushes were startled, and took wing. "That is because I am so ugly," thought the duckling as he closed his eyes, though he ran on further till he came to a large marsh inhabited by wild ducks. Here he spent the whole night—and tired and sorrowful enough he was.
On the following morning when the wild ducks rose and saw their new comrade, they said: "What sort of a creature are you?" Upon which the duckling greeted them all round as civilly as he knew how.
"You are remarkably ugly," observed the wild ducks, "but we don't care about that so long as you do not want to marry into our family." Poor, forlorn creature! He had truly no such thoughts in his head. All he wanted was to obtain leave to lie among the rushes, and drink a little of the marsh water.
He remained there for two whole days, at the end of which there came two wild geese, or more properly speaking, goslings, who were only just out of the egg-shell, and consequently very pert.
"I say, friend," quoth they, "you are so ugly, that we should have no objection to take you with us for a traveling companion. In the neighboring marsh there dwell some sweet, pretty female geese, all of them unmarried, and who cackle most charmingly. Perhaps you may have a chance to pick up a wife amongst them, ugly as you are."
Pop! pop! sounded through the air, and the two wild goslings fell dead amongst the rushes, while the water turned as red as blood. Pop! pop! again echoed around, and whole flocks of wild geese flew up from the rushes. Again and again the same alarming noise was heard.
It was a shooting party and the sportsmen surrounded the whole marsh, while others had climbed into the branches of the trees that overshadowed the rushes. A blue mist rose in clouds and mingled with the green leaves, and sailed far away across the water; a pack of dogs next flounced into the marsh. Splash, splash they went, while the reeds and rushes bent beneath them on all sides.
What a fright they occasioned the poor duckling! He turned away his head to hide it under his wing, when lo! a tremendous looking dog, with his tongue lolling out, and his eyes glaring fearfully, stood right before him, opening his jaws and showing his sharp teeth, as though he would gobble up the poor little duckling at a mouthful!—but splash! splash! on he went without touching him.
"Thank goodness!" sighed the duckling, "I am so ugly that even a dog won't bite me."
And he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes, and pop after pop echoed through the air.
It was not till late in the day that all became quiet, but the poor youngster did not yet venture to rise, but waited several hours before he looked about him, and then hastened out of the marsh as fast as he could go. He ran across fields and meadows 'till there arose such a storm that he could scarcely get on at all.
Towards evening he reached a wretched little cottage, that was in such a tumble-down condition, that if it remained standing at all, it could only be from not yet having made up its mind on which side it should fall first. The tempest was now raging to such a height, that the duckling was forced to sit down to stem the wind, when he perceived that the door hung so loosely on one of its hinges, that he could slip into the room through the crack, which he accordingly did.
The inmates of the cottage were a woman, a tom-cat, and a hen. The tom-cat, whom she called her darling, could raise his back and purr; and he could even throw out sparks, provided he were stroked against the grain. The hen had small, short legs, for which reason she was called Henny Shortlegs; she laid good eggs and her mistress loved her as if she had been her own child.
Next morning they perceived the little stranger, when the tom-cat began to purr and the hen to cluck.
"What's that?" said the woman, looking round. Not seeing very distinctly, she mistook the duckling for a fat duck that had lost its way. "Why, this is quite a prize!" added she; "I can now get duck's eggs, unless indeed it be a male! we must wait a bit and see."
So the duckling was kept on trial for three weeks, but no eggs were forthcoming. The tom-cat and the hen were the master and mistress of the house, and always said "We and the world"—for they fancied themselves to be the half, and by far the best half too, of the whole universe. The duckling thought there might be two opinions on this point; but the hen would not admit of any such doubts.
"Can you lay eggs?" asked she.
"No."
"Then have the goodness to hold your tongue."
And the tom-cat inquired: "Can you raise your back, or purr, or throw out sparks?"
"No."
"Then you have no business to have any opinion at all, when rational people are talking."
The duckling sat in a corner very much out of spirits, when in came the fresh air and the sunshine, which gave him such a strange longing to swim on the water, that he could not help saying so to the hen.
"What's this whim?" said she. "That comes of being idle. If you could either lay eggs or purr, you would not indulge in such fancies."
"But it is so delightful to swim about on the water!" observed the duckling, "and to feel it close over one's head when one dives down to the bottom."
"A great pleasure, indeed!" quoth the hen. "You must be crazy, surely! Only ask the cat—for he is the wisest creature I know—how he would like to swim on the water, or to dive under it. To say nothing of myself, just ask our old mistress, who is wiser than anybody in the world, whether she'd relish swimming and feeling the waters close above her head."
"You can't understand me!" said the duckling.
"We can't understand you? I should like to know who could. You don't suppose you are wiser than the tom-cat and our mistress—to say nothing of myself? Don't take these idle fancies into your head, child; but thank Heaven for all the kindness that has been shown you. Have you not found a warm room, and company that might improve you? But you are a mere chatterbox, and there's no pleasant intercourse to be had with you. And you may take my word for it, for I mean you well. I say disagreeable things, which is a mark of true friendship. Now, look to it, and mind that you either lay eggs, or learn to purr and emit sparks."
"I think I'll take my chance and go abroad into the wide world," said the duckling.
"Do," said the hen.
And the duckling went forth, and swam on the water, and dived beneath its surface; but he was slighted by all other animals, on account of his ugliness.
Autumn had now set in. The leaves of the forests had turned first yellow, and then brown; and the wind caught them up, and made them dance about. It began to be very cold in the higher regions of the air, and the clouds looked heavy with hail and flakes of snow; while the raven sat on a hedge, crying "Caw! caw!" from sheer cold; and one began to shiver, if one merely thought about it. The poor duckling had a bad time of it.
One evening, just as the sun was setting in all its glory, there came a whole flock of beautiful large birds from a large grove. The duckling had never seen any so lovely before. They were dazzlingly white, with long, graceful necks; they were swans. They uttered a peculiar cry, and then spread their magnificent wings, and away they flew from the cold country, to warmer lands across the open sea. They rose so high—so high that the ugly duckling felt a strange sensation come over him. He turned round and round in the water like a wheel, stretched his neck up into the air towards them, and uttered so loud and strange a cry, that he was frightened at it himself.
Oh! never could he again forget those beautiful, happy birds; and when they were quite out of sight, he dived down to the bottom of the water, and when he once more rose to the surface, he was half beside himself. He knew not how these birds were called, or whither they were bound; but he felt an affection for them, such as he had never yet experienced for any living creature. Nor did he even presume to envy them; for how could it have ever entered his head to wish himself endowed with their loveliness? He would have been glad enough if the ducks had merely suffered him to remain among them—poor, ugly animal that he was!
And the winter proved so very, very cold! The duckling was obliged to keep swimming about, for fear the water should freeze entirely; but every night, the hole in which he swam grew smaller and smaller. It now froze so hard that the surface of the ice cracked again; yet the duckling still paddled about, to prevent the hole from closing up. At last he was so exhausted, that he lay insensible, and became ice-bound.
Early next morning, a peasant came by, and seeing what had happened, broke the ice to pieces with his wooden shoe, and carried the duckling home to his wife, so the little creature was revived once more.
The children wished to play with him; but the duckling thought they meant to hurt him, and in his fright he bounced right into a bowl of milk, that was spirted all over the room. The woman clapped her hands which only frightened him still more, and drove him first into the butter-tub, then down into the meal-tub, and out again. What a scene then ensued! The woman screamed and flung the tongs at him; the children tumbled over each other in their endeavors to catch the duckling, and laughed and shrieked. Luckily, the door stood open, and he slipped through, and then over the fagots, into the newly-fallen snow, where he lay quite exhausted.
But it would be too painful to tell of all the privations and misery that the duckling endured during the hard winter. He was lying in a marsh, amongst the reeds, when the sun again began to shine. The larks were singing, and the spring had set in, in all its beauty.
The duckling now felt able to flap his wings: they rustled much louder than before, and bore him away most sturdily; and before he was well aware of it, he found himself in a large garden, where the apple-trees were in full blossom, and the fragrant elder was steeping its long, drooping branches in the waters of a winding canal. Oh, how beautiful everything looked in the first freshness of spring! Three magnificent white swans now emerged from the thicket before him; they flapped their wings, and then swam lightly on the surface of the water. The duckling recognized the beautiful creatures, and was impressed with feelings of melancholy peculiar to himself.
"I will fly towards those royal birds—and they will strike me dead for daring to approach them, so ugly as I am! But it matters not. Better to be killed by them, than to be pecked at by the ducks, beaten by the hens, pushed about by the girl that feeds the poultry, and to suffer want in the winter." And he flew into the water, and swam towards these splendid swans, who rushed to meet him with rustling wings, the moment they saw him. "Do but kill me!" said the poor animal, as he bent his head down to the surface of the water, and awaited his doom. But what did he see in the clear stream? Why, his own image, which was no longer that of a heavy-looking dark grey bird, ugly and ill-favored, but of a beautiful swan!
It matters not being born in a duck yard, when one is hatched from a swan's egg!
He now rejoiced over all the misery and the straits he had endured, as it made him feel the full depth of the happiness that awaited him. And the large swans swam around him, and stroked him with their beaks.
Some little children now came into the garden, and threw bread-crumbs and corn into the water; and the youngest cried: "There is a new one!" The other children were delighted, too, and repeated: "Yes, there is a new one just come." And they clapped their hands, and capered about, and then flew to their father and mother, and more bread and cake was flung into the water; and all said: "The new one is the prettiest. So young and so lovely!" And the elder swans bowed before him.
He then felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wings. He did not himself know what to do. He was more than happy, yet none the prouder; for a good heart is never proud. He remembered how he had been pursued, and made game of; and now he had heard everybody say he was the most beautiful of all beautiful birds. Even the elder-bush bent its boughs down to him in the water, and the sun appeared so warm, and so mild! He then flapped his wings, and raised his slender neck, as he cried, in the fulness of his heart: "I never dreamed of such happiness while I was an ugly duckling."
Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like A star new-born, that drops into its place, And which, once circling, in its placid round, Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.
LOWELL: "A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN."
[THE CLEARIN'.]
Then why do I sell it? you ask me again, "Big cabin an' clearin, an' all?" Well, stranger, I'll tell you, though may be you'll think It ain't any reason at all.
There's plenty of hardship in pioneer life, A hard workin' stint at the best; But I'd stick to it yet, if it wasn't for this, A heart like a log in my breast.
D'ye see, over there by the cotton-wood tree, A climbin' rose, close by a mound, Inside of a fence made of rough cedar boughs?— Prairie wolves ain't too good to come round—
Well, Hetty, my darling old woman, lies there; Not very old either, you see; She wa'n't more'n twenty the year we come West; She'd a been—comin' grass—thirty-three.
What a round little face an' a cheek like a peach She had, little Hetty, be sure! What courage to take me—she knew all the while I was friendless and terrible poor!
How she worked with a will at our first little hut, In the field and among garden stuff, Till her forehead was burned, and her poor little hand, Through its hardships, got rugged and rough.
But many a time, when I come in the door Quite sudden, I've found her just there, With eyelids all red, an' her face to the east —You see, all her own folks was there.
I cheered her, an' told her we'd go by and by, When the clearin' and plowin' was through; And then came the baby—he wa'n't very strong, So that Hetty had plenty to do.
But after awhile she got gloomy again; She would hide in the corn-field to cry. We hadn't no meetin' to speak of, you see, No woman to talk to was nigh.
An' she wanted to show little Joe to the folks; She was hungry, I s'pose, for the sight Of faces she'd seen all the days of her life. That was natteral, stranger, an' right.
But just when she thought to go over the Plains The devils of Sioux was about; So poor Hetty waited a harvest or two, Through the summer of locusts and drought.
That left us poor people. The next coming spring Such a wearisome fever came round; An', stranger—hold on till I tell you—there now, It laid little Joe in the ground.
I know'd then I'd got to send Hetty off East, If I cared about keepin' her here: She pined to a shadder, an' moped by his grave, Though her eyes brighter grew, and more clear.
If you'd seen her poor face, when I told her I'd go And take her home visitin'! Well, I'll never forget how she put out her hands Into mine, an', fur joy, cried a spell.
She didn't feel strong though, that week or the next, An' the cough an' the fever increased; While softly she whispered—she couldn't speak loud— "You'll take me by'm-by to the East?"
[PRINCE WILLFUL'S THREE LESSONS.]
Many years ago there was a young prince named Willful, who was, as his name indicates, a very willful boy. He was lazy and careless, and would not go to school or learn his lessons if he could help it.
His father, whose name was Felix, was a great and good king. He had reigned many years, had filled his treasury with gold, and made many wise laws for the welfare of his people. He was very anxious that his son should grow up an educated and refined man; and he tried by kind words and wholesome advice to show him the necessity of work and the folly of idleness. But Willful paid no heed to his father's words, and daily grew more indolent.
At last the king could bear it no longer; and he said that if the prince would not learn from books, he should be taught in a way not so pleasant. Accordingly he called Willful to him one day and told him that he was going to send him away from home, and that he could not return until by watching the birds, the beasts and the insects he had learned the three lessons most necessary for a prince to know.
He did not say what these lessons were, but left that for the boy to find out himself. Then he gave Willful a golden cross to protect him from harm, a magic glass to magnify even the tiniest creatures, and a curious fan-shaped instrument, by which the languages of the animal-world might be understood.
With these to assist him, Willful started on his journey. He visited many countries and saw many wonderful things, but it was a long time before he learned anything from what he saw, for he was so proud that he thought nothing could teach him.
But one day he was lying down in the shade of a tree, and was looking around for some object of interest, when he saw a number of ants going up and down the tree in great haste. He further noticed that when two ants met they would stop and touch each other with the little horns on their heads, just as people shake hands.
This amused Willful, and he wished to know its meaning, so he took out his hearing fan, and placing it to his lips he found that one ant said to the other, "Good morning, Mr. Ant; fine day. Been to breakfast?" to which the other replied pleasantly, and passed on.
While he was watching these tiny creatures, he saw one which appeared very much excited over something. It stopped one of its friends who was going up the tree, and said, "Have you seen my goats this morning? I went up to milk them a few moments ago; and can not find them anywhere." "Yes," replied the other, "They got over into my pasture; come with me and I will find them for you." Then the two went up the tree and disappeared.
Willful's curiosity was thoroughly aroused; so he climbed the tree, and, crawling out upon one of the branches, took out his magic glass and looked around to see what the ants meant by their "goats."
Soon he found the two ants, with a herd of tiny plant lice feeding on a large leaf. Then he knew what the ant meant by his "goats."
The lost goats were soon picked out, and their master proceeded to milk them.
Willful was so interested by these singular creatures that he determined to study their habits; so, descending from the tree he searched for the anthills. Then he spent hours in watching their occupants, and he learnt many things of benefit to him.
He found that they had a regular government, which was as well organized as any human kingdom; and that in some respects they surpassed mankind, for they had reached the point where everything was held in common, yet quarrels over the right of property were unknown. Each had its own labor to perform and none were allowed to be idle. In fact, Willful thought he had never seen, even in his own country, so peaceable, happy, and contented a people as were these occupants of the sand-hills.
"Surely," thought he, "I know now the value and importance of industry." After this the prince was not so proud as he once had been; but was more ready to learn from whatever he saw.
One day he had the misfortune to tear his cloak, and he was at a loss to mend it, for he had never even seen anyone sew. All his clothes were made for him by the king's tailors, and he had no thought of how it was done.
He was sore perplexed and was wondering what he should do, when he was startled by hearing a sharp, shrill voice utter these words,—
"Come here, children, you are now too large to spend your entire time in play; you must learn to make your house."
WHAT WILLFUL SAW.
At first Willful thought it was a woman calling,—for he had forgotten that he had his magic fan in his hand—but looking around, he saw a bird perched upon a limb, and several birdlings flitting around her. At the words of their mother, they all clustered around her, and the lesson began.
She first selected some fibers, and then quickly twisted them into a good, stout thread, holding one end with her claws. Then she ran it through a little hole in her beak, and thus she had a needle and thread. With these she proceeded to sew together a few leaves, so as to form a little pocket or nest, and lining it with some moss which was gathered near by, she had a capital nest, large enough for herself and little ones.
Willful watched this queer bird with great interest, the more so because it taught him a valuable lesson.
Following the bird's example he contrived to find a needle and thread, consisting of a sharp, stout thorn, and some long, tough grass, with which he mended his torn garment. Willful thought that he had learned from the habits of these creatures, another and valuable lesson, but he was now anxious to see something of methods of warfare among animals.
He did not have to wait very long, for in a little while after the sewing lesson, he traveled over a very level country, which seemed to be mostly inhabited by large herds of buffalo.
The pest of these creatures was the prairie wolves, which were found in great numbers. Often, driven by hunger, they would scent their prey, and a large pack of them would attack the buffalo in great fury.
When the buffalo herd was approached by these hungry packs, some old bull would give a great bellow of warning and the whole mass would prepare for defense.
The cows, calves, and weaker ones would huddle together and the strong bulls would form a circle around them with their heads outward; their horns making such a defense against attack as soldiers with bayonets.
The wolves would try to break through the circle, but if one came too near, he was sure to be tossed high into the air, howling and bleeding. They would gather in a body and all rush at one bull, but many were sure to be gored by his fierce horns before they could bring him down, and no sooner was he down than his place was filled by another bull, ready to receive the next attack of the wolves.
HID IN THE FOREST.
After awhile the whole pack would get tired of such costly fighting and leave the buffaloes in peace.
Willful witnessed several of these battles, and he was much impressed with the skill and bravery of the horned tribe.
He learned much of great importance on the art of warfare; and this he thought was the last of the three lessons. So he turned his journey homewards and in due season reached his father's palace, where he was welcomed with joy.
On the day after his return he was summoned to a meeting of the wise men of the kingdom, and in their presence was asked by the king what three lessons he had learned.
Then Willful in an humble manner, unlike his former character, replied:—"These, my father, are the lessons that my observation has taught me: First,—That even a prince may learn from the smallest of God's creatures. Second—That a government is strong only when each citizen has some honest means of earning a living, and receives a suitable reward for his labor. Third—That it is best to fight only when attacked, and then to die, if need be, in defense of what we love."
Then the people applauded him, for they saw that he had grown in wisdom and had become a fit king for his people.
[MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG!]
F. BRET HARTE.
"My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you please; And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise her never to tease, Nor speak 'till you spoke to me first, But that's nonsense; for how would you know What she told me to say, if I didn't? Don't you really and truly think so?
"And then you'd feel strange here alone, And you wouldn't know just where to sit; For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit; We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says it would be like you To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last screw.
"Suppose you try! I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh! you're afraid they would think it mean! Well, then, there's the album; that's pretty, if you're sure that your fingers are clean. For sister says sometime, I daub it; but she only says that when she's cross. That's her picture. You know it? Its like her; but she ain't good-looking, of course.
"This is me." Its the best of 'em all. Now tell me, you'd never have thought That once I was as little as that? Its the only one that could be bought; For that was the message to pa from the photograph man when I sat,— That he wouldn't print off any more, till he first got his money for that.
"What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this. There's all her back hair to do up, and all her front curls to friz. But its nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me! Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee,—
"Tom Lee, her last beau, why, my goodness! he used to be here day and night, Till the folks thought he'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright. You won't run away then, as he did? for you're not a rich man, they say. Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you? and how poor are they?
"Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair isn't red; But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said. But there I must go; sister's coming! But I wish I could stay, just to see If she ran up to you, and she kissed you, in the way that she used to kiss Lee."
[THE GIANT WHO HAD NO HEART.]
There was once upon a time a king who had seven sons. He loved them all so much that he could never do without them all at once; one had always to be with him. When they were grown up, six of them set out to woo. But the father kept the youngest son at home, and for him the others were to bring back a princess to the palace. The king gave the six the finest clothes you ever set your eyes upon, and you could see the glitter of them a long way off, and each had his own horse, which cost many, many hundred dollars, and so they set out on the journey.
After having been to many royal palaces and seen all the princesses there, they came at last to a king who had six daughters; such lovely princesses they had never seen, and so each of them began wooing one of the six sisters, and when they had got them for sweethearts, they set out for home again; but they quite forgot to bring a princess with them for Ash-ie-pat-tle, [1] who was left at home, so busy were they making love to their sweethearts.
When they had journeyed a good bit of the way, they passed close to the side of a steep mountain, where there was a giant's castle. As soon as the giant saw them, he came out and turned them all, princes and princesses, into stone. But the king waited and waited for his six sons, but no sons came. He was very sad, and said that he should never be glad again.
"Had you not been left to me," he said to Ash-ie-pat-tle, "I should not care to live any longer. I am so sad because I have lost your brothers."
"But I have been thinking to ask for leave to set out and find them, I have," said Ash-ie-pat-tle.
"No, I cannot let you go," said his father; "I shall lose you as well."
But Ash-ie-pat-tle would go, and he begged and prayed till the king gave him leave to go. The king had no other horse to give him but an old jade, for his six brothers and their men had taken all the other horses, but Ash-ie-pat-tle did not mind that; he mounted the shabby old nag.
"Good-bye, father," said he to the king, "I shall come back, sure enough, and who knows but I shall have my six brothers with me as well," and off he started.
Well, when he had got a bit on his way, he came to a raven, which was lying in the road flapping his wings, and was unable to get out of his way, it was so famished. "Oh, dear friend, give me something to eat, and I will help you in your utmost need," said the raven.—"very little food have I," said the prince, "and you don't look as if you could help me much either, but a little I must give you for you want it badly, I see," and then he gave the raven some of the food he had with him.
When he had traveled some distance further he came to a stream. There he saw a big salmon, which had got ashore and was dashing and knocking itself about and could not get into the water again, "Oh, dear friend, help me into the water again," said the salmon to the prince, "and I will help you in your utmost need."—"I don't suppose it can be much of a help you can give me," said the prince, "but it is a pity you should lie there and very likely perish," so he shoved the fish into the stream again.
So he traveled a long, long way, till he met a wolf, which was so famished that he was only able to drag himself along the road. "Dear friend, give me your horse," said the wolf. "I am so hungry, I hear the wind whistling in my empty stomach. I have had nothing to eat for two years."
"No," said Ash-ie-pat-tle, "I can't do it; first I came to a raven which I had to give all my food to; then I came to a salmon which I had to help back into the water; and now you want my horse. But that is impossible, for then I should have nothing to ride upon."
"Yes, yes, my friend, but you must help me," said the wolf, "you can ride on me instead; I shall help you again in your utmost need."
"Well, the help you can give me will not be great; but I suppose you must have the horse then, since you are so needy," said the prince. And when the wolf had finished the horse Ash-ie-pat-tle took the bridle and put the bit in the wolf's mouth and the saddle on his back, and the wolf felt now so strong and well after what he had had to eat, that he set off with the prince as if he were nothing at all; Ash-ie-pat-tle had never ridden so fast before.
"When we get a little bit further I will show you a giant's castle," said the wolf, and in a little while they came there. "See, here is the giant's castle," said the wolf again, "and there you see all your six brothers, whom the giant has turned into stone, and there are their six brides. Over yonder is the door of the castle, and you must go in there."
"I dare not," said the prince, "the giant will kill me."
"Not at all," answered the wolf; "when you go in there you will meet a princess. She will tell you what to do to make an end of the giant. Only do as she tells you."
Well, Ash-ie-pat-tle went into the castle, but to tell the truth he felt rather afraid. When he got inside, he found the giant was out; but in a chamber sat the princess, just as the wolf had said. Such a lovely maiden Ash-ie-pat-tle had never seen before.
"Good heavens! what has brought you here?" said the princess as soon as she saw him. "It's sure to be your death; no one can kill the giant who lives here, for he hasn't got any heart."—"But now when I am here, I suppose I had better try my strength with him," said Ash-ie-pat-tle, "and I must see if I can't release my brothers who are standing outside here, turned into stone, and I will try to save you as well."
"Well, since you will stop, we must try and do the best we can," said the princess. "You must creep under the bed over there and listen well to what he says when I speak with him, and be sure to lie as quiet as you can."
So Ash-ie-pat-tle crept under the bed, and no sooner had he done so than the giant came home. "Ugh, what a smell of Christian blood there is here," shouted the giant.—"Yes, a magpie flew over the house with a man's bone and let it fall down the chimney," said the princess; "I made haste to throw it out, but the smell doesn't go away so soon."
So the giant said no more about it, and when evening came, they went to bed. When they had lain awhile, the princess said: "There is one thing I wanted so very much to ask you about, if I only dared."
"Well, what can that be?" asked the giant.
"I should so like to know where your heart is, since you don't carry it about you," said the princess.
"Oh, that's a thing you needn't know anything about," said the giant, "but if you must know, it's under the stone slab in front of the door."—"Ah, ha! we shall soon see if we can't find that," said Ash-ie-pat-tle to himself under the bed.
Next morning the giant got up very early and set out for the wood, but no sooner was he out of sight than Ash-ie-pat-tle and the princess commenced looking for the heart under the door-slab, but although they dug and searched all they could, they could not find anything. "He has made a fool of me this time," said the princess; "but I must try him again." So she picked all the prettiest flowers she could find and strewed them over the door-slab, which they put in its right place again.
When the time came for the giant to return home, Ash-ie-pat-tle crept under the bed, and he had scarcely got well under before the giant came in. "Ugh, what a smell of Christian blood there is here," screamed the giant.—"Yes, a magpie flew over the house and dropped a man's bone down the chimney," said the princess; "I made haste to clear it away, but I suppose the smell hasn't gone away yet."
So the giant said no more about it, but in a little while he asked who it was that had been strewing flowers around the door-slab. "Why, I, of course," said the princess.—"And what's the meaning of it?" asked the giant.—"Well, you know I am so fond of you," said the princess, "that I couldn't help doing it when I knew that your heart was lying under there."—"Ah, indeed," said the giant, "but it isn't there after all."
When they had gone to bed in the evening, the princess asked again where his heart was, because she was so very fond of him, she said, that she would so like to know it. "Oh, it's over in the cupboard on the wall there," said the giant. Ah, ha, thought both Ash-ie-pat-tle and the princess, we will soon try to find it.
Next morning the giant was early out of bed, and made for the wood again, but the moment he was gone Ash-ie-pat-tle and the princess were looking in the cupboard for the heart, but they looked and searched and found no heart.
"Well, we must try once more," said the princess. She hung flowers and garlands around the cupboard, and when the evening came Ash-ie-pat-tle crept under the bed again. Shortly the giant came in. "Ugh, Ugh!" he roared,"what a smell of Christian blood there is here."—"Yes, a magpie flew past here just now, and dropped a man's bone down the chimney," said the princess; "I made haste to throw it out, but I suppose that's what you still smell."
When the giant heard this, he said no more about it; but as soon as he saw the cupboard decked out with flowers and garlands, he asked who it was that had done that. It was the princess, of course.
ASH-IE-PAT-TLE'S PRINCESS.
"But what's the meaning of all this foolery?" asked the giant.
"Well, you know how fond I am of you," said the princess, "I couldn't help doing it, when I knew your heart was there."
"How can you be so foolish to believe it?" said the giant.—"Well, how can I help believing it when you say so?" answered the princess.—"Oh, you are a foolish creature," said the giant, "you can never go where my heart is!"
"Ah, well," said the princess.—"but I should like to know for all that where it is."—So the giant could not refuse to tell her any longer, and he said: "Far, far away in a lake lies an island,—on that island stands a church,—in that church there is a well,—in that well swims a duck,—in that duck there is an egg,—and in the egg—well, there is my heart."
Early next morning, almost before the dawn of day, the giant set out for the wood again. "Well, I suppose I had better start as well," said Ash-ie-pat-tle; "I wish I only knew the way!"
He said farewell to the princess for a time, and when he came outside the castle there was the wolf still waiting for him. He told the wolf what had happened inside, and that he was now going to set out for the well in the church, if he only knew the way. The wolf asked him to jump on his back,—he would try and find the way, sure enough, he said, and away they went over hills and mountains, over fields and valleys, while the wind whistled about them.
When they had traveled many, many days, they came at last to the lake. The prince did not know how he should get across it; but the wolf asked him only not to be afraid, and then he plunged into the water with the prince on his back and swam across to the island.
When they came to the church, they found the key for the church-door hanging high, high up on the steeple, and at first the young prince did not know how to get hold of it. "You will have to call the raven," said the wolf, which the prince did. The raven came at once, and flew up for the key, and so the prince got inside the church.
When he came to the well, the duck was there sure enough. It was swimming about just as the giant had said. He commenced calling and calling, and at last he lured her up to him and caught her. But just as he was lifting her out of the water, the duck let the egg fall in the well; and Ash-ie-pat-tle didn't know how to get it up again. "You had better call the salmon," said the wolf, which the prince did. The salmon came and fetched the egg from the bottom of the well.
The wolf then told him to squeeze the egg, and as soon as Ash-ie-pat-tle squeezed it, they heard the giant screaming. "Squeeze it once more," said the wolf, and when the prince did so, the giant screamed still more piteously, and prayed so nicely and gently for himself; he would do all the prince wished, if he only wouldn't squeeze his heart to pieces.
"Tell him, that if he will give you back again alive your six brothers and their brides, which he turned into stone, you will spare his life," said the wolf, and Ash-ie-pat-tle did so.
Yes, the giant would do that at once, and he restored the six princes and the six princesses to life.—"Now, squeeze the egg to pieces," said the wolf. Ash-ie-pat-tle squeezed it flat between his hands, and the giant burst.
So when Ash-ie-pat-tle had got rid of the giant, he rode back again on his friend, the wolf, to the giant's castle, and there stood all his six brothers and their brides, all alive, and then Ash-ie-pat-tle went into the mountain for his own bride, and they all set out for their home, the royal palace. The old king was pleased, I can tell you, when all his seven sons came back, each with his bride. "But the loveliest of all the princesses is Ash-ie-pat-tle's bride after all," said the king, "and he shall sit at the top of the table with her."
And then the wedding came off, and the king gave a grand feast which lasted for many a day, and if they have not done feasting by this, why they are still at it.
Footnote
[1] ] The favorite hero of most Norwegian fairy tales is called "Askeladen," a sort of male "Cinderella" and is always the youngest son of the family.
There is beauty in the forest, When the trees are green and fair; There is beauty in the meadow, Where wild flowers scent the air; There is beauty in the sunlight, And the soft, blue beam above: Oh, the world is full of beauty When the heart is full of love!
W. L. SMITH.
[BREAD ON THE WATERS.]
GEORGE L. CATLIN.
Mister," the little fellow said, "Please give me a dime to buy some bread."
I turned to look at the ragged form, That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, Pinched, and haggard, and old with care, In accents pleading, was standing there. 'Twas a little boy not twelve years old; He shivered and shook in the bitter cold, His eyes were red—with weeping, I fear— And adown his cheeks there rolled a tear E'en then.
We should make the same use of books that the
bee does of a flower: he gathers sweets from it, but
does not injure it.
AND oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere, A boon, an offering heaven holds dear, 'Tis the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds, and breaks in her cause!
THOMAS MOORE: "LALLA ROOKH."
[HOW BAYARD SHOT THE BEAR.]
It was a hot summer day and Bayard was tired of playing horse with Ethel, or of swinging in the hammock; so he thought he would take a stroll in the fields back of the house, and, perhaps, go down as far as the creek. So he took his gun and started off.
Why he took the gun, Bayard himself could hardly have told; yet it was lucky he did take it, as we shall presently see.
The sun's rays were so scorching, and he got so warm walking, that when he arrived at the creek he thought he would lie down and rest. How cool it was under the trees, and how still it seemed! Not a sound was heard save the twittering of the birds, the babbling of the water over the stones, and the sound of the cow-bells in the neighboring pasture.
"LOST."
How Bayard wished he could see something to shoot. To be sure there were the birds; but they looked so happy and sang so sweetly, that it seemed a pity to kill them, and then—they were so common! Anyone could shoot a bird, a squirrel, or a rabbit. Bayard wanted game of a larger kind. He would never waste powder on a bird. No, indeed!
Oh! if he were only in a country where there were plenty of lions and tigers! But then, he wasn't; yet he had heard his father tell about seeing bears in that neighborhood, and might be there was one roaming around even then.
What if one should come out of the woods! Wouldn't he kill it, though! The bear would be dead in less time than it takes to tell it. To doubt that would be rank heresy.
Halloa! What was that! Only a twig snapping. There it is again! Twig snaps some more,—heavy body. Bushes move! See there! See that brown thing! What's that, that gleams so,—eyes?
It—it's—a bear!
Sure enough,—just what Bayard has been wanting to see. Old Bruin comes out from the bushes and sniffs around.
Bayard's heart beats fast, and he trembles; but not from fear. Oh, no! Perish the man who would suggest such a thing.
Bruin sees Bayard and shows his teeth.
Bayard picks up his gun. Bear growls, and stands upon his hind legs.
Bayard raises his gun to his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. Bear comes nearer.
Bayard aims. Bang!
Has he killed it? Smoke clears away. No, the bear is still there; and he is thoroughly angry, too. Perhaps some of the shot has lodged in his side.
Bear utters a loud growl, and springs forward. Bayard now thoroughly frightened; but too much excited to run.
Bang! bang! Another shot.
Bear nearer; and now he has Bayard in his claws. Tight,—tighter, the bear hugs him,—Oh, dear!
Bayard can't get away! Can't breathe! Almost dead! Oh! Oh! Help! Help!
"Bayard!" "Bayard!"
What was that?
Bayard starts up; rubs his eyes, yawns; stretches; yawns again.
What! Has he been asleep? Yes, for there he is, safe and sound, his gun on the grass, no bear in sight; and his mother is calling him to dinner.
And that is how Bayard shot the bear!
Indeed, he couldn't have shot it otherwise with his gun, for, don't you see, it was only a toy gun which Cousin Guy had given him as a birthday present.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY: "FESTUS."
[NEW YEAR'S EVE.]
ALFRED TENNYSON.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new; Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land; Ring in the Christ that is to be.
[EAST OF THE SUN AND WEST OF THE MOON.]
P. C. ASBJORNSEN.
There was once a poor tenant who had many children, but very little food or clothes to give them; they were all pretty children, but the prettiest was the youngest daughter, who was so lovely that there was almost too much of her loveliness.
So one Thursday evening, late in the autumn, when there was terrible weather and it was dreadfully dark out of doors, and it rained and blew as well till the wall creaked, they were all sitting by the hearth busy with something or other. All at once some one knocked three times on the window-pane. The good-man went out to see what was the matter; when he came outside he saw a great big white bear.
"Good evening!" said the white bear.
"Good evening!" said the man.
"Will you give me your youngest daughter, and I will make you as rich as you now are poor," said the bear.
Yes; the man thought it would be very nice to be so rich, but he must speak with his daughter first; so he went in and told her that a great white bear was outside, who promised that he would make them all rich if he could only get her. She said "No," and would not agree to any such arrangement; so the man went out and arranged with the white bear that he should come again next Thursday evening for an answer.
In the meantime they talked her round, and told her of all the riches they would come in possession of, and how fine she herself would have it in her new home; so at last she gave in to their entreaties and began washing and mending her few rags and made herself look as well as she could, and was at last ready for the journey. Her baggage of course, was not much to speak of.
Next Thursday evening the white bear came to fetch her; she got up on his back with her bundle, and away they went. When they had gone some distance the white bear said: "Are you afraid?"—No, she wasn't afraid.—"Well, only hold tight by my coat and there's no danger," said the bear.
And so she rode far, far away, and came at last to a big mountain. The white bear knocked at it and a gate was opened, and they came into a castle where there were a great many rooms all lit up and gleaming with silver and gold, and amongst these was a great hall, where a table stood ready laid; in fact, all was so grand and splendid that you would not believe it unless you saw it. So the white bear gave her a silver bell, which she was to ring whenever there was anything she wanted, and her wishes would be attended to at once.
Well, when she had eaten, it was getting late in the evening, and she became sleepy after the journey so she thought she would like to go to bed. She rang the bell, and had scarcely touched it, before she was in a room, where she found such a beautiful bed as anyone could wish for, with silken pillows and curtains, and gold fringes; everything else in the room was made of gold and silver. But when she had gone to bed and put out the light, she heard someone coming into the room and sitting down in the big arm-chair near the bed. It was the white bear, who at night could throw off his shape, and she could hear by his snoring as he sat in the chair that he was now in the shape of a man; but she never saw him, because he always came after she had put out the light, and in the morning before the day dawned he was gone.
Well, for awhile everything went on happily, but then she began to be silent and sorrowful, for she went about all day alone, and no wonder she longed to be home with her parents and her sisters and brothers again. When the white bear asked what ailed her, she said she was so lonely there, she walked about all alone, and longed for her home and her parents and brothers and sisters, and that was the reason she was so sad.
"But you may visit them, if you like," said the white bear, "if you will only promise me one thing. You must never talk alone with your mother, but only when there are others in the room. She will take you by the hand and try to lead you into a room to speak with you all by yourself; but you must not do this by any means, or you will make us both unhappy, and bring misfortune over us."
One Sunday the white bear came and told her that they were now going to see her parents. Away they went, she sitting on his back, and they traveled far and long; at last they came to a grand white farm-house, where her sisters and brothers were running about. Everything was so pretty that it was a pleasure to see it.
"Your parents are living there," said the bear; "but mind you don't forget what I have said, or you will make us both unhappy." No, she would not forget it. When they came to the farm, the bear turned around and went away.
There was such a joy when she came in to her parents that there was no end to it. They said they did not know how to thank her fully for what she had done for them. They had everything they wanted, and everybody asked after her and wanted to know how she was getting on, and where she was living. She said that she was very comfortable and had everything she wished for; but what she otherwise answered I don't know, but I believe they did not get much out of her.
But one day after dinner it happened exactly as the white bear had said; her mother wanted to speak with her alone in her chamber. But she recollected what the bear had told her, and would not go with her. "What we have got to talk about, we can do at some other time," she said.
But somehow or other her mother talked her round at last, and so she had to tell her everything. She told her how a man came into her room every night as soon as she had put out the light, and how she never saw him, for he was always gone before the day dawned. She was sorrowful at this, for she thought she would so like to see him; and in the day-time she walked about there all alone and felt very lonely and sad.
"Oh, dear me!" said her mother, "it may be a troll for all we know! But I will tell you how you can get a sight of him. You shall have a piece of candle from me, and this you must take with you home in your bosom. When he is asleep, light that candle, but take care not to drop any of the tallow on him."—Yes, she took the candle and hid it in her bosom, and in the evening the white bear came and fetched her.
When they had gone some distance of the way the bear asked her if everything hadn't happened as he had said. Yes, she couldn't deny that.—Well, if you have listened to your mother's advice you will make us both unhappy and all will be over between us," said the bear.—No, that she hadn't!
When she came home and had gone to bed, the same thing occurred as before. Some one came into the room and sat in the arm-chair by her bedside, but in the middle of the night when she heard that he was asleep, she got up and struck a light, lit the candle, and let the light fall on him. She then saw that he was the loveliest prince anyone could wish to see, and she fell at once in love with him; she thought that if she could not kiss him there and then she would not be able to live. And so she did, but she dropped three hot drops of tallow on him and he woke up.
"What have you done?" he said, "you have now made us both unhappy for ever, for if you had only held out one year I should have been saved. I have a stepmother who has bewitched me, and I am now a white bear by day and a man by night. But now all is over between us, and I must leave you and go back to her; she lives in a castle which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and in the same castle there is a princess with a nose two yards long, and now I must marry her."
She wept and cried, but there was no help for it; he must go and leave her. So she asked him if she might not go with him. No, that was impossible!—"But if you will tell me the way, I will try and find you," she said. "I suppose I may have leave to do that!"—Yes, she could do that, he said, but there was no road to that place; it lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and she could never find her way there.
Next morning when she awoke, both the prince and the castle were gone; she lay on a little green field far in the middle of the dark, thick forest, and by her side lay the same bundle with her old rags, which she had brought with her from home. When she had rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and wept till she was tired, she set out on her way and walked for many, many a day, till she at last came to a big mountain.
Close to it an old woman sat and played with a golden apple. She asked her if she knew the way to the prince who lived with his stepmother in a castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and who was going to marry a princess with a nose two yards long.
"How do you know him?" asked the old woman, "perhaps it was you who should have had him?"
Yes, it was she. "Ah, indeed! is that you?" said the woman; "well, all I know is that he lives in that castle which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and thither you will come late or never; but I will lend you my horse and on him you can ride to my neighbor, an old friend of mine; perhaps she can tell you. When you have got there, just give my horse a blow with your whip under the left ear and ask him to go home again;—and you had better take this golden apple with you."
So she got up on the horse and rode a long, long time till she at last came to a mountain, where an old woman was sitting with a golden carding-comb. She asked her if she knew the way to the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon. She answered like the first old woman, that she didn't know anything about it, but it was sure to be east of the sun and west of the moon, "and thither you will come, early or late, but I will lend you my horse as far as my neighbor; perhaps she can tell you. When you have got there, just give my horse a blow under the left ear and ask him to go home again." And the old woman gave her the golden carding-comb, which might come in useful for her.
The young girl got up on the horse and rode for a long, long, weary time, and came at last to a large mountain, where an old woman was sitting and spinning on a golden spinning-wheel. She asked her if she knew the way to the prince, and where the castle was that lay east of the sun and west of the moon. And so came the same question: "Perhaps it is you who should have had the prince?"—Yes, it was! But the old woman knew the way no better than the other two. It was east of the sun and west of the moon,—She knew that,—"and thither you will come, early or late," she said, "but I will lend you my horse, and I think you had better ride to the east wind and ask him. Perhaps he is known about those parts and can blow you there. When you have got there, just touch the horse under the ear and he'll go home again." And so she gave her the golden spinning-wheel. "You might find use for it," said the old woman.
She rode on many days for a long, weary time before she got to the east wind, but after a long time she did reach it, and so she asked him if he could tell her the way to the prince, who lived east of the sun and west of the moon. Yes, he had heard tell of that prince, said the east wind, and of the castle too, but he didn't know the way thither, for he had never blown so far. "But if you like, I'll go with you to my brother, the west wind. Perhaps he may know it, for he is much stronger. Just get up on my back and I'll carry you thither."
Yes, she did so, and away they went at a great speed. When they got to the west wind, they went in to him, and the east wind told him that his companion was the one who should have had the prince who lived in the castle, which lay east of the sun and west of the moon; she was now on her way to find him again, and so he had gone with her to hear if the west wind knew where that castle was.
"No, I have never blown so far," said the west wind, "but if you like I'll go with you to the south wind, for he is much stronger than any of us, and he has been far and wide; perhaps he may tell you. You had better sit up on my back and I'll carry you thither."
Well, she got on his back, and off they started for the south wind; they weren't long on the way, I can tell you! When they got there, the west wind asked his brother if he could tell him the way to that castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon. His companion was the one who should have had the prince who lived there.
"Oh, indeed!" said the south wind, "is that she? Well, I have been to many a nook and corner in my time, but so far I have never blown. But if you like, I'll go with you to my brother, the north wind; he is the oldest and strongest of all of us, and if he doesn't know where it is you will never be able to find any one who can tell you. Just get up on my back and I'll carry you thither."
Yes, she sat up on his back, and away they went at such a rate, that the way didn't seem to be very long.
When they got to where the north wind lived he was so wild and unruly that cold gusts were felt a long way off. "What do you want?" he shouted from far away, but still it made them shiver all over.
"Oh, you needn't be so very harsh," said the south wind, "it's I, your own brother; and then I have got her with me who should have had the prince who lives in that castle which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and she wants to ask you if you have ever been there and if you can tell her the way. She is very anxious to find him again."
"Well, yes, I do know where it is," said the north wind; I once blew an aspen leaf thither, but I was so tired that I wasn't able to blow for many days after. But if you really intend going there and you are not afraid to come with me, I will take you on my back and try if I can blow you so far."—Yes, she was willing; she must go thither, if it were possible, one way or another, and she wasn't a bit afraid, go how it would.
"Very well!" said the north wind, "you must stop here to-night then, for we must have a whole day before us and perhaps more, if we are to reach it."
Early next morning the north wind called her, and then he blew himself out and made himself so big and strong that he was terrible to look at. Away they went, high up through the air at such a fearful speed, as if they were going to the end of the world. There was such a hurricane on land that trees and houses were blown down, and when they came out on the big sea, ships were wrecked by hundreds. And onwards they swept, so far, far, that no one would believe how far they went, and still farther and farther out to sea, till the north wind got more and more tired and so used up that he was scarcely able to give another blow, and was sinking and going down more and more; and at last they were so low that the tops of the billows touched their heels.
"Are you afraid?" said the north wind.—"No," she said, she wasn't a bit afraid. But they were not so very far from land either, and the north wind had just sufficient strength left to reach the shore and put her off just under the windows of the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon; but he was then so tired and worn out that he had to rest for many days before he could start on his way home again.
Next morning she sat down under the castle windows, and began playing with the golden apple, and the first one she saw was the princess with the long nose, whom the prince was going to marry.
"What do you want for that golden apple of yours?" she asked, and opened the casement.—"It is not for sale, neither for gold nor money," said the girl.—"If it isn't for sale for gold or money, what do you want for it then?" said the princess; "I'll give you what you ask!"—"Well, if I to-night may sit in the arm-chair by the bedside of the prince who lives here, you shall have it," said the girl who came with the north wind.—Yes, she might do that, there would be no difficulty about that.
So the princess got the golden apple; but when the girl came up into the prince's bedroom in the evening, he was fast asleep; she called him and shook him, and now and then she cried and wept; but no, she could not wake him up so that she might speak to him. Next morning, as soon as the day dawned, the princess with the long nose came and turned her out of the room.
Later in the day she sat down under the castle windows and began carding with her golden carding-comb, and then the same thing happened again. The princess asked her what she wanted for the carding-comb, and she told her that it wasn't for sale, neither for gold nor money, but if she might get leave to sit in the arm-chair by the prince's bedside that night, she should have it. But when she came up into the bedroom she found him fast asleep again, and for all she cried and shook him, for all she wept, he slept so soundly that she could not get life into him; and when the day dawned in the early morning, in came the princess with the long nose and turned her out of the room again.
So as the day wore on, she sat down under the castle windows and began spinning on the spinning-wheel, and that the princess with the long nose wanted also to have. She opened the casement and asked the girl what she wanted for it. The girl told her, as she had done twice before, that it was not for sale, either for gold or money, but if she might sit in the arm-chair by the prince's bedside that night, she should have it. Yes, she might do that. But there were some Christian people who had been carried off and were imprisoned in the room next to the prince's, and they had heard that some woman had been in his room and wept and cried and called his name two nights running, and this they told the prince.
In the evening, when the princess came and brought him his drink, he made appear as if he drank, but he threw it over his shoulder, for he felt sure she had put a sleeping draught in his drink.
So when the girl came into his room that night she found the prince wide awake, and then she told him how she had come there. "You have just come in time," said the prince, "for to-morrow I was to be married to the princess; but I won't have that Long-nose, and you are the only one that can save me. I will say that I want to see what my bride can do, and if she is fit to be my wife; then I will ask her to wash the shirt with the three tallow stains on it. She will try, for she does not know that it is you who dropped the tallow on the shirt; but that can only be done by Christian folks, and not by a pack of trolls like we have in this place; and so I will say that I will not have anybody else for a bride except the one who can wash the shirt clean, and I know you can do that." And they felt very glad and happy, and they went on talking all night about the joyful time in store for them.
The next day, when the wedding was to take place, the prince said: "I think I must see first what my bride can do!"—"Yes, quite so!" said the stepmother.
"I have got a very fine shirt, which I am going to use for my wedding shirt; but there are three tallow stains on it which I want washed out; and I have made a vow that I will not take any other woman for a wife than the one who is able to do that; if she cannot do that, she is not worth having," said the prince.
"Well, that was easy enough," said the stepmother and agreed to this trial. Well, the princess with the long nose set to washing the best she could, but the more she washed the bigger grew the stains. "Why, you cannot wash," said the old witch, her stepmother; "let me try!"—but no sooner did she take the shirt than it got still worse, and the more she washed and rubbed the bigger and blacker the stains grew.
So did the other trolls try their hands at washing, but the longer they worked at it the dirtier the shirt grew, till at last it looked as if it had been up the chimney. "Ah, you are not worth anything, the whole lot of you!" said the prince; "there's a poor girl under the window just outside here, and I am sure she can wash much better than any of you. Come in, my girl!" he shouted out to her.—Yes, she would come in.—"Can you wash this shirt clean?" asked the prince.—"Well, I don't know," she said, "but I will try."
And no sooner had she taken the shirt and dipped it in the water, than it was as white as the driven snow, if not whiter. "Yes, you shall be my wife," said the prince. But the old witch flew into such a rage that she burst; and the princess with the long nose and all the trolls must have burst also, for I never heard of them since. The prince and his bride then set free all the people who had been carried off and imprisoned there, and so they took as much gold and silver with them as they could carry, and moved far away from the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon.
Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them all day long, And so make life, death, and that vast forever, One grand, sweet song.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
[THE BABY IN THE HOME.]
GEO. MAC DONALD.
Where did you come from, baby, dear? Out of the everywhere into here.
Where did you get the eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through.
Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose? I saw something better than anyone knows.
"FEET, WHENCE DID YOU COME."
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pretty ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into hooks and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherub's wings.
How did they all come just to be you? God thought of me and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, my dear? God thought about you, and so I am here."
[SATURDAY AFTERNOON.]
N. P. WILLIS.
I have walked the world for four score years, And they say that I am old— That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true—it is very true— I am old, and I "bide my time;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime.
Play on! play on! I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go— For the world, at best, is a dreary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay.
[THE KING OF THE NIGHT.]
BARNEY CORNWALL.
In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral owl doth dwell; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he's abroad and well; Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him, All mock him outright by day; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away; O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl.
"THE KING OF THE NIGHT."
And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveths the woods deep gloom; And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom; Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill; O, when the moon shines and the dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl!
Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight; The owl hath his share of good: If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, He is lord in the dark green wood; Nor lonely the bird nor his ghastly mate, They are each unto each a pride; Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate Hath rent them from all beside; So, when the night falls and dogs do howl, Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl.
We know not alway Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.
[A 'RITHMETIC LESSON.]
PHILLIP BAILEY.
OH, ho, hum! my sakes alive! Where is my old 'rithmetic? Here 'tis: five times one are five. This most makes a fellow sick! Let me see: well, four times eight, Guess I'll have to take a look; I'm so sick of this old slate. Wish the scamp that made this book Had to sleep on stacks of rules, Covered up with multiplication! Don't see who invented schools— Meanest things in all creation!
KEPT IN FOR STUDY.
It must be done before I go! To-morrow's lesson's harder still.— What's that! the boys are balling snow. Oh, dear! I wonder if I ever will, Think out this sum, in time for tea!
press on! surmount the rocky steeps; Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch; He fails alone who feebly creeps; He wins who dares the hero's march.
Be thou a hero! let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way, And through the ebon walls of night, Hew down a passage unto day.
[FAIRIES—OR FIRE-FLIES.]
MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.
Let's see. We believe in wings, We believe in the grass and dew, We believe in the moon—and other things, That may be true.
But are there any? Talk low. (Look! What is that eery spark?) If there are any—why, there they go, Out in the dark.
Nay, speak no ill, but lenient be To others' failings as your own; If you're the first a fault to see, Be not the first to make it known; For life is but a passing day, No lip may tell how brief its span; Let's speak of all the best we can.
[THE AMBITIOUS TWIG.]
AN ALLEGORY.
LUCIE COBBE.
Many years ago, two little branches grew in a hedgerow; they were brothers, but their tastes were different. The younger one was lazy, and liked to stay in the shade; but the elder one kept pushing steadily upwards, and making all the haste to grow that he could.
He had seven leaves each side, but his brother had only three.
"Why can't you stay where you are?" said the younger one; "you are well in the middle of the hedge."
"I want to get higher," sighed the elder twig; "there is plenty to be seen outside."
And he kept growing taller and taller.
"You are going beyond us," cried his sister twigs, "bend down a little, brother."
"If I bent my back I should stop growing," said the twig; and he listened to catch their voices.
"Conceited fellow! he is trying to grow the tallest!" said some of the twigs; and a murmuring swept through the hedge.
One day more of pushing and striving, and he was nearly at the top of the hedge. He could no longer see his brother, but he called to him down through the branches.
"Brother, where are you?" he cried, "and what do you see down there?"
"I am wrapped up in softness," said the fair younger brother; "the green boughs are round me, the wind does not touch me—all round me is nothing but green. Just down below me grows a round, white daisy—oh, such a beautiful daisy! All the day long I am looking at her."
The first brother felt a little lonely when he heard all this, but the sun still drew him upward. The next day he was quite at the top of the hedge, and a head and shoulders taller than any of his brothers. The voice of his younger brother came up to him, but it sounded very faint and far away.
"Are you happy, brother, and what can you see up there?"
"I see the sky," said the elder twig; "there is blue all round me instead of green. I see trees that are taller than our hedge a great deal, and hills that are higher than all. I see white clouds like pillows, and birds that are lost in the clouds. Ah, I have longed for this! I feel a great joy and rapture to the end of my smallest leaf!"
"We don't know what you mean," said the younger one, "and there can't be anything higher than this hedge. And why do you speak so softly? We cannot hear half that you say."
"Insolent fellow! he is taller than any of us!" cried some of the twigs; but by this time he was too far off to hear their voices at all.
"I shall have a prize," said the twig to himself, "because I have grown so tall. What will it be? I will ask the swallow. Swallow, shall I have a gold crown?"
"No, not a crown," said the swallow, but something as good, I dare say. Far away down in the country I know of a twig like you. He grew far away from his fellows—so tall, and so strong, and so fair. He saw the world and all that was passing. He stretched right over the stile, and shaded those who sat there. He was painted by an artist, because he was so lovely. And last of all a fair wild rose came and rested on his bosom."
"I shall get my reward," said the little twig; "my white rose will come at last."
Just then there came walking around the garden, the gardener with his great long shears.
"The hedge is growing uneven," he said; "here's a twig much longer than the rest."
Clip, clip, clip, went the great big shears, and the tallest twig lay broken in the dust!
"They are all of one size now, I am glad to see," said the gardener, and he went away contented to his work.
That very law which moulds the tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves this world a sphere, And guides the planets in their course! SAMUEL ROGERS: "TO A TEAR."
not only save something, but would also retain the man in his service. To this Fritz never said a word, but stayed another year with him, working as hard as he had the first; and when at the close of the second twelve-month he still received no wages, he submitted to that too, and continued to serve on.
At the end of the third year his master bethought himself, and put his hand into his pocket as if to give him something, but took out nothing. Then Fritz said, "Master, I have worked hard for you these three years; pray give me now what is right for my trouble; I want to go out into the wide world, and look about me," The miser answered, "Yes, my good man, you have served me honestly and faithfully, and for this I will now reward you generously."
He then put his hand into his pocket, and took out three farthings, which he gave him, saying, "Here is a farthing for each year; this is a great and generous reward, such as you would not have got from any other master." The simple-hearted fellow, who knew very little about money, put the sum into his pocket, thinking to himself, "Now that my pocket is full of money, why should I plague myself with hard work any longer?"
So he set out, and roamed over hill and dale, singing and dancing with joy. One day, when passing by a bush, a dwarf popped out of it, and accosted him, saying, "Whither away my merry fellow? I see your load of cares is not heavy to bear."
"Why should I be melancholy?" answered Fritz; "I have plenty of money; I have my three years' earnings safe in my pocket."
"How much may your treasure be?" said the dwarf. "How much? Three whole farthings," replied Fritz. "I wish you would give them to me," said the other; "I am very poor and needy, and can earn nothing; but you are young, and can easily work for your bread."
Then Fritz, who was very kind-hearted, took pity on the dwarf, and gave him his three farthings, saying, "Take them, I shall not be the worse off for the want of them," The dwarf then said, "As you have such a kind heart, I will grant you three wishes, one for each farthing; so choose whatever you like."
"My first wish," said Fritz, "is to have a fowling-piece that will bring down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set everyone dancing that hears me play on it; and thirdly, I should like to be able to make everyone grant me whatever I ask."
"All your wishes shall be fulfilled," said the dwarf. He thrust his hand into the bush, and only think! there lay the fiddle and the fowling-piece ready, as if they had been put there on purpose. So he gave them to Fritz, adding, "And whatever you ask for, nobody in the world shall ever refuse you."
"What else can my heart wish for?" said Fritz to himself; "I now have everything that I can desire;" and so he journeyed merrily on his way. He had not gone far before he met an old Turk, bearded like a goat, who was standing near a tree, listening to the sprightly song of a bird perched on its topmost branch.
"Oh, what a wonderful bird!" exclaimed the Turk; "how can such a little creature have such a powerful voice? Oh, if he were only mine! If one could but put salt on his tail and catch him!"
"If that's all," said Fritz, "I will soon bring him down."
So he took up his fowling-piece, and fired, when down came the bird into the thorn bushes that grew at the foot of the tree. "I will pick it up and keep it for myself, as you have hit it," said the Turk; and, laying himself down upon the ground, he began to work his way into the bush. But as soon as he had got into the middle of it, a fit of wanton playfulness seizing Fritz, he took up his fiddle, and gave him a tune, and the Turk began to dance and spring about; and the more lively the fiddler scraped, the more lively grew the dance.
The thorns soon began to tear the Turk's shabby clothes, comb his goat's beard, and scratch and wound him all over. "Oh, dear!" cried he, "mercy, mercy, master! pray stop your fiddling! I do not want to dance." But Fritz paid no heed, and only struck up another tune, thereby making the Turk cut and caper higher than ever, so that pieces torn out of his clothes, hung about the thorn.
"Oh, mercy!" cried the Turk, "do stop your fiddling, master! I will give you whatever you ask, a bagfull of gold, if you only will!"
"Ah! if you are as generous as that," said the man, "I will put up my fiddle; but I must say you are a capital dancer." He then took the offered purse, put up his fiddle, and traveled onward.
The Turk stood still looking after his tormentor for some time, and when he was almost out of sight, began to cry as loud as he could, "You miserable fiddler! you ale-house scraper! take care, if I get hold of you I will make you take to your heels; you beggarly knave! you ragamuffin!" And he went on loading him with all manner of abuse.
After having thus given vent to his feelings, he went to the judge, saying, "See, your honor, how I have been robbed and ill-used by a rascal on the highway! the very stones might pity me. Do but look at the deplorable state I am in. My clothes are torn, my body is wounded and scratched; the little money I had is gone, purse and all! nothing but ducats, one piece finer than the other. For Heaven's sake, do have the fellow caught and imprisoned!"
The judge then asked him whether it was a soldier who had put him in that plight with his sword. "By no means," said the Turk; "he had no sword, but he had a fowling-piece hanging on his back, and a fiddle round his neck. The fellow may easily be recognized."
So the judge sent out his bailiffs in search of the man. They met the honest fellow walking slowly and carelessly on, and, on searching him, found the money-bag in question.
When he was taken before the judge he said, "I have not touched the Turk, nor have I taken away his money; he offered it me of his own free will, if I would but leave off playing the fiddle, as he could not bear my music."
"Not a word of truth in it!" cried the Turk, "those are bare-faced lies." And the judge not believing it either, said, "That is a very poor excuse;" and sentenced the poor man to the gallows for highway robbery.
As he was being taken away, the Turk cried after him, "You lubber! you shall now get your well-deserved punishment!" The poor man ascended the ladder very composedly, accompanied by the executioner; but when he had got up to the top of it, he turned round and addressed the judge, saying, "May it please your honor to grant me but one last request before I die!"
"Anything but your life," replied the other.
"I do not ask my life," said Fritz; "only let me play one tune upon my fiddle for the last time."
The Turk cried out, "Oh, no, no! for pity's sake don't let him! don't let him!" But the judge said, "Why should I not grant him this last request? He shall do so." The fact was, he could not say no, because the dwarf's third gift enabled Fritz to make everyone grant whatever he asked. Then the Turk said, "Bind me fast, bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity's sake!" But the condemned man seized his fiddle and struck up a merry tune; and at the first note, judge, clerks, and jailor were set agoing; at the second note, all began capering and the hangman let his prisoner go, and prepared to dance; at the third note all were dancing and springing together, and the judge and the Turk took the lead and sprang the highest.
In a little while all the market people who were looking on, old and young, stout and lean, were dancing together; even the very dogs that had come along with them were up on their hind legs, and were leaping along with the rest. And the longer the fiddler played, the higher the dancers capered, so that they knocked their heads together and began to cry out piteously.
At last the judge exclaimed, quite out of breath, "I grant you your life; do but give over playing." Then Fritz suffered himself to be persuaded, stopped playing, and, hanging his fiddle round his neck, came down the ladder. Then, stepping up to the Turk, who was lying breathless on the ground, he said, "You scoundrel! now confess where you got that money from, or I will take my fiddle down and make you dance to another tune." "I stole it, I stole it!" cried he; "but it is you who have won it fairly." The judge then had the Turk taken to the gallows and hung as a thief.
The sober second thought is always essential, and seldom wrong.
MARTIN VAN BUREN.
[LITTLE LOTTIE'S GRIEVANCE.]
PAUL H. HAYNE.
Mamma's in Heaven! and so, you see, My sister Bet's mamma to me.
Oh! yes, I love her!...that's to say, I love her well the whole bright day; For Sis is kind as kind can be, Until, indeed, we've finished tea— Then (why did God make ugly night?) She never, never treats me right. But always says, "Now Sleepy-Head, 'Tis getting late! come up to bed!"
Just when the others, Fred and Fay, Dolly and Dick, are keen for play,— Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks, Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box— I must (it's that bad gas, I think, That makes me, somehow, seem to wink!) Must leave them all, to seek the gloom Of sister Bet's close-curtained room, Put on that long, stiff gown I hate, And go to bed—oh, dear! at eight!
"GHOSTS."
Now, is it fair that I who stand Taller than Dolly by a hand, (I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told, That Cousin Doll is ten years old!) And just because I'm only seven, Should be so teazed, yes, almost driven, Soon as I've supped my milk and bread, To that old drowsy, frowsy bed?
I've lain between the dusky posts, And shivered when I thought of ghosts; Or else have grown so mad, you know, To hear those laughing romps below, While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!) With one dim lamp for company. I've longed for courage, just to dare Dress softly—then trip down the stair, And in the parlor pop my head With "No, I will not stay a-bed!"
I'll do it yet, all quick and bold, No matter how our Bet may scold, For oh! I'm sure it can't be right To keep me here each dismal night, Half scared by shadows grimly tall That dance along the cheerless wall Or by the wind, with fingers chill, Shaking the worn-out window sill— One might as well be sick, or dead, As sent, by eight o'clock, to bed!
[THERE IS NO DEATH.]
LORD LYTTON.
There is no death! The stars go down To rise upon some fairer shore; And bright in Heaven's jeweled crown They shine forevermore.
There is no death! The dust we tread Shall change beneath the summer showers To golden grain or mellowed fruit, Or rainbow-tinted flowers.
The granite rocks disorganize, And feed the hungry moss they bear; The forest leaves drink daily life, From out the viewless air.
There is no death! The leaves may fall, And flowers may fade and pass away; They only wait through wintry hours, The coming of the May.
There is no death! An angel form Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; He bears our best loved things away; And then we call them "dead."
He leaves our hearts all desolate, He plucks our fairest, sweetest, flowers; Transplanted into bliss, they now Adorn immortal bowers.
The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones, Made glad these scenes of sin and strife, Sing now an everlasting song, Around the tree of life.
Where'er he sees a smile too bright, Or heart too pure for taint and vice, He bears it to that world of light, To dwell in Paradise.
Born unto that undying life, They leave us but to come again; With joy we welcome them the same— Except their sin and pain.
And ever near us, though unseen, The dear immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe Is life—there are no dead.
[THE SIEGE OF TROY.]
OR THE STORY OF THE WOODEN HORSE.
Troy was one of the most noted cities of ancient times, and was situated in the northwestern part of Asia Minor.
Much of its history is obscured by uncertainty and mystery, yet Homer in his Iliad has told the most interesting part of the history of this great city.
At the time of which Homer wrote, Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, his son, was, like many young men, always getting his father into trouble; the one of which we now write resulting in the complete destruction of Troy.
Paris went to visit the Grecian princes and kings, all of whom treated him in the most hospitable manner.
Helen, the most beautiful woman of the age, was the wife of Men-a-la-us, king of Sparta, and one day when her husband was away, she eloped with the handsome Paris, who took her to Troy.
When Men-a-la-us discovered what Paris had done, he called upon all the Greek princes and heroes to make war upon Troy and assist him in recovering the faithless Helen.
The command of the expedition was given to Ag-a-mem-non, brother of Men-a-la-us. The whole army set sail in twelve hundred ships and soon arrived at the port of Troy. The war lasted for ten years, and it was not till the last year that the Greeks succeeded in taking the city, and then only by strategy.
Paris was killed long before the war was over, but the Trojans would not then give up Helen, for two of his brothers had fallen in love with her, and so the war went on.
There was in Troy an image called the Pal-la-di-um, and the gods, some of whom helped the Greeks and some the Trojans, had decreed that so long as this image remained within the walls, Troy should never be taken.
When the Greeks found this out, they set to work to obtain the image. One night, Ulysses, the great hero, scaled the wall and stole the wonderful Pal-la-di-um. Still the city held out and it seemed impossible to take it.
At last the Greeks pretended to abandon the siege; their ships sailed away and it really seemed as though the long and bloody war was at an end.
The Trojans were filled with joy, and rushed out of the city and down to the shore. Judge of their surprise at finding an immense wooden horse, built of strong timbers and so large that it would require several thousand men to move it. Of course they did not understand it, but an old man named Sinon, who had been left on purpose by the Greeks, falsely said that the wooden horse was a sacred image and that if it were taken into Troy it would be the same to them as the image Ulysses stole at night.
Though warned of this man Sinon, they set to work and by means of rollers and pulleys the great horse was taken inside the walls.
Then followed one of the most dreadful massacres. The horse was full of Greeks armed with torches and lances. As soon as night fell, they opened a secret door in the horse and were quickly upon the sleeping Trojans. The Greek ships, which really were hiding along the coast, returned, and the soldiers poured in at the gates, which had been opened by their allies from the great horse. With torch and lance the city was soon in flames, and its defenders struggling against fearful odds.
The morning found Troy in ashes, her wealth in the hands of the Greeks, and her inhabitants dead or in slavery.
Priam was slain at his own family altar, and the beautiful but perfidious Helen, the cause of so much bloodshed and misery, the cause of the overthrow of one of the greatest cities of ancient times, was taken captive by her former people.
Think for thyself—one good idea, But known to be thine own, Is better than a thousand gleaned From fields by others sown.
WILSON.
[GEORGE NIDIVER.]
BRET HARTE.
Men have done brave deeds, And bards have sung them well: I, of good George Nidiver, Now the tale will tell.
In California mountains, A hunter bold was he. Keen his eye and sure his aim As any you should see.
A little Indian boy Followed him everywhere, Eager to share the hunter's joy, The hunter's meal to share.
And when the bird or deer, Fell by the hunter's skill, The boy was always near To help with right good will,
One day, as through the cleft, Between two mountains steep, Shut in both right and left, Their weary way they keep;
They see two grizzly bears, With hunger fierce and fell, Rush at them unawares, Right down the narrow dell.
The boy turned round, with screams, And ran with terror wild; One of the pair of savage beasts Pursued the shrieking child.
The hunter raised his gun; He knew one charge was all; And through the boy's pursuing foe He sent his only ball.
The other on George Nidiver, Came on with dreadful pace; The hunter stood unarmed And met him face to face.
I say unarmed he stood: Against those frightful paws The rifle-butt or club of wood Could stand no more than straws.
George Nidiver stood still, And looked him in the face; The wild beast stopped amazed, Then came on with slackening pace.
Still firm the hunter stood Although his heart beat high; Again the creature stopped, And gazed with wondering eye.
The hunter met his gaze, Nor yet an inch gave way: The bear turned slowly round, And slowly moved away.
What thoughts were in his mind, It would be hard to spell; What thoughts were in George Nidiver's, I rather guess than tell.
But sure that rifle's aim, Swift choice of generous part, Showed in its passing gleam The depth of a brave heart.
[MARCH AND THE BOYS.]
MARY D. BRINE.
March, you're a jolly old fellow, I know; They may call you a blustering old chap, but you blow For us boys and our kites and we don't care a fig, For the hats and the dust that go dancing a jig.
Puff out, you old fellow, blow hard or blow high, At our kites you may bluster, and "blow them sky-high!" Nobody will find any fault, but the girls— And they make a fuss 'cause you "blow out their curls!"
You're just our own season—we've waited for you; And our kites are all ready, so strong and so new, You jolly old fellow, if you were a boy, You'd know why the March-month gives us such joy.
It is fun to stand high on the top of a hill, And pay out your string—let it run with a will; It is fun to "hold hard" while your kite pulls away, And the wind blows a gale! ah! kite-flying is gay.
The ladies complain that you "blow off their veils," But never you mind, give no heed to their tales, Devote yourself wholly to boys and their kites, And trust to the boys to fight hard for your rights.
For, March, you're the jolliest old fellow we know, And we like you the better, the harder you blow! When you marched in upon us, we gave you a shout, And we'll miss you at last, when 'tis time to march out.
"BIVOUAC OF CRUSADERS."
[THE CRUSADES.]
OR THE WARS OF THE CROSS.
Adapted from Joseph F. Michaud's History of the Crusades.
It was for a long time the custom among the devout Christians of France, Germany, Italy and England, to make pilgrimages to Jerusalem and pray at the many spots made sacred by the events in the life of Jesus, especially at the Holy Sepulchre.
The people who lived there did not object to these pilgrimages, especially as those who came, spent money and increased their trade.
But about the year A. D. 1020 the Saracen king Hakem, over-ran all of Palestine, destroyed the Christian churches and persecuted the Christians. Pilgrims returning to Europe, spread the news abroad and the whole Christian world became alarmed. But matters grew better for awhile and Christians were not molested, until in 1076 the Turks came into possession of Jerusalem, when they were again subject to all kinds of dangers, and made to pay for the privilege of visiting the Holy Land.
In 1094, Peter the Hermit, a monk, returned from a pilgrimage and began to preach a Holy War—a Crusade, throughout Europe. He went from town to town, calling upon everyone, with fiery eloquence, to join the army.
The effect was magical. People of all classes took the vow to protect the Holy Sepulchre of Jesus;—Kings, knights, nobles, lords, laborers, and even women and children.
Each one bound to his shoulders a red cross, as a pledge. By-and-bye they were all ready to march. Over 900,000 were in the vast army. But in their religious zeal, they forgot that they must eat on the way. No food was provided; still they marched on, seeming to expect to be fed in some miraculous manner.
Their route lay through a region very well supplied with provisions, and as they went along, they managed to beg and take by force, enough to supply their necessities.
At last, after many battles and defeats, they reached Jerusalem. Of the 900,000 who started from Europe only 40,000 remained;—the rest had fallen in battle, or died of disease and starvation.
The city was finally taken, "and," says one historian, "Seventy thousand Turks were put to the sword. The Christian knights rode in blood to their horses' knees."
Having recovered the Holy Sepulchre, and established a Christian kingdom at Jerusalem, the greater number went back to Europe and the First Crusade was ended.
The Christian kingdom set up did not last long. There were one thousand Turks to every Christian in Palestine.
A SECOND CRUSADE was organized in 1146, but it resulted in defeat, and so might it be said of six other Crusades, the last of which ended in the complete overthrow of Christians in 1291.
Hundreds of thousands of noble lives had been sacrificed, in a blind fury, to accomplish what might have been done by one army well supplied and equipped.
Without believing that these holy wars did either all the good or all the harm that is attributed to them, it must be admitted that they were a source of bitter sorrow to the generations that saw them or took part in them; but like the ills and tempests of human life, which render man better, and often assist the progress of his reason, they have forwarded the progress of nations.
[PRIDE OF NATIVE LAND.]
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, "This is my own, my native land!" If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch concenter'd all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
WALTER SCOTT:
"LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."
[THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE.]
A STRANGE PIECE OF HISTORY.
So great was the religious zeal during this period that even the children were also enlisted in the cause.
At the close of the Fifth Crusade, these little ones were taught that the warriors had failed because of their sins and that it now remained for the weak and innocent to make an effort.
In 1212 not less than 50000 children in France and Germany, braving the anger of parents, gathered together in cities and countries, singing these words; "Lord Jesus, restore to us your holy cross."
They were led by two boys, Stephen of Colyes, and Nicholas of Hungary, though it is probable that older leaders were also present.
When they were asked where they were going, or what they intended to do, they replied, "We are going to Jerusalem to deliver the Sepulchre of our Saviour."
A great portion of them tried to cross the Alps near Mt. Cenis and nearly all perished. Others took another route, and crossing, at an easier pass, arrived in Italy, while most who came from France went to Marseilles.
They had been made to believe that the year 1213 would be very dry and that the heat of the sun would be so great as to dry up the waters of the sea; thus an easy road for pilgrims would be opened across the bed of the Mediterranean sea to Jerusalem.
Finding no dry sea, seven vessels were provided and those who embarked were either ship-wrecked or taken prisoners by the Saracens. Many were lost in the forests then so abundant and large, others perished with heat, hunger, thirst, and fatigue,—and of the fifty thousand who started, few, if any, ever reached home or trod the sands of Palestine.
The narrative of the children's crusade seems too strange to be true, but the facts are stated by the most truthful authors and are worthy of being believed.
"Dear Father," so ran the letter, "To-morrow when twilight creeps Along the hill to the old church-yard, O'er the grave where mother sleeps, When the dusky shadows gather, They'll lay your boy in his grave, For nearly betraying the country He would give his life to save. And, dear Father, I tell you truly, With almost my latest breath, That your boy is not a traitor, Though he dies a traitor's death.
"You remember Bennie Wilson? He's suffered a deal of pain, He was only that day ordered Back into the ranks again; I carried all of his luggage With mine, on the march that day; And I gave my arm to lean on, Else he had dropped by the way. 'Twas Bennie's turn to be sentry; But I took his place, and I— Father, I dropped asleep, and now I must die as traitors die!
The Colonel is kind and thoughtful, He has done the best that he can, And they will not bind or blind me— I shall meet death like a man. Kiss little Blossom; but dear Father, Need you tell her how I fall?" A sob from the shadowed corner— Yes, Blossom had heard it all, And as she kissed the precious letter, She said with faltering breath: "Our Fred was never a traitor, Though he dies a traitors death!"
And a little sun-browned maiden, In a shabby, time-worn dress, Took her seat a half-hour later In the crowded night express. The conductor heard her story As he held her dimpled hand, And sighed for the sad hearts breaking All over the troubled land. He tenderly wiped the tear-drops From the blue eyes brimming o'er, And guarded her footsteps safely Till she reached the White House door.
The President sat at his writing; But the eyes were kind and mild, That turned with a look of wonder On the sky-faced child, And he read Fred's farewell letter With a look of sad regret. "'Tis a brave young life," he murmured, "And his country needs him yet, From an honored place in battle He shall bid the world good-bye, If that brave young life is needed, He shall die as heroes die!"
with her mother, or driving her father's sheep afield, and tending them, a little shepherdess in fact.
In 1428, the English army had laid siege to Orleans, a city of France, and in spite of all their efforts, the French troops found themselves unable to hold the city.
Hearing of the great danger of the army of her country, Joan, though but 16 years of age, demanded to be taken before the French king, saying that the King of Heaven had sent her to help him.
The king was not sure that Joan was truthful, but after talking with her and finding her sincere, he at last decided to send her to join his army. The king gave her a fine black charger, a sword, a complete suit of armor, and a large white banner covered with lilies. In order that she might better fight, she was allowed to supply herself with men's clothing.
When she and her attendants reached the army, great was the surprise of the soldiers; some were ready to mock at the idea of a young maid coming to be the leader of an army, but like good soldiers, they were loyal to their king.
Placing herself at the head of the army, she marched out to meet the English, and after a bloody struggle compelled them to raise the siege and beat a hasty retreat.
Joan, in leading a charge against the enemy, the first day, was struck by an arrow, which passed completely through her shoulder, but she seized the arrow and drew it from the wound with her own hand and had the surgeon dress the wound. Early the next day she was well enough to lead forth the troops and complete the victory begun the day before.
During this year she was able to defeat the English in several other battles. After these victories, the French generals and leaders became jealous of her success, and persuaded the king to give up efforts till the next spring.
This delay was fatal. Profiting by it, the English increased their army and early in May, when Joan led forth her troops, it was to be defeated and made a prisoner.
The English tried her as a witch, or heretic, and she was finally sentenced and burned at the stake on May 30, 1431, three years after she first appeared among the troops.
Years after, as if to undo the terrible crime of burning a sweet, virtuous and heroic girl, another trial was had, the evidence against Joan was all reviewed, and be it said to the everlasting honor of her judges, they decided that she had not been guilty and that her execution was a grave and terrible mistake.
Whether she really was assisted by God or not, no one knows, but history does not record the name of a woman whose efforts seemed more inspired, and whose life was so entirely pure and patriotic.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
TENNYSON: "LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE."
[A BIRD'S STORY.]
M. E. B.
It's strange how little boys' mothers, Can find it all out as they do, If a fellow does anything naughty, Or says anything that's not true! They'll look at you just a moment, Till your heart in your bosom swells, And then they know all about it— For a little bird tells!
Now, where the little bird comes from, Or where the little bird goes, If he's covered with beautiful plumage, Or black as the king of the crows. If his voice is as hoarse as a raven, Or clear as the ringing of bells, I know not—but this I am sure of— A little bird tells!
The moment you think a thing wicked, The moment you do a thing bad, Are angry, or sullen, or hateful, Get ugly, or stupid, or mad, Or tease a dear brother or sister— That instant your sentence he knells, And the whole to mamma in a minute That little bird tells!
You may be in the depths of a closet, Where nobody sees but a mouse, You may be all alone in the cellar, You may be on the top of the house, You may be in the dark and the silence, Or out in the woods and the dells— No matter! wherever it happens The little bird tells!
And the only contrivance to stop him, Is just to be sure what you say— Sure of your facts and your fancies, Sure of your work and your play; Be honest, be brave and be kindly, Be gentle and loving as well, And then—you can laugh at the stories The little bird tells!
[THE WOLF AND THE SEVEN KIDS.]
There was once an old goat, who had seven kids, whom she loved as dearly as any mother could. One day she wished to go into the wood, to fetch some provision; so she called them all together, and said, "My dear children, I am going into the wood; but while I am gone, pray take care of the wolf; if he comes in here he will devour you, skin and all. He often disguises himself; but you will always be able to know him by his gruff voice and black feet." The little kids replied, "Mother, dear, you may go without any fear, for we will take all possible care of ourselves." So the old goat bleated, to express her satisfaction, and went away without mistrust.
Before long, a knock was heard at the door, and a voice said, "Open the door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought something for each of you." But the little kids discovered very easily by the gruff voice who it was, and cried out, "No, no; we shall not open the door, you are not our mother; she has a gentle, loving voice, but yours is harsh; for you are the wolf."
When he heard this, he went away and got a great lump of chalk, which he swallowed to make his voice more delicate; then returning to the cottage, he knocked at the door, saying, "Open the door, dear children; your affectionate mother is here, and has brought something for each of you." But, as he spoke the wolf laid his black foot on the window-sill; so the children saw it and cried, "No, no, we shall not open the door; our mother has not black feet like you; you are the wolf!"
Then the wolf ran to the baker, and said, "I have hurt my foot, spread some dough over it." The baker did as he requested; and the wolf hastened to the miller, whom he asked to strew some of his white flour over his foot. The miller thought to himself that the wolf wished to deceive somebody, so he refused to do it. But the wolf said, fiercely, "Do it instantly, or I will eat you up." The man, therefore, being dreadfully afraid, made his paw white as he desired. The rogue now went for the third time to the cottage, knocked at the door, and cried, "Children, your affectionate mother has returned home, and brought each of you something out of the wood." The kids exclaimed, "Show us first your foot, that we may know truly if you are our dear mother." The wolf had his paw on the window; and when they saw that it was white, they believed all that he said, and opened the door. But it was their enemy, the wolf, who, to their great terror, came in. They tried in vain to hide themselves: one went under the table, another into bed, the third into the oven, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into the closet, the sixth under the washing-tub, and the seventh into the clock-case. But the wolf found them all but one, and made no bones of them, for he swallowed them all except the youngest, who was hidden in the clock-case, and whom he did not find. When he had satisfied his appetite, he rolled out of the cottage, and feeling rather drowsy, laid himself down under a tree in a green meadow, and fell fast asleep.
Not long afterwards, the goat came home out of the wood. Ah! a sight met her view! The house-door stood wide open, tables, stools, and chairs were overturned, the washing-tub in pieces, counterpanes and pillows strewed about in terrible confusion. She sought her children, but they were nowhere to be found; she called them by name, but no reply came.
At length, as she was passing near the place where the youngest was concealed, she heard a weak voice say, "Dear mother, I'm in the clock-case." She instantly opened it, and there was the kid, who related the misfortune that had befallen them through the wolf, and the dreadful fate of her brothers and sisters. The anger and sorrow of the old goat can scarcely be described; but at length she became calmer, and taking her kid with her, resolved to seek her enemy. When she arrived at the meadow, she discovered him under the tree, snoring so loudly that the twigs trembled. She examined him on all sides, and saw that something was moving and jumping inside him. "Can it be possible," said she, "that my poor children whom the monster has swallowed for his supper, are still alive?" Full of hope, she sent her kid quickly home for scissors, needle and thread, and upon her return ripped the wolf up; scarcely had she commenced, than a kid's head appeared, and when she had finished, all six sprang joyfully out, without having suffered the least harm, for the wolf had swallowed them whole. The mother caressed them and jumped for joy, then said, "Now go and fetch me some large paving stones, that I may fill up the wicked creature while he is yet asleep." The kids obeyed and dragged plenty of large stones to the place, which the mother put inside the wolf; she then sewed him up, so quickly, that he neither stirred nor found out what she had done.
At length the wolf awoke, raised himself on his legs, and as the stones made him feel thirsty, he went towards the spring to quench it. But when he began to move, the stones moved likewise, and rattled loudly. Then he said, "What can it be that rattles about inside me, and feels so heavy? I thought I had eaten kids, but I feel as if they were paving-stones." He then came to the spring, and stooped down to drink, but the weight of the stones carried him in, for the bank was sloping, and he sank to the bottom and perished miserably. When the kids saw this, they danced and sprang about in great joy, crying out, "The wolf is drowned! The wolf is dead! We have nothing more to fear—the wolf is dead!"
There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.—
Bryant.
[BIRDIE AND BABY.]
ALFRED TENNYSON.
What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother let me fly away. Birdie rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.
What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby, too, shall fly away.
[THE INFLUENCE OF BOOKS.]
From the hour of the invention of printing, books, and not kings, were to rule in the world. Weapons forged in the mind, keen-edged, and brighter than a sunbeam, were to supplant the sword and the battle-axe. Books! light-houses built on the sea of time! Books! by whose sorcery the whole pageantry of the world's history moves in solemn procession before our eyes. From their pages great souls look down in all their grandeur, undimmed by the faults and follies of earthly existence, consecrated by time.
EDWIN P. WHIPPLE.
[ROCK ME TO SLEEP.]
ELIZABETH AKERS.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echo-less shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears,— Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,— Take them and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay,— Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap— Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O Mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between; Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep, Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Over my heart in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shown; No other worship abides and endures,— Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep; Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened to your lullaby song; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep,— Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep.
[HEROISM.]
So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When duty whispers low, "Thou must," The youth replies, "I can."
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Politeness is to do and say The kindest thing in the kindest way.
[MEASURING THE BABY.]
EMMA ALICE BROWN.
We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage wall— A lily grew on the threshold, And the boy was just as tall; A royal tiger-lily, With spots of purple and gold, And a heart like a jeweled chalice, The fragrant dew to hold.
Without, the bluebirds whistled High up in the old roof-trees, And to and fro at the window The red rose rocked her bees; And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment still, Snatching at shine and shadow That danced on the lattice-sill.
His eyes were wide as bluebells— His mouth like a flower unblown— Two little bare feet like funny white mice, Peeped out from his snowy gown; And we thought, with a thrill of rapture That yet had a touch of pain, When June rolls around with her roses, We'll measure the boy again.
Ah me! in a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, We measured the boy to-day; And the little bare feet, that were dimpled And sweet as a budding rose, Lay side by side together, In a hush of a long repose!
Up from the dainty pillow, White as the risen dawn, The fair little face lay smiling, With the light of Heaven thereon; And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves Dropped from a rose, lay still, Never to snatch at the sunshine That crept to the shrouded sill.
We measured the sleeping baby With ribbons white as snow, For the shining rosewood casket That waited him below; And out of the darkened chamber We went with a childless moan— To the height of the sinless angels Our little one had grown.
Every man stamps his value on himself. The price we challenge for ourselves is given us. Man is made great or little by his own will.
SCHILLER
It was a noble Roman, In Rome's imperial day, Who heard a coward croaker, Before the Castle say: "They're safe in such a fortress; There is no way to shake it!" "On—on," exclaimed the hero, "I'll find a way, or make it!"
JOHN G. SAXE.
[THE ENGINEER'S STORY.]
No, children, my trips are over, The engineer needs rest; My hand is shaky, I'm feeling A tugging pain i' my breast; But here, as the twilight gathers, I'll tell you a tale of the road, That will ring in my head forever, Until it rests beneath the sod.
We were lumbering along in the twilight, The night was dropping her shade, And the "Gladiator" labored— Climbing the top of the grade; The train was heavily laden, So I let my engine rest, Climbing the grading slowly, Till we reached the upland's crest.
I held my watch to the lamplight— Ten minutes behind the time! Lost in the slackened motion Of the up grade's heavy climb; But I knew the miles of the prairie That stretched a level track, So I touched the gauge of the boiler, And pulled the lever back.
Over the rails a-gleaming, Thirty an hour, or so, The engine leaped like a demon, Breathing a fiery glow; But to me—ahold of the lever— It seemed a child alway, Trustful and always ready My lightest touch to obey.
I was proud, you know, of my engine, Holding it steady that night, And my eye on the track before us, Ablaze with the Drummond light. We neared a well-known cabin, Where a child of three or four, As the up-train passed, oft called me, A-playing around the door.
My hand was firm on the throttle As we swept around the curve, When something afar in the shadow, Struck fire through every nerve. I sounded the brakes, and crashing The reverse lever down in dismay, Groaning to Heaven,—eighty paces Ahead was a child at its play!
One instant—one awful and only, The world flew around in my brain, And I smote my hand hard on my forehead To keep back the terrible pain; The train I thought flying forever, With mad, irresistible roll, While the cries of the dying, the night-wind Swept into my shuddering soul.
Then I stood on the front of the engine, How I got there I never could tell,— My feet planted down on the cross-bar Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, One hand firmly locked on the coupler, And one held out in the night, While my eye gauged the distance and measured, The speed of our slackening flight.
My mind, thank the Lord! it was steady; I saw the curls of her hair, And the face that turning in wonder, Was lit by the deadly glare. I know little more—but I heard it— The groan of the anguished wheels, And remember thinking—the engine In agony trembles and reels.
One rod! to the day of my dying, I shall think the old engine reared back, And as it recoiled with a shudder I swept my hand over the track; Then darkness fell over my eyelids, But I heard the surge of the train, And the poor old engine creaking, As racked by a deadly pain.
They found us, they said, on the gravel, My fingers enmeshed in her hair, And she on my bosom a climbing, To nestle securely there. We are not much given to crying— We men that run on the road— But that night, they said there were faces, With tears on them, lifted to God.
For years in the eve and the morning, As I neared the cabin again, My hand on the lever pressed downward And slackened the speed of the train. When my engine had blown her a greeting, She always would come to the door; And her look with a fullness of Heaven, Blessed me evermore.
I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble, or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON.
Oh, many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark, the archer little meant! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe, or wound, a heart that's broken.
WALTER SCOTT.
[TWO BRAVE BOYS.]
FROM PRITT'S BORDER LIFE.
During the early pioneer days of Ohio, there lived on the Ohio river, not far from Cincinnati, a family named Johnson.
The two sons, John and Henry, aged respectively thirteen and eleven years, were one day seated on an old log some distance from the house. Presently they saw two men coming toward them, whom they supposed to be white men from the nearest settlement. To the great dismay of the boys, they discovered when too late for escape, that two Indians were beside them.
They were made prisoners and taken about four miles into the deep forests, when, after eating some roasted meat and parched corn, given them by their captors, they arranged for the night, by being placed between the two Indians and each encircled in the arms of the one next him.
Henry, the younger, had grieved much at the idea of being carried off by the Indians. John had in vain tried to comfort him with the hope that they should escape and return to their parents; but he refused to be comforted. The ugly red man, with his tomahawk and scalping-knife, which had often been called in to quiet his cries in infancy, was now actually before him; and every scene of torture and cruelty of which early settlers knew so much, rose up to terrify his mind.
But when the fire was kindled in the forest, that night, the supper prepared and offered to him, all idea of his future fate was forgotten, and Henry soon sank to peaceful sleep, though he was enclosed in the arms of a red savage.
It was different with John. He felt the reality of their situation; he was alive to the fears which he knew would possess his dear mother when night came and her boys did not return. His thoughts of how to restore his brother and himself to their friends drove sleep from his eyes.
Finding all others locked in deep repose, he gently slipped from the arms of his captor and walked to the fire. To test the soundness of their sleep, he rekindled the dying fire and moved freely about it. All remained sound asleep—now was the time to escape. He gently awoke Henry and told him to get up; he obeyed and both stood by the fire.
"I think," said John, "we had better go home now."
"Oh!" replied Henry, "they will follow and catch us."
"Never fear that," replied John, "we'll kill them before we go."
The idea was for some time opposed by Henry, but when he beheld the savages so soundly asleep, and listened to his brother's plan of executing his wish, he finally consented to act the part prescribed him.
The only gun which the Indians had was resting against a tree, at the foot of which lay their tomahawks. John placed it on a log, with the muzzle near to the head of one of the savages, and, leaving Henry with his finger on the trigger, ready to pull on the signal being given, he repaired to his own station. Holding in his hand one of their tomahawks, he stood astride of the other Indian, and, as he raised his arm to deal death to the sleeping savage, Henry fired, and, shooting off the lower part of the Indian's jaw, called to his brother, "Lay on; for I've done for this one," seized up the gun and ran off. The first blow of the tomahawk took effect on the back of the neck and was not fatal. The Indian attempted to spring up, but John repeated his strokes with such force and so quickly that he soon brought him again to the ground, and leaving him dead proceeded on after his brother.
They presently came to a path which they recollected to have traveled the preceding evening, and, keeping along it, arrived at the station awhile before day. The inhabitants were, however, all up, and in much uneasiness for the fate of the boys; and when they came near, and heard a well-known voice exclaim, in accents of deep distress, "Poor little fellows! they are either killed or taken prisoners," John called aloud, "No, mother, we are here again."
When the tale of their captivity and the means by which they escaped, were told, they did not receive full belief, upon which John said, "You had better go and see." "But can you again find the spot?" said one; "Yes," he said, "I hung my cap up at the place where we turned into the path." So, with a number of men, John led the way, and when they came to the fire they found the Indian who had been tomahawked, dead, while they tracked the one who had been shot, by his blood, until they found him, not quite dead yet, but so weak that he would die, so they left him.
I am positive I have a Soul; nor can all the books with which materialists have pestered the world ever convince me to the contrary.
STERNE.
[THE FLIGHT OF YEARS.]
GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
Gone! gone for ever!—like a rushing wave Another year has burst upon the shore Of earthly being—and its last low tones, Wandering in broken accents on the air, Are dying to an echo.
The gay Spring With its young charms, has gone—gone with its leaves— Its atmosphere of roses, its white clouds Slumbering like seraphs in the air—its birds Telling their loves in music—and its streams Leaping and shouting from the up-piled rocks To make earth echo with the joy of waves. And Summer, with its dews and showers, has gone— Its rainbows glowing on the distant cloud
"ITS PEACEFUL LAKES SMILING IN THEIR SWEET SLEEP."
Like Spirits of the Storm—its peaceful lakes Smiling in their sweet sleep, as if their dreams Were of the opening flowers and budding trees And overhanging sky—and its bright mists Resting upon the mountain tops, as crowns Upon the heads of giants.
Autumn too Has gone, with all its deeper glories—gone With its green hills like altars of the world Lifting their rich fruit-offerings to their God— Its cool winds straying 'mid the forest aisles To wake their thousand wind-harps—its serene And holy sunsets hanging o'er the West Like banners from the battlements of Heaven— And its still evenings, when the moonlit sea Was ever throbbing, like the living heart Of the great Universe—Aye—these are now But sounds and visions of the past—their deep, Wild beauty has departed from the Earth, And they are gathered to the embrace of Death, Their solemn herald to Eternity.
Nor have they gone alone. High human hearts Of Passion have gone with them. The fresh dust Is chill on many a breast, that burned erstwhile With fires that seemed immortal.
Joys, that leaped Like angels from the heart, and wandered free In life's young morn to look upon the flowers, The poetry of nature, and to list The woven sounds of breeze, and bird, and stream, Upon the night-air, have been stricken down In silence to the dust.
Yet, why muse Upon the past with sorrow? Though the year Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide Of old Eternity, and borne along Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks Of glory and of beauty—yet, why mourn That such is destiny? Another year Succeedeth to the past—in their bright round The seasons come and go—the same blue arch, That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet— The same pure stars that we have loved to watch, Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour Like lilies on the tomb of Day—and still Man will remain, to dream as he hath dreamed, And mark the earth with passion.
Weep not, that Time Is passing on—it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations.
WHICH WILL GET IT?
