GOLDEN GRAIN
GARNERED FROM THE
WORLD'S GREAT HARVEST-FIELD OF KNOWLEDGE
COMPRISING
Selections from the ablest Modern Writers.
OF
Prose, Poetry, and Legendary Lore
COPYRIGHTED
1884.
J.C. CHILTON & CO.
PRESS OF
RAYNOR & TAYLOR,
75 BATES STREET.
DETROIT.
Henry W. Longfellow.
James Russell Lowell. Alfred Tennyson.
John G. Whittier. William Cullen Bryant.
Ralph Waldo Emerson. Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Hans Christian Andersen. Peter Christian Asbjornsen.
William Shakespeare. Sir Isaac Newton. Rev. Laurence Sterne.
Hon. John D. Long. John G. Saxe. Paul H. Hayne.
Charles Dickens. Sir Walter Scott. Thomas Moore.
Thomas Gray. Lord Lytton. J. C. F. Schiller.
George William Curtis. Martin van Buren.
George Washington. James A. Garfield.
Rev. Charles Kingsley. Barry Cornwall.
Phœbe Cary. Sidney Dayre. Lucie Cobb.
Phila H. Case. Lucy Larcom. Rose Hartwick Thorpe.
Mary D. Brine. Elizabeth Akers. Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt.
George Mcdonald. Emma Alice Brown. Samuel Rogres.
Bret Harte. George L. Catlin. J. T. Choate.
George D. Prentice. Nathaniel P. Willis.
Edwin P. Whipple. Phillip James Bailey.
D. Bethune Duffield. William L. Smith.
Friederich Grimm.
It has been the constant endeavor of the publishers of GOLDEN GRAIN, to produce a book in every respect worthy to be classed among the very best works offered to an intelligent public.
Many of the selections are protected by copyright and for the use of such, special thanks are due to the following publishers, for the courtesies extended.
To Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for selections from Longfellow, Whittier, and Miss Cary; Messrs. D. Lothrop & Co., for use of selections from Mrs. Piatt, Paul Hayne, and Mary D. Brine; and to those authors who have furnished special contributions, we are under many obligations.
The volume is sent forth with the belief that such a work will meet with appreciative readers all over the land.
The best introduction to a book is a glance at its pages, an examination of its illustrations and the names of its authors.
In all the essentials which go to make up a work which shall meet with popular favor and a wide range of readers, the Editor and Publishers confidently believe that GOLDEN GRAIN presents a high standard of excellence.
That all tastes might be suited, the literature of all modern nations has been searched and selections of the highest standard made therefrom.
Golden Grain only has been garnered. The great fields of knowledge have been visited, and none but the choicest and ripest kernels have been chosen.
Young Folks must, and will, have something to read—something to feed the mind as well as the body. It therefore becomes a very important duty of parents to make choice of such books as are pure in tone and elevating in sentiment; and it follows also, as night follows day, that if parents fail or neglect this duty the young folks themselves will find something to read, nor will they be so careful in their selections.
In GOLDEN GRAIN will be found a work in every respect worthy of a place in the Family Circle. Its pages lend inspiration to fight life's battles nobly. Those who go out from a home with noble impulses, pure motives, and true hearts will bear the burden of Earth's cares, duties and disappointments with patience and resignation, having
"A heart to resolve, a head to contrive and a hand to execute."
| Harvest Song | John G. Whittier | [13] |
| Minute Men of Liberty | George William Curtis | [14] |
| Kind Hearts | [16] | |
| The Children's Hour | Henry W. Longfellow | [17] |
| The Brook | Alfred Tennyson | [21] |
| Eulogy on Garfield | James G. Blaine | [23] |
| Gems from James A. Garfield | [24] | |
| At the Fireside | John D. Long | [25] |
| The Frost Spirit | John G. Whittier | [26] |
| The Arrow and the Song | Henry W. Longfellow | [29] |
| The Bridge | Henry W. Longfellow | [31] |
| The Responsive Chord | J. William Jones | [34] |
| Grandma's Angel | Sidney Dayre | [35] |
| Cold, Bitter Cold | Hans Christian Andersen | [37] |
| Nobody's Child | Phila H. Case | [42] |
| Snow-White and Rosy-Red | Friederich Grimm | [45] |
| The Song of the Thrush | Lucy Larcom | [58] |
| The Fox and the Geese | [60] | |
| Count That Day Lost | [61] | |
| The Children in the Moon | [62] | |
| A Night in a Norwegian Forest | P. Chr. Asbjornsen | [65] |
| Two Little Kittens | [88] | |
| Labor of Authorship | [90] | |
| She Was Somebody's Mother | [92] | |
| Dot Lambs What Mary Haf Got | [94] | |
| The Mills of God | Henry W. Longfellow | [95] |
| Bob Cratchit's Christmas | Charles Dickens | [96] |
| Full Many a Gem | Thomas Gray | [103] |
| A Snug Little Island | [104] | |
| Don't Crowd | Charles Dickens | [111] |
| The Boys | Oliver Wendell Holmes | [112] |
| Quarrel Between | ||
| Mountain and Squirrel | Ralph Waldo Emerson | [114] |
| For Fathers Sake | [116] | |
| Backbone | [130] | |
| A Dog Sheep-Stealer | [132] | |
| The Best Answer to Calumny | George Washington | [133] |
| If We Knew | Phœbe Cary | [134] |
| Holiday Song | D. Bethune Duffield | [137] |
| A Queer Duckling | Hans Christian Andersen | [138] |
| Truth | James Russell Lowell | [156] |
| The Clearin' | [157] | |
| Prince Willful's Three Lessons | J. T. Choate | [161] |
| Miss Edith Helps Things Along | F. Bret Harte | [170] |
| The Giant Who Had No Heart | P. Chr. Asbjornsen | [173] |
| Beauty Everywhere | W. L. Smith | [185] |
| Bread on the Waters | George L. Catlin | [186] |
| The Use of Books | [189] | |
| The Spring | [190] | |
| Gem from "Lalla Rookh" | Thomas Moore | [190] |
| How Bayard Shot the Bear | J. T. Choate | [191] |
| How We Live | Phillip James Bailey | [195] |
| New Year's Eve | Alfred Tennyson | [197] |
| East of the Sun and | ||
| West of the Moon | P. Chr. Asbjornsen | [199] |
| Do; Not Dream | Charles Kingsley | [216] |
| The Baby in the Home | George MacDonald | [217] |
| Saturday Afternoon | N. P. Willis | [220] |
| The King of the Night | Barry Cornwall | [222] |
| A 'Rithmetic Lesson | Phillip James Bailey | [225] |
| Press on | [227] | |
| Fairies or Fireflies | Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt | [228] |
| Speak No Ill | [229] | |
| The Ambitious Twig | Lucie Cobbe | [230] |
| Universal Law | Samuel Rogers | [233] |
| The Turk and the Fiddler | Friederich Grimm | [234] |
| Sober Second Thought | Martin Van Buren | [241] |
| Little Lottie's Grievance | Paul H. Hayne | [242] |
| There is no Death | Lord Lytton | [245] |
| The Siege of Troy | J. C. Chilton | [248] |
| Think for Thyself | Wilson | [251] |
| George Nidiver | F. Brete Hart | [252] |
| March and the Boys | Mary D. Brine | [255] |
| The Crusades | J. C. Chilton | [259] |
| Pride of Native Land | Sir Walter Scott | [262] |
| The Children's Crusade | J. C. Chilton | [263] |
| The Soldier's Reprieve | Rose Hartwick Thorpe | [265] |
| The Maid of Orleans | J. C. Chilton | [269] |
| 'Tis Only Noble to be Good | Alfred Tennyson | [272] |
| A Bird's Story | M. E. B. | [274] |
| The Wolf and the | ||
| Seven Kids | Freiderich Grimm | [276] |
| There is a Day of Sunny Rest | William Cullen Bryant | [280] |
| Birdie and Baby | Alfred Tennyson | [281] |
| The Influence of Books | Edwin P. Whipple | [282] |
| Rock Me to Sleep | Elizabeth Akers | [283] |
| Heroism | Ralph Waldo Emerson | [285] |
| Politeness | [285] | |
| Measuring the Baby | Emma Alice Brown | [286] |
| Pearl of Thought | Johann Chr. F. Schiller | [288] |
| The Noble Roman | John G. Saxe | [288] |
| The Engineer's Story | [289] | |
| As He Saw Himself | Sir Isaac Newton | [293] |
| The Random Shaft | Sir Walter Scott | [293] |
| Two Brave Boys | Pritt's "Border Life" | [294] |
| Undoubted Evidence | Rev. Laurence Stern | [298] |
| The Flight of Years | George D. Prentice | [299] |
| Airy Nothings | William Shakespeare | [304] |
"SUMMER."
[HARVEST SONG.]
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
O Painter of the fruits and flowers! We thank Thee for thy wise design Whereby these human hands of ours In Nature's garden work with thine.
And thanks that from our daily need The joy of simple faith is born; That he who smites the summer weed, May trust Thee for the autumn corn.
Give fools their gold, and knaves their power; Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall; Who sows a field, or trains a flower, Or plants a tree, is more than all.
For he who blesses most is blest; And God and man shall own his worth, Who toils to leave as his bequest An added beauty to the earth.
And, soon or late, to all that sow, The time of harvest shall be given; The flowers shall bloom, the fruit shall grow, If not on earth, at last in heaven!
[MINUTE MEN OF LIBERTY.]
Delivered on the one-hundredth anniversary of the battle of
Lexington, Mass., by GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS, April 19, 1875.
After reviewing the leading incidents of the battle of Lexington, in 1775, and the subsequent victories of Washington; and closing with a brilliant picture of the final triumph of the Colonial troops, Mr. Curtis said:
"Not such are our enemies to-day. They do not come proudly stepping to the drum-beat, with bayonets flashing in the morning sun. But wherever party spirit shall strain the ancient guarantees of Freedom, or bigotry and ignorance shall lay their fatal hands upon education, or the ignorance of caste shall strike at equal rights, or corruption shall poison the very springs of national life, there, Minutemen of Liberty are your Lexington-Green and Concord-Bridge, and as you love your country and your kind, and would have your children rise up and call you blessed, spare not the enemy! Over the hills, out of the earth, down from the clouds pour in resistless might.
"NOT SUCH ARE OUR ENEMIES TO-DAY."
Fire! fire from every rock and tree, from every door and window, from hearthstone and chamber; hang upon his flank and rear from noon to sunset, and so through a land blazing with holy indignation, hurl the hordes of ignorance, corruption and injustice back, back into utter defeat and ruin!"
Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the blossoms, Kind deeds are the fruits.
[THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.]
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
Between the dark and the daylight, When night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour.
I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.
"BLUE-EYED BANDITTI."
A whisper and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together, To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall, By three doors left unguarded, They enter my castle wall.
They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me intwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine.
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all?
I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin And moulder in dust away.
[SONG OF THE BROOK.]
ALFRED TENNYSON.
By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.
I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles; I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter, chatter as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance, Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses.
And out again I curve and flow, To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
[EULOGY ON GARFIELD.]
Surely if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning, James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident, in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence, and the grave.
Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death—and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage, he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes, whose lips may tell! Before him desolation and great darkness! And his soul was not shaken.
Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine-press alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the divine decree.
[GEMS FROM JAS. A. GARFIELD.]
If there be one thing upon this broad earth that mankind love and admire, better than another, it is a brave man—it is a man who dares look the Devil in the face and tell him he is a Devil.
Be fit for more than the thing you are now doing.
Things don't turn up in this world till somebody turns them up.
[AT THE FIRESIDE.]
[THE FROST SPIRIT.]
JOHN G. WHITTIER.
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! From the frozen Labrador,— From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, Which the white bear wanders o'er,— Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, And the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night, Into marble statues grow!
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! On the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed As his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, Where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above, And the ancient ice below.
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! And the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, And ring to the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, Or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, And in mournful silence pass.
"THE FISHERMAN'S SAIL IS STIFF WITH ICE."
He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with light of the parlor-fire His evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, When that fire-light dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend, As his sounding wing goes by.
[THE ARROW AND THE SONG.]
[THE BRIDGE.]
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them. Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The sea-weed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me, That filled my eyes with tears.
How often; Oh! how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often; Oh! how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me, Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen upon me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean, Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in Heaven, And its wavering image here.
J. WILLIAM JONES.
One evening in 1863, when the Confederate and Union armies were both near Spottsylvania, two bands chanced, at the same hour, to begin to play on either bank of the river.
The soldiers of both armies gathered to listen, and soon the bands began to answer each other. First the Federal band would play "Hail Columbia" or some other national air, and at its close the "boys in blue" would cheer most lustily. Then the Confederate band would respond with "Dixie" or "Bonnie Blue Flag," and the "boys in gray" would yell their approval. But presently one of the bands struck up, in sweet and sad tones, the grand old tune "Home, Sweet Home." It was caught up by the other band, and at its close there went up a shout from both sides of the river—cheer followed cheer and the hills re-echoed the glad acclaim. A chord had been struck to which all hearts could beat in unison; and, for the time being, their enmity was forgotten.
[GRANDMA'S ANGEL.]
Mamma said; 'Little one, go and see If Grandmother's ready to come to tea.' I knew I must'nt disturb her, so I stepped as gently along, tiptoe, And stood a moment to take a peep— And there was Grandmother, fast asleep.
"I knew it was time for her to wake; I thought I'd give her a little shake, Or tap at her door, or softly call; But I had'nt the heart for that at all— She looked so sweet and so quiet there, Lying back in her high arm-chair, With her dear white hair and a little smile, That means she's loving you all the while.
"I did'nt make a speck of a noise; I knew she was dreaming of little boys And girls who lived with her, long ago, And then went to Heaven—she told me so.
"I went up close, and I did'nt speak One word, but I gave her on her cheek The softest bit of a little kiss, Just in a whisper, and then said this; 'Grandmother dear it's time for tea.'
"She opened her eyes and looked at me, And said: 'Why, Pet, I have just now dreamed Of a little angel who came, and seemed To kiss me lovingly on my face.' She pointed right at the very place.
"I never told her 'twas only me; I took her hand and we went to tea."
Sydney Dayre in St. Nicholas.
[COLD—BITTER COLD.]
It was dreadfully cold, it snowed, and was getting quite dark, for it was evening—yes, the last evening of the year.
Amid the cold and the darkness, a little girl, with bare head and naked feet, was roaming through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers, when she left home, but that was not of much use, for they were very large slippers; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto been used by her mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she hurried across the street, to avoid two carriages, that were driving at a fearful rate. One of the slippers was not to be found, and the other was pounced upon by a boy, who ran away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle when he should have children of his own.
So the little girl went along, with her little bare feet, that were red and blue with cold. She carried a number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day, and nobody had even given her a penny.
She crept along, shivering with cold and hunger, a perfect picture of misery—poor little thing!
The snowflakes covered her long, flaxen hair, which hung in pretty curls round her throat; but she heeded them not.
Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a savory smell of roast goose; for it was St. Sylvester's evening.
She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she felt colder than ever; yet she dared not return home, for she had not sold a match, and could not bring back a penny.
Her father would certainly beat her; and it was cold enough at home, besides,—for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with straw and rags.
Her little hands were nearly frozen with cold.
Alas! a single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one out of the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers.
So at last she drew one out. Whist! how it shed sparks, and how it burned! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it,—truly, it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a large iron stove, with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned so blessedly, and warmed so nicely, that the little creature stretched out her feet to warm them likewise, when lo! the flame expired, the stove vanished, and left nothing but the little half-burned match in her hand.
She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and where it shown upon the wall, the latter became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room.
A snow-white table-cloth was spread upon the table, on which stood a splendid china dinner service, while a roast goose, stuffed with apples and prunes, sent forth the most savory fumes. And what was more delightful still, the goose jumped down from the dish, and waddled along the ground with a knife and fork in its breast, up to the poor girl.
The match then went out, and nothing remained but the thick, damp wall.
She lit another match.
She now sat under the most magnificent Christmas tree, that was larger, and more superbly decked, than even the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. A thousand tapers burned on its green branches, and gay pictures, such as one sees on targets, seemed to be looking down upon her. The match then went out.
The Christmas lights kept rising higher and higher. They now looked like stars in the sky. One of them fell down, and left a long streak of fire.
"Somebody is now dying," thought the little girl,—for her old grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her, that when a star falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven.
She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it was again light all round; and in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining like a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving.
"Grandmother," cried the little one, "oh! take me with you! I know you will go away when the match goes out,—you will vanish like the warm stove and the delicious roast goose, and the fine, large Christmas tree!"
And she made haste to rub the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches gave a light that was brighter than noonday. Her grandmother had never appeared so beautiful nor so large. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew upwards, all radiant and joyful, far—far above mortal ken—where there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care to be found; for it was to the land of the blessed that they had flown.
But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be seen leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth; she had been frozen on the last night of the old year.
The new year's sun shone upon the little corpse.
The child sat in the stiffness of death, still holding the matches, one bundle of which was burned.
People said: "She tried to warm herself."
Nobody dreamed of the fine things she had seen, nor in what splendor she had entered upon the joys of the new year, together with her grandmother.
[NOBODY'S CHILD.]
PHILA H. CASE.
Alone, in the dreary, pitiless street, With my torn old dress and bare, cold feet, All day I've wandered to and fro, Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go; The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head; Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild? Is it because I'm nobody's child?
Just over the way there's a flood of light, And warmth and beauty, and all things bright; Beautiful children, in robes so fair, Are caroling songs in rapture there. I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor little beggar like me; Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering and nothing to eat.
Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down, In its terrible darkness, all over the town? Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold, hard pavements, alone, to die? When the beautiful children their prayers have said, And mamas have tucked them up snugly in bed. No dear mother ever upon me smiled— Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child.
No father, no mother, no sister, not one In all the world loves me; e'en the little dogs run, When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see, How everything shrinks from a beggar like me! Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie Gazing far up in the dark, blue sky, Watching for hours some large, bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar.
And a host of white-robed, nameless things, Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings; A hand that is strangely soft and fair, Caresses gently my tangled hair, And a voice like the carol of some wild bird, The sweetest voice that was ever heard— Calls me many a dear pet name, 'Till my heart and spirits are all aflame;
And tells me of such unbounded love, And bids me come up to their home above, And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, They look at me with their sweet blue eyes, And it seems to me, out of the dreary night, I am going up to the world of light, And away from the hunger and storms so wild— I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.
[SNOW-WHITE AND ROSY-RED.]
GRIMM.
the rose trees—one was named Snow-white, and the other Rosy-red, and they were as pious, kind, and industrious as any two children ever were. Snow-white was quieter and more gentle than her sister, who preferred skipping over the fields, seeking flowers, and catching summer birds; while Snow-white remained at home with her mother, either assisting her in her work, or reading aloud to her when that was done. The two children had the greatest love for each other; they were always seen hand-in-hand, and if Snow-white said to her sister, "We will never separate!" the other replied, "Not while we live!" the mother adding, "what one has, let her always share with the other." They often ran together in the woods, and gathered ripe berries; but not a single animal would have done them an injury—on the contrary, they all felt the greatest regard for the young creatures: the hare came and ate parsley from their hands, the deer grazed by their side, the stag sprang past them unconcerned, the birds likewise stirred not from the branch, but sang in the most perfect security. No mischance befell them; if benighted in the wood, they laid themselves in the moss to repose, and slept until the morning, and their mother was satisfied they were safe, and felt no fear on their account. Once, when they had passed the night in the wood, and the bright sunrise awoke them, they saw a beautiful child, in a snow-white dress, which shone like diamonds, sitting near the place where they had rested. She stood up when they opened their eyes, and looked kindly at them, but said not a word, and passed from their sight into the wood. When the children looked around, they saw that they had slept on the edge of a high cliff, and would certainly have fallen over, if they had proceeded two steps farther in the darkness. Their mother told them the beautiful child must have been the angel who watches over good children. Snow-white and Rosy-red kept their mother's cottage so clean, that it was a pleasure only to look in. In the summer Rosy-red looked after the house, and placed by her mother's bed every morning, before she awoke, a bouquet, in which was a rose from each of the rose trees. In the winter Snow-white lighted the fire, and put the kettle on, after scouring it, so that it resembled gold in brightness. In the evening, when the snowflakes fell, her mother bade her bolt the door, and then seating themselves by the hearth, the good widow read aloud to them from a large book, while the girls spun; near them lay a lamb, and behind was a white pigeon upon a perch, with its head tucked under its wing.
Rosy-red uttered a cry and sprang back, the lamb bleated, the dove fluttered her wings, and Snow-white hid herself behind her mother's bed. The bear began to speak, and said, "Fear not, I will do you no harm; I am half frozen, and only wish to warm myself a little at your fire." "Poor bear," returned the mother, "come and lie by the fire, only take care that your hair does not burn." Then calling Snow-white and Rosy-red, she bade them come out, "The bear," she said, "was kind, and would do them no harm." So they obeyed, and by degrees the lamb and the dove approached also, and had no fear. "Children," said the bear, "knock a little of the snow out of my coat." So they got the broom, and swept the bear's coat quite clean. After which, he stretched himself out before the fire and amused himself with a little growl, just to prove he was happy and comfortable. Before long, they were all quite good friends, and the children began to sport with their unexpected guest, tugging at his thick fur, or putting their feet on his back, or rolling him over and over. Then they took a thin hazel twig, with which they struck his thick fur, and when he growled, they laughed. The bear very kindly allowed them to amuse themselves thus, only sometimes, when it proceeded a little too far, he called out, "Children, children, leave me an inch of life.
"Snow-white and Rosy-red,
Strike not your lover dead."
When night came, and all prepared to go to bed, the widow said to the bear, "You can stay here, and lie on the hearth if you like, you will then be sheltered from the cold and the bad weather." The offer was accepted, but in the morning, as soon as day broke in the east, the two children let him out, and he trotted over the snow back into the wood. From this time the bear came every evening at the same hour, laid himself by the fire, and permitted the children to amuse themselves with him, so that they became quite attached to their strange playfellow, and the door was never bolted of an evening, until he had made his appearance.
When spring came, and everything around began to look green and bright, the bear said one morning to Snow-white, "I must now leave you, and I shall not be able to return for the whole summer." "Where are you then going, dear bear?" inquired Snow-white. "I must go to the woods, to protect my treasure from the bad dwarfs; in the winter, when the earth is hard frozen, they are obliged to stay underground, and cannot work their way through; but now the sun has thawed and warmed the earth, they find their way to the surface, and are ever on the watch for what they can steal, and whatever touches their hands, or reaches their caves, rarely, if ever, sees daylight again." Snow-white was very sorrowful when she took leave of the good-natured bear, and unbolted the door, that he might depart; but in passing out, he caught on a hook in the door-post, and a little of his fur being torn, Snow-white thought she saw something shine like gold through the rent; but he passed out so rapidly, that she did not feel sure what it was, and he was soon lost among the trees.
One day the mother sent her children into the wood to collect sticks; they found a large tree lying on the ground, which had been felled, and among the roots they saw something jumping and hopping, which they could not at all understand, it being sometimes hidden among the grass. When they drew nearer, they saw it was a dwarf, with an old withered face and a snow-white beard a yard long. The beard was fastened in a split in the trunk of the tree, and the little fellow was springing backwards and forwards like a dog at the end of a cord, but could not succeed in getting free. He stared at the children with his fiery red eyes, and cried out, "What are you standing there for? Can you not come and see if you can help me?" "What have you been doing, little man?" asked Rosy-red. "Silly inquisitive goose:" answered the dwarf, "I wanted to split the tree that I might chop it into sticks for the kitchen; thick logs would burn up the small portion of food we cook, for we do not swallow great mountains of provisions, as you coarse greedy folks do. I have driven in the wedge, and should soon have done what I wanted, but the tool sprang out of the split, which closed again so quickly, that my beautiful white beard was caught, and here I am detained for I cannot get away." "You silly white-faced creatures! you are laughing, are you?" Notwithstanding the little man's ill-temper, the girls gave themselves all imaginable trouble, in order to release the dwarf, but in vain—the beard was held too fast.
"I will run and call somebody else," said Rosy-red. "Idiot," replied the dwarf, "who would go and fetch more people? here are already two too many; can you not think of anything better?" "Do not be impatient," said Snow-white, "I will try and consider." Clapping her hands, as if she had found a remedy, she took out her scissors, and instantly released the dwarf by cutting off the end of his beard. Directly the dwarf felt himself free, he seized a sack filled with gold, which was hidden among the roots of the tree, and raising it, growled out, "Awkward creatures! to cut off a bit of my beautiful beard, of which I am so proud, the cuckoos may pay you for what you have done." With these words, he swung the sack over his shoulder and went away, without even casting a look upon the children.
Shortly after this the two sisters went to fish in the brook, thinking to catch some fish for dinner. As they approached the water, they saw something that looked like a large cricket jumping towards the brook as if it were going in. They ran to see what it could be, and perceived the dwarf. "Where are you going?" asked Rosy-red; "you will not surely jump into the water?" "I am not quite such a simpleton," screamed the dwarf; "do you not see that the confounded fish is pulling me in?" The little man had been sitting on the bank fishing, when unfortunately the wind had entangled his beard in the line, and as a large fish directly afterwards took the bait, the little fellow had not strength to pull it out; the fish therefore got the upper-hand, and was drawing the dwarf after it. It is true, he caught at every stalk and twig near him, but that did not help him much, he was obliged to follow all the movements of the fish, and was in danger of being drawn into the water.
The girls came up just in time; they held him fast and tried to disentangle his beard from the line, but in vain. Nothing remained but again to use the scissors, so they were taken out, and the part entangled cut off. When the dwarf saw what they were doing, he cried out in a great rage, "Is this the way you spoil my beard? Not content with shortening it before, you are now cutting it the other way, and ruining it entirely. I shall never dare to show my face to my friends. I wish you had lost your way, before you came this road." Then fetching a sack of pearls lying in the rushes, and without another word he hobbled away and vanished behind a large stone.
It happened that soon after this the poor widow sent her children to the town in order to buy thread, needles, ribbon and tape. The road lay over a heath on which large masses of rock were scattered in all directions, and the children's attention was soon drawn to a large bird hovering in the air: they observed that after flying slowly in a circle for some time, and gradually approaching nearer to the earth, it suddenly dashed down among a mass of rock; immediately a pitiable cry pierced their ears, and running hastily to the spot, they saw with horror that the eagle had seized their old acquaintance, the dwarf, and was preparing to bear him away. The children did not wait for a moment, but taking firm hold of the little man, they disputed so stoutly with the eagle for the possession of his prey, that after much rough handling on both sides, the dwarf remained in the hands of his little friends, and the eagle took to flight.
When the little man had in a degree recovered from his fright, his little thin cracked voice was heard saying, "Could you not handle me more gently? look at my little coat, you have torn and mangled it in a fine fashion, you awkward creatures!" He then took up a sack of precious stones, and slipped out of sight behind a fragment of a rock. The maidens were by this time quite accustomed to his thankless manner, so they thought nothing of it, but continued their way, executed their mother's commission, and then prepared to return to their happy home.
On their road thither, they suddenly came again upon their friend the dwarf; he had emptied out his sack of precious stones upon a clean spot, that he might number or admire them, for he did not expect that any one would be crossing the heath at so late an hour. The setting sun shone upon the bright stones, and their varying hues and brilliant rays induced the children to stop and admire them. "What are you looking at?" said the dwarf, rudely, at the same time reddening with anger; "and why do you stand there making faces?" It is likely that he might have continued in the same strain, but suddenly a loud growl was heard close to them, and a large black bear joined the party. The dwarf sprang up in the greatest terror, but was unable to reach his hiding-place, the bear was too near him; so he exclaimed in the most evident anguish, "Dear Mr. Bear, pray pardon me, I will give you all my treasure, only look at the valuable stones lying there. Grant me my life! You would not feel me between your teeth; but look at those two children, they would be tender morsels, and are as fat as quails—pray take them, good Mr. Bear, and let me go." The bear, however, was not to be moved with his words; he gave the dwarf one blow with his paw, and he lay lifeless on the ground.
In the meantime the maidens had ran away, and were making the best of their way towards their home, but they were suddenly stopped by a well-known voice, which cried, "Snow-white! Rosy-red! stop, do not be afraid. I will go with you."
The bear rapidly advanced towards them; but as he joined them, the bear-skin suddenly fell to the ground, and there stood before them a handsome man, entirely dressed in gold. "I am the son of a king," said he, "but was enchanted by the wicked dwarf lying yonder, who stole my treasure, and forced me to run about the woods in the form of a great bear, until I should be set free by his death. He has therefore only met with a well-merited punishment."
After some time, Snow-white married the prince, and Rosy-red his brother; and they divided between them the immense treasure that the dwarf had collected in his cave. The old mother passed many happy years with her children; but when she left her cottage, she carried with her the two rose-trees, and they stood before her window, and continued to bear the most beautiful red and white roses every year.
[THE SONG OF THE THRUSH.]
LUCY LARCOM.
There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. "He's singing to me! he's singing to me!" And what does he say, little girl, little boy? "Oh, the world's running over with joy! Don't you hear? Don't you see? Hush! Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"
And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree? Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I'm glad! now I'm free! And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy! But long it won't be, Don't you know? Don't you see? Unless we are as good as can be."
[THE FOX AND THE GEESE.]
listen to nothing, and said, "There is no mercy for you; you must die!" At last one took courage, and said, "If we poor geese must lose our young, fresh lives, grant us at least this small favor—that we may repeat one prayer, and not die in our sins; after that we will place ourselves in a row, that you may be able to choose the fattest." "Well," said the fox, "perhaps that is only just, it is certainly proper, begin your prayer, and I will wait." The first began with a remarkably long prayer, nothing but "ga, ga," and as it did not seem inclined to leave off, the second would not wait until her turn came, but began likewise, "ga, ga," the third and fourth followed, and they soon all cackled together. (When the prayer is finished you shall have the rest of the story; but as far as I know, they are all still going on.)
"Count that day lost whose low-descending sun,
Views from thy hand no worthy action done."
[THE CHILDREN IN THE MOON.]
Harken, child, unto a story! For the moon is in the sky, And across her shield of silver, See! two tiny cloudlets fly.
Watch them closely, mark them sharply, As across the light they pass,— Seem they not to have the figures Of a little lad and lass?
See, my child, across their shoulders Lies a little pole! and lo! Yonder speck is just the bucket, Swinging softly to and fro.
It is said, these little children, Many and many a Summer night, To a little well far northward Wandered in the still moonlight.
To the wayside well they trotted, Filled their little buckets there, And the Moon-man looking downwards, Saw how beautiful they were.
Quoth the man, "How vexed and sulky Looks the little rosy boy! But the little handsome maiden, Trips behind him full of joy.
To the well behind the hedgerow Trot the little lad and maiden; From the well behind the hedgerow Now the little pail is laden.
How they please me! how they tempt me! Shall I snatch them up to-night? Snatch them, set them here forever, In the middle of my light?
Children, ay, and children's children Should behold my babes on high, And my babes should smile forever, Calling others to the sky?"
Thus the philosophic Moon-man Muttered many years ago, Set the babes with pole and bucket, To delight the folks below.
Never is the bucket empty, Never are the children old; Ever when the moon is shining We the children may behold.
Ever young, and ever little, Ever sweet and ever fair! When thou art a man, my darling, Still the children will be there!
Ever young, and ever little, They will smile when thou art old! When thy locks are thin and silver, Theirs will still be shining gold.
They will haunt you from their heaven, Softly beckoning down the gloom,— Smiling in eternal sweetness On thy cradle, on thy tomb!
[A NIGHT IN A NORWEGIAN FOREST.]
PETER CHRISTIAN ASBJORNSEN.
The evening shadows now unfold Their curtain o'er the lonely wold; The night wind sighs with dreary moan, And whispers over stock and stone. Tramp, Tramp! the trolls come trooping, hark! Across the moor to the deep woods dark.
Geijer.
When I was a boy about fourteen years old, I came one Saturday afternoon in the middle of the summer to Upper Lyse, the last farm in Sorkerdale. I had frequently walked or driven over the main road between Christiania and Ringerike, and I had now, after having been at home on a short visit, taken the road past Bokstad to Lyse for a change, with the intention of making a short cut through the north part of the Krog-wood.
I found all the doors of the farm-house wide open, but I looked in vain in the parlor, in the kitchen, and in the barn, for a human being whom I could ask for a drink and who could give me some direction about the road.
There was no one at home but a black cat, who was sitting quite content and purring on the hearth, and a dazzling white cock, who was walking up and down the passage breasting himself and crowing incessantly, as much as to say: "Now I am the cock of the walk!"
Tired with the heat and my walk, I threw myself down on the grass in the shadow of the house, where I lay half-asleep enjoying a quiet rest, when I was startled by an unpleasant clamour,—the jarring voice of a woman, who was trying by alternately scolding and using pet names to pacify a litter of grunting pigs on the farm. By following the sound I came upon a bare-footed old woman with a yellow dried-up countenance, who was bending down over the pigs' trough, busy filling it with food, for which the noisy little creatures were fighting, tearing, pushing, and yelling, with expectation and delight.
On my questioning her about the road, she answered me by asking me another question, while she, without raising herself up, turned her head half away from her pets to stare at me.
"Where might you come from?"
When she had got a satisfactory answer to this, she continued, while she repeatedly addressed herself to the young pigs:
"Ah, so!—you are at school at the parson's, eh!—hush, hush! little piggies, then!——The road to Stubdale, do you say?——Just look at that one now! Will you let the others get something as well, you rascal! Hush, hush! Be quiet, will you! Oh, poor fellow, did I kick you then?——Yes, yes, I'll tell you the road directly,—its—its straight on through the wood till you come to the big water-wheel!"
As this direction seemed to me to be rather vague for a road of about fourteen miles length through a forest, I asked her if I could not hire a lad who knew the road, to go with me.
"No, bless you! Is it likely?" she said, as she left the piggery and came out on the slope before the farm. "They are so busy now with the hay-making, that they've scarcely time to eat. But it's straight through the wood, and I'll explain it to you right enough, as if you saw the road before you. First you go up the crag and all the hills over yonder, and when you have got up on the heights, you have the straight road right before you to Heggelie. You have the river on your left hand all the way, and if you don't see it you'll hear it. But just about Heggelie there is a lot of twistings and turnings, and now and then the road is lost altogether for some distance—if one is a stranger there, it's not an easy thing to find one's way, but you are sure to find it as far as Heggelie, for that's close to the lake. Afterwards you go along the lake, till you come to the dam across a small tarn, just like a bridge, as they call it; bear away to the left there, and then turn off to the right, and you have the road straight before you to Stubdale, in Aasa."
Although this direction was not quite satisfactory, particularly as it was the first time I had started on an excursion off the main road, I set out confidently and soon all hesitation vanished. From the heights a view was now and then obtained between the lofty pine and fir trees of the valley below, with its smiling fields and variegated woods of birch and alder trees, between which the river wound like a narrow silvery streak. The red-painted farm-houses, peculiar to Norway, lay picturesquely scattered on the higher points of the undulating valley where men and women were busy hay-making. From some chimneys rose columns of blue smoke, which appeared quite light against the dark back-ground of thickly studded pine forests on the mountain slopes.
Over the whole landscape lay a repose and a peace so perfect that no one could have suspected the close proximity of the capital. When I had advanced some distance into the forest, I heard the notes of the bugle and the distant baying of hounds in full cry, which gradually ceased, till nothing but a faint echo of the bugle reached my ear. I now heard the roar of the river, which rushed wildly past at some distance on my left, but as I advanced the road seemed gradually to approach it, and soon the valley in some parts grew narrower and narrower, till I at last found myself at the bottom of a deep, gloomy gorge, the greatest part of which was taken up by the river. But the road left the river again; there were certainly twistings and turnings, as the old woman had said, for at one moment it wound hither and the next thither, and at some places it was almost imperceptible. Now it went up a steep incline, and when I had passed the brow of the hill, I saw between the fir trees a couple of twinkling tarns before me, and on the margin of one of these a dairy on a verdant slope, bathed in the golden light of the evening sun.
In the shady retreat under the hill grew clusters of luxuriant ferns; the wild French willow stood proudly with its lofty crest of red and gorgeous flowers between the pebbles, but the sedate monk's hood lifted its head still higher and looked gloomily and wickedly down on it, while it nodded and kept time to the cuckoo's song, as if it were counting how many days it had to live.
On the verdant slope and down by the edge of the water, the bird-cherry and the mountain ash displayed their flowery garb of summer. They sent a pleasant and refreshing fragrance far around, and shook sorrowfully the leaves of their white flowers over the reflected picture of the landscape in the mirror of the lake, which on all sides was surrounded by pine trees and mossy cliffs.
There was no one at home in the dairy. All doors were locked,—I knocked everywhere, but no answer,—no information as to the road. I sat down on a rock and waited awhile, but no one appeared. The evening was setting in; I thought I could not stay there any longer, and started again. It was still darker in the forest, but shortly I came to a timber-dam across a bit of river between two lakes.
I supposed this was the place where I "should bear off first to the left, and then to the right." I went across, but on the other side of the dam there were only—as it appeared to me—flat, smooth, damp rocks and no trace of a road; on the opposite side, the right side of the dam, there was a well-trodden path. I examined both sides several times, and although it appeared to be contrary to the direction I had received, I decided on choosing the broader road or path, which was continued on the right hand side of the water. As long as it followed the course of the dark lake, the road was good and passable, but suddenly it turned off in a direction which, according to my ideas, was the very opposite of the one I should take, and lost itself in a confused net of paths and cattle-tracks amid the darkness of the forest.
Inexpressibly tired of this anxious intricate search, I threw myself down on the soft moss to rest for a while, but the fatigue conquered the fears of the lonely forest, and I cannot now tell how long I dozed. On hearing a wild cry, the echo of which still resounded in my ears when I awoke, I jumped to my feet. I felt comforted by the song of the red-breast, and I thought I felt less lonely and deserted as long as I heard the merry notes of the thrush.
The sky was overcast and the darkness of the forest had increased considerably. A fine rain was falling, which imparted renewed life to the plants and trees, and filled the air with a fresh, aromatic fragrance; it also seemed to call to life all the nocturnal sounds and notes of the forest. Among the tops of the fir trees above me, I heard a hollow, metallic sound, like the croaking of the frog and a penetrating whistling and piping. Round about me was a buzzing sound, as if from a hundred spinning-wheels, but the most terrible of all these sounds was, that they at one time seemed close to your ear, and in another moment far away; now they were interrupted by frolicsome, wild cries, and a flapping of wings,—now by distant cries of distress, on which a sudden silence followed again.
I was seized by an indescribable fear; these sounds sent a chill through me, and my terror was increased by the darkness between the trees, where all objects appeared distorted, moving and alive, stretching forth thousands of hands and arms after the stray wanderer. All the fairy tales of my childhood were conjured up before my startled imagination, and appeared to be realized in the forms which surrounded me; I saw the whole forest filled with trolls, elves, and sporting dwarfs. In thoughtless and breathless fear I rushed forward to avoid this host of demons, but while flying thus still more frightful and distorted shapes appeared,—and I fancied I felt their hands clutching me. Suddenly I heard the heavy tread of some one, who moved over the crackling branches of the underwood. I saw, or fancied I saw, a dark shape, which approached me with a pair of eyes shining like glowing stars. My hair stood on an end; I believed my fate was inevitably sealed, and shouted almost unconsciously as if to give myself new courage:
A PAIR OF EYES SHINING LIKE STARS.
"If there's anybody there, tell me the way to Stubdale!" A deep growl was the answer I received, and the bear, for such it was, walked quickly away in the same direction whence he had come. I stood for some time and listened to his heavy steps and the crackling of the branches under his feet. I mumbled to myself: "I wish it was daylight and that I had a gun with me, and you should have had a bullet, Master Bruin, for frightening me thus!"
With this wish and childish threat all fear and thoughts of danger vanished, and I walked on again quite composed, on the soft mossy ground.
When after considerable trouble I had forced my way through the chaos of fallen trees, which the wind had torn up in this exposed wild region, and had ascended the other steep hillside, I had still a good distance to walk across an open wooded heath.
On the outskirt of this wood trickled a small brook, where the alder and the pine trees again sought to maintain their place, and on a small plot on the slope on the other side of a brook burned a great log-fire, which threw its red light far in between the trees. In front of the fire sat a dark figure, which, on account of its position between me and the blazing fire, appeared to me to be of supernatural proportions. The old stories about robbers and thieves in this forest came suddenly back to me, and I was on the point of running away when my eyes caught sight of a hut, made out of fir branches, close to the fire, and two other men, who sat outside it, and the many axes, which were fixed into the stump of a felled tree, and it became evident to me that they were wood-cutters.
The dark figure, an old man, was speaking,—I saw him move his lips; he held a short pipe in his hand, which he only put to his mouth now and then to keep it alight by these occasional puffs. When I approached the group, the story had either come to an end or he had been interrupted; he stooped forward, put some glowing embers in his pipe, smoked incessantly and appeared to be attentively listening to what a fourth person, who had just arrived, had to say. This person, who apparently also belonged to the party, was carrying a bucket of water from the brook. His hair was red, and he was dressed in a long jersey jacket, and had more the appearance of a tramp than a wood-cutter. He looked as if he had been frightened by something or other.
The old man had now turned round towards him, and as I had crossed the brook and was approaching the party from the side, I could now see the old man plainly in the full glare of the fire. He was a short man with a long hooked nose. A blue skull-cap with a red border scarcely covered his head of bristly grey hair, and a short-bodied but long Ringerike coat of dark grey frieze with worn velvet borders, served to make the roundness and crookedness of his back still more conspicuous.
The new-comer appeared to be speaking about a bear.
"Well, who would believe it?" said the old man, "what did he want there? It must have been some other noise you heard, for there doesn't grow anything on the dry heath hereabout which he would be after. No, not Bruin, not he" he added; "I almost think you are telling lies, Peter! There's an old saying that red hair and firs don't thrive in good soil," he continued half aloud. "If it had been down in the bear's den or in Stygdale, where Knut and I both heard him and saw him the other day—but here?—No, no! he doesn't come so near the fire, he doesn't! You have been frightening yourself!"
"Frightening myself? Oh, dear no! Didn't I hear him moving and crushing through the underwood, my canny Thor Lerberg?" answered the other, somewhat offended and chagrined at the old man's doubts and taunts.
"Well, well, my boy," continued Thor in his former tone, "I suppose it was something bigger than a squirrel, anyhow!"
I now stepped forward, and said it must have been me that he had heard, and told them how I had lost my way, and the fright I had undergone, and how hungry and tired I was. I asked whereabouts I was now, and if one of them would show me the way to Stubdale.
My appearance created considerable surprise to the party, which however was not so much apparent in their words, as in the attention with which they regarded me and heard my story. The old man, whose name I had heard was Thor Lerberg, seemed particularly interested in it; and as it appeared that he was accustomed to thinking aloud, I could on hearing some of the remarks which he now and then mumbled to himself, participate in his reflections thus
"No, no that was the wrong way!—He should have gone over the dam there—Stubdale way—he went wrong altogether—he is too young—he isn't used to the woods—ah, that was the woodcock—and the goatsucker—yes, yes! it sounds strange to him, that hasn't heard him—oh, yes! the loon does shriek dreadfully—particularly when there's fine rain—ah, ah! yes, that must have been the bear he met—he is a brave boy after all!"
"Yes!" I said boldly, and gave vent to my awakening youthful courage in about the same words as the man who once came across a bear asleep on a sunny hillside: "If it had been daylight, and if I had been a hunter and had a loaded gun with me, and if I could have made it go off, why, by my faith, the bear should have lain dead on the spot, he should."
"Yes, of course, ha, ha, ha!" laughed old Thor, and chuckled till the others joined in the laughter; "of course he would have lain dead on the spot,—that's plain! ha, ha, ha!"
"But you are now by Storflaaten, the biggest lake in the forest here," he said, addressing himself to me, when I had finished my story; "towards morning we'll help you on your way, for we have got a boat, and when you have got across the water you haven't far to go to Stubdale then. But I suppose you would like to rest yourself a little now, and get something to eat! I have nothing but some peas-pudding and rancid bacon, and may be you are not used to that kind of food; but if you are hungry, perhaps you would like some fish? I have been out fishing, and fine fish I got too,—yes, in the lake, I mean!"
I thanked him for his offer, and he told one of his companions to take a "regular good 'un" off the string and roast it in the glowing embers of the fire.
In the meantime the old man asked a number of questions about myself, and by the time I had answered all these the fish was ready, and I began my meal with great appetite. He now asked one of his companions to tell us something about what he once said had happened to his father, when he was out cutting timber.
"That was in the spring, just before Easter 1815, when father lived at Oppen-Eie—the snow wasn't gone yet, but he had to set out for the forest to cut and drag home some wood. He went up in the Helling hill, where he found a withered fir which he commenced cutting down at once. While cutting away at it, he thought he saw withered firs all around him, but while he was staring and wondering at this, up came a procession of eleven horses,—all of a mouse-gray color; it appeared to him to be a wedding-party.
"What people are these, who are coming this way over the hill?" he asked.
"Oh, we are from Osthalla," says one of them, "we are going to the Veien dairy to keep the wedding; the one who drives in front is the parson, next are the bride and bridegroom, and I am his father-in-law. You had better stand behind on my sledge and come along."
"When they had traveled some distance, the father-in-law said: 'Will you take these two bags with you and go to the Veien farm and get two barrels of potatoes in them by the time we go home?'
"My father promised to do this. They came soon to a place which he thought he knew, and so it was. It was just north of the Kill hill, where the old dairy stood; but there was no dairy there then, but a great fine building, and here they all entered. Some one met them on the steps to give the guests a glass of welcome, and they gave father a glass also, but he said, 'No, thanks!' he would not have anything he said, for he had only his old clothes on, and would not intrude on such fine folks. 'Never mind this man,' said one of them, 'take a horse and see him on his way home,' which they did; they put him in a sledge with a mouse-gray horse before it, and one of them sat up and drove the horse.
When they got as far as the little valley north of Oppenhagen—where the land-slip took place—he thought he sat between the ears of a bucket; but shortly this vanished also, and it was only then he really came to himself again. He began looking for his axe, and found it sticking in the same withered fir-tree he had begun to cut down. When he came home, he was so confused and queer, that he could not tell how many days he had been away; but he was only away from the morning to the evening,—and for some time afterwards he was not himself——"
"Yes, many a queer thing happens hereabout," said old Thor; "and I for my part have also seen a little—well, witchcraft I mean,—and if you like to sit up a little longer, I'll tell you what has happened to me,—in this here forest I mean."
"Yes, they would all like to hear it;—to-morrow was Sunday, and it didn't much matter if they went to bed late.
"Well, it might be about ten or twelve years ago," he answered, "I was burning charcoal over in the Kampenhaug forest. In the winter I had two horses there to cart the coals to the Bærum works. One day I happened to stop too long at the works, for I met some old friends from Ringerike there, and we had a good talk about one thing or another, and a little drop to drink, too,—yes, brandy I mean—and so I did not come back to the kiln before ten o'clock in the evening.
I made a fire, so I could see loading the sledges, for it was terribly dark, and I had to get the carts loaded in the evening, for I had to be off at three o'clock next morning, if I was to get to the works and back again the same day while it was light,—back to the kiln I mean. When I had got the fire to burn up, I began loading the sledges. But just as I was turning round to the fire again a drift of snow came sweeping down upon it and put it out entirely,—the fire I mean. So I thought to myself: 'Why, bless me, the old witch in the hill here is vexed to-night, because I come home so late and disturb her.' I struck a light and made a new fire. But, strange to say, the shovel would not drop all the coals into the basket,—more than half went over the sides. At last I got the sledges loaded, and I was going to put the ropes round them, but will you believe me, every one of them broke, the one after the other,—the ropes I mean. So I had to get new ropes, and at last got the sledges ready, gave the horses their fodder, and went to bed. But do you think I awoke at three? No, not till long after the sun had risen, and still I felt heavy and queer, both in my head and my body.
Well, I had something to eat and went then to look to the horses, but the shed was empty and the horses were gone. I got rather out of temper at this, and I am afraid I swore a little into the bargain, but I thought I had better try and find some tracks of them. During the night there had fallen a little fresh snow, and I could see they had not gone off in the direction of the valley or the works. I found, however, the track of two horses and of a couple of broad large feet in a northerly direction; I followed these for two or three miles, when the tracks parted, and the foot-marks vanished altogether; one horse had gone to the east, and the other to the west, and after following up one first for five or six miles, I came upon him at last. I had to take him home to the hut and tie him up, before I could start looking for the other horse. By the time I got hold of him it was near upon noon, and so there was no use going to the works that day. But I promised I should never disturb the old witch any more,—in the evening I mean.
But these promises are strange things sometimes,—if you keep a promise to Christmas you are pretty sure to break it before next Michaelmas. The year after I made a trip to Christiania late in the autumn,—the roads were in a fearful bad condition and it was already very late in the afternoon before I left town, but I wanted to get home that night. I was on horseback and took the road by Bokstad, which is the shortest, as you know,—to Ausfjerdingen, I mean. The weather was wet and ugly, and it was beginning to grow dark when I started. But when I came over the bridge by Heggelie I saw a man coming towards me,—he wasn't very tall, but terribly big; he was as broad as a barn-door across his shoulders, and his hands were nearly a foot across the knuckles. He carried a leather bag in one hand, and seemed to be talking to himself. When I came nearer to him, his eyes glistened like burning cinders, and they were as big as saucers. His hair stood out like bristles, and his beard was no better; I thought he was a terrible, ugly brute, and I prayed for myself the little I could, and just as I came to the end, down he sank,—in the ground I mean.
"I rode on, humming an old psalm, but suddenly I met him again coming down a hill; his eyes and hair and beard, too, sparkled with fire this time. I began praying again, and had no sooner finished than he was gone. But I had scarcely ridden a mile before I met him once more as I was crossing a small bridge. His eyes flashed like lightning and sparks flew out of his hair and beard, and so he shook his bag, till you could see blue and yellow and red tongues of fire shooting out of it. But then I lost my temper right out, and instead of praying I swore at him, and he vanished on the spot. But as I rode on, I began to be afraid that I should meet this brute again, so when I came to Lovlie, I knocked at the door, and asked for lodgings till daylight, but do you think they would let me in? No. I could travel by day, like other folks, they said, and then I needn't ask for lodgings!—So I guessed the brute had been there before me and frightened them, and I had to set out again. But then I started another old psalm, till the mountains rang with it, and I came at last safe to Stubdale, where I got lodgings—but it was almost morning then."
The manner in which he told these stories, was like his speech, slow and expressive, and he had the custom of repeating single words, or part of his sentences at the end of these, or adding one or another superfluous explanation. He generally applied these remarks after one of his many exertions to keep his pipe alight, and they had such a comical effect on me, that I had great difficulty to refrain from laughing outright. I was in a merry mood after having safely got through my nocturnal expedition, and to this I must ascribe the fact that his stories did not make the impression upon me which, after what I had gone through, might have been expected.
The dawn of the day was now appearing, and old Thor told one of his companions to row me across the lake, and put me on my right road.
[TWO LITTLE KITTENS.]
Two little kittens, one stormy night, Began to quarrel and then to fight, One had a mouse, the other had none, And that was the way the quarrel begun.
"I'll have that mouse," said the biggest cat, "You'll have that mouse, we'll see about that," "I will have the mouse" said the eldest son. "You shan't have that mouse," said the little one.
I told you before 'twas a stormy night, When these two little kittens began to fight; The old woman seized her sweeping broom, And swept the two kittens right out of the room.
The ground was covered with frost and snow, And the two little kittens had nowhere to go, So they laid them down on the mat at the door, While the old woman finished sweeping the floor.
Then they both crept in as quiet as mice, All wet with snow and cold as ice; For they found it was better, that stormy night, To lie down and sleep, than to quarrel and fight.
"OUCH!"
[THE LABOR OF AUTHORSHIP.]
David Livingstone said: "Those who have never carried a book through the press can form no idea of the amount of toil it involves. The process has increased my respect for authors a thousand-fold. I think I would rather cross the African continent again than undertake to write another book."
"For the statistics of the negro population of South America alone," says Robert Dale Owen, "I examined more than a hundred and fifty volumes."
Another author tells us that he wrote paragraphs and whole pages of his book as many as fifty times.
It is said of one of Longfellow's poems that it was written in four weeks, but that he spent six months in correcting and cutting it down.
Bulwer declared that he had rewritten some of his briefer productions as many as eight or nine times before their publication. One of Tennyson's pieces was rewritten fifty times. John Owen was twenty years on his "Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews;" Gibbon on his "Decline and Fall," twenty years; and Adam Clark on his "Commentary," twenty-six years. Carlyle spent fifteen years on his "Frederick the Great."
A great deal of time is consumed in reading before some books are prepared. George Eliot read one thousand books before she wrote "Daniel Deronda." Alison read two thousand before he completed his history. It is said of another that he read twenty thousand and wrote only two books.
["SHE WAS SOMEBODY'S MOTHER."]
The woman was old, ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of the winter's day; The street was wet with the winter's snow, And the woman's feet were aged and slow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid a throng Of human beings who passed her by; None heeded the glance of her anxious eye. Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of school let out, Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow, piled white and deep. Past the woman so old and gray, Hastened the children on their way, Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should crowd her down on the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop, The gayest laddie of all the group. He paused beside her and whispered low, "I'll help you across if you wish to go." Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and without hurt or harm, He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong. Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content. "She is somebody's mother, boys, you know, For she is old, and poor, and slow; And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If she's old, and poor, and gray, When her own dear boy is far away." And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was: "God be kind to the noble boy Who is somebody's son, and pride, and joy."
[DOT LAMBS WHAT MARY HAF GOT.]
Mary haf got a leetle lambs already; Dose vool was vite like shnow; Und efery times dot Mary did vend oud, Dot lambs vent also out, mit Mary.
Dot lambs did follow Mary von day of der school-house, Vich was obbosition to der rules of der school-master; Also, vich it did cause dose schilden to schmile out loud, Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides of der school-house.
Und so dot school-master dit kick der lamb gwick oud; Likewise dot lambs dit loaf around on der outside; Und did shov der flies mit his tail off patiently aboud,— Until Mary did come also from dot school-house oud.
Und den dot lambs did run away gwick to Mary, Und dit make his het gwick on Mary's arms, Like he would said, "I don't was schared, Mary would kept me from droubles enahow."
"Vot vos der reason aboud it, of dot lambs und Mary?" Dose schildren did ask it dot school-master; "Vell, don'd you know it, dot Mary lofe dose lambs, already," Dot school-master did said.
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small, Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.—Longfellow.
[BOB CRATCHIT'S CHRISTMAS.]
CHARLES DICKENS.
Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for six-pence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his monstrous shirt-collar (his father's private property, conferred upon his son and heir in honor of the day,) into his mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable parks.
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he, (not proud, although his collars nearly choked him,) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled.
"What has ever got your precious father, then?" said Mrs. Cratchit, "and your brother, Tiny Tim! and Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half-an-hour!"
"Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
"Here's Martha, mother!" cried the two young Cratchits.
"Hurrah! there's such a goose, Martha!"
"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you are!" said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious zeal.
"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother."
"Well, never mind, so long as you are come," said Mrs. Cratchit, "sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a warm, Lord bless ye!"
"No, no, there's father coming," cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, hide!"
"So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter besides the fringe hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look seasonable; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder.
Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame!
"Why, where's our Martha," cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.
"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.
"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden falling in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse all the way from church, and had come home rampant. "Not coming upon Christmas day!"
Martha did not like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off to the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.
"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, after Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.
"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."
Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more and more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.
His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs—as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby—mixed some hot mixture in a jug, with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and put it on the hob to simmer; master Peter and the two young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.
Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; and in truth it was something very like it in that house.
Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; master Peter mashed the potatoes with wonderful vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard, upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped.
At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight rose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried "Hurrah!"
There never was such a goose! Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows.
But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to take the pudding up and bring it in.
Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose—a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a wash-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that! That was the pudding!
In half-a-minute Mrs. Cratchit entered—flushed, but smiling proudly,—with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.
Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had her doubts about the quantity of flour.
Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.
At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound being tasted, (the gin and lemons) and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire.
Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family display of glass,—two tumblers and a custard cup without a handle.
These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily.
Then Bob proposed "A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears, God bless us!" which all the family re-echoed.
"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear, Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Thomas Gray: 'Elegy'
["A SNUG LITTLE ISLAND."]
If you examine a map of Europe you will notice, not without difficulty, a little speck in the North Sea some thirty-six miles northwest of the mouth of the river Elbe. This little almost invisible speck is an island called Heligoland.
It belongs to Great Britain, having been ceded to this country by the Danes in 1814. Denmark in an evil hour identified herself with the cause of the first Napoleon, and the loss of Heligoland was only one of the results of her misguided policy. The island is to-day known chiefly as the favorite seaside resort of the Hamburghers, and though it is a British possession no English is spoken by the natives. Its name is supposed to mean the Holy Island, tradition affirming that at one period of its existence—many centuries ago—the isle was covered with temples for pagan worship that have long since disappeared. Hel-i-go-land is one mile in length, about half a mile broad, and triangular in shape. It consists of an Upper and Lower Town, and is surrounded on all sides by steep red cliffs, except at the part upon which the Lower Town is built. Nearly a quarter of a mile east of the main island is a long, low-lying, sandy hill or "dune," which affords splendid bathing. Access from the Lower to the Upper Town, on the Cliffs above, is obtained by means of a wooden stair of 190 steps. Naturally enough, since there is constant need to travel between the two "Towns," this stair is a prominent feature in Heligoland existence. It is the test alike of youthful vigour and of failing strength.
The island children cannot conceive of a country without a stair, and the lads of the colony—like boys all the world over—often adopt the dangerous practice of accomplishing the descent by sliding down the balusters, a pastime that is sometimes indulged in by people of maturer years. The flat-topped rock is occupied by a lighthouse, a battery, a powder magazine, and pasture for 200 sheep. From one end to the other there runs a footpath called the "Highway," or "Potato Lane."
The streets, clean and paved with red brick, are excessively narrow, the only vehicles being perambulators and wheelbarrows, while horse or ass is never—or scarcely ever—seen in the island. The two or three cows which supply the milk during the season duly retire with the last of the visitors to Hamburg, 100 miles distant. The houses of the poorer folk resemble ship cabins, the beds being nailed against the wall like berths, or built in recesses in the walls.
The inhabitants love liberty and independence. They are proud of their "right little, tight little" island, and when business calls them away from it, they always weary to get back home. The rhyme which finds most favor amongst the people is one which, being interpreted, asserts that—
"Green is the land,
Red is the strand,
White is the sand,
These are the colors of Heligoland."
This rhyme indeed, Dr. Robert Brown suggests, may be regarded as their "national anthem."
The Heligolanders earn their livelihood from the harvest of the sea, though a fair amount of business is done by letting lodgings during "the season." From June to October hundreds of visitors besiege it, and during this period it may be described as a suburb of Hamburg, the bulk of the strangers hailing from that prosperous city. In winter the natives have the little island all to themselves.
The Heligoland men are tall, strong, with regular features and are superior in build to their relatives on the mainland. The women are rather handsome, with small feet, well-shaped slender hands, and long hair, for which, indeed, they are famous. As compared with the German or Dutch peasant women, they easily bear the palm.
In their dress they rather affect gay colors, the younger ones especially, like the "Rose" whom the artist has depicted on this page. The dress consists of a scarlet skirt, with a "body" and apron, generally of some light brown "stuff." The bonnet is a product peculiar to the island. It is a piece of pasteboard bent in the shape of a bonnet, over which is fastened a square piece of silk, satin or poplin, occasionally embroidered behind with lace.
The population numbers about 3,000 souls. As already noted, the men are fishers and pilots. The yearly value of the fisheries—which comprise mainly lobsters, crabs, herring, cod, and flat fish—amounts to upwards of $25,000. Trade is carried on by barter, the fish being exchanged with the merchants of Hamburg and Bremen for the goods which the Heligolanders require. The natives are keen, shrewd and honest.
"THE ROSE."
Theft is practically unknown, and the few cases with which the magistrate is troubled arise from the street brawls which now and then take place. The men are usually serious, and rarely joke among themselves or with strangers, and, oddly enough, all the young men are particularly reserved.
Of course the women are not nearly so grave. They are all more lively as well as talkative. Though they are rather good-looking, they get aged and weatherbeaten early, owing to the anxiety of household affairs and other causes. For the men are addicted to the vile habit—common among all uncivilized and too many civilized races—of allowing the women to do very nearly the whole of the manual labor of the house, field and garden. Accordingly we find that the females have to pay in premature age the penalty of their lords' laziness.
The climate is very bracing, but the winters are wet and stormy. The air is so saturated with saline spray that the rain will leave a slight deposit of salt after it has evaporated. During the winter, communication with the mainland is maintained by boat once a week, though the island is often completely isolated for a considerable period by rough weather, drift ice, and various other causes.
Rats and mice are found in Heligoland in plenty, but the oft-quoted story about the rabbits, and the ruin which their burrowing was fast bringing upon the doomed isle is declared by a competent authority to be pure romance. The sea is making rapid inroads upon parts of the Holy Isle, and it is not unlikely that at some far-distant period all that will remain of this out-of-the-world spot will be a wave-lashed rock, the haunt of the gull and the cormorant.
[DON'T CROWD.]
CHAS. DICKENS.
Don't crowd; the world is large enough For you as well as me; The doors of all are open wide— The realm of thought is free. In all earth's places you are right To chase the best you can— Provided that you do not try To crowd some other man.
Don't crowd the good from out your heart By fostering all that's bad, But give to every virtue room— The best that may be had: To each day's record such a one That you might well be proud: Give each his right—give each his room, And never try to crowd.
["THE BOYS."]
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
You hear that boy laughing?—You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done. The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!
Yes, we're boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen,— And I sometimes have asked,—Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, the BOYS!
"YOU THINK HE'S ALL FUN."
[THE QUARREL BETWEEN THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL.]
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little prig;" Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make a year. And a sphere: And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry; I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ: all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.
[FOR FATHER'S SAKE,]
OR, RIGHT AND MIGHT.
earth seemed glad, though a poor weakling of a lamb lay on the sunny hillside, among its fellows, panting and sighing, as if it would fain sob out its wee life and be at rest. It had been born late; its mother was dead; none of the other ewes took kindly to it: what could the shepherd do but lay it aside in hopeless despair, and attend to the robust and hardy among his large family?
"With powers of tending, I think he'd pull through," said Jasper, his son—or Jep, as he was called—bending over the lamb in boyish pity, and speaking more to himself than to his companions. These were the squire, his master, and John Sharp, his father—both bathed in the radiance of a fair March day.
"Think you so, my lad? Then give the creature powers of tending, and if it pulls through it shall be yours." So spoke Squire Barlow.
"Do ye mean it, squire?"
"Mean it, yes! Did you ever hear me say what I didn't mean?"
Ah! true; squires were great men in those days, and a very great man was Squire Barlow in the village; his word was law. So Jep gathered up the little outcast, and scudded down to the little cottage he called home, where wee Margaret, his sister, and his gentle-faced mother gave him and his charge a warm welcome; lavished their care and love upon the lamb, until, at last, even the shepherd himself said he would live.
"Spottie"—that was the name the children gave him, because of a mark on his forehead—soon learnt to know his master and mistress, and, oh! their life flowed on, as the fair spring days lengthened, like a happy dream. He was such a dear little romp, and yet so gentle, gamboling in the small orchard behind the house among the pink apple-blossoms, as they drifted down on the sunlit air, going and coming as the young folk called him, and never seemingly wishing to join his kind, as they went down from the high pastures to the green meadows. The squire's son, master Ru, as he was called, came to see "Jep's wonder," so he expressed himself.
Master Ru was a spoilt lad of about Jep's age, (eleven years), overbearing and not very generous; still he was prankish, and full of boyish frolics.
"Well, he's more mine than yours, after all, Jep," said he, one day, an envious sneer on his lips, "as t'was my father's lamb in the first place." But Jep replied, "No, he's mine; the squire gave the little chap to me, and I mean to keep him, Master Ru;" to which speech the young gentleman made no reply, but turned on his heel.
One fine day in autumn, Ru strayed away to the sheep-folds; he often visited them, to have some fun with Jep—to run races with him over the downs, or hunt for squirrels and dormice in the old plantation. Then, hard by this miniature wood, there were some old ruins, with a wonderful echo chamber, where all they uttered was wafted hither and thither as by many weird voices. This was a never-failing source of amusement to them. More than once they had decoyed Jep's father across the downs thereby, thinking he was called, and that urgently.
On that day John Sharp was elsewhere; only Jep and Nip, their dog, were left in trust.
"Let's go and have a round with the old echoes this morning, Jep," proposed the young gentleman, a merry twinkle in his eyes.
"Nay, Master Ru, I must mind the sheep."
"Pooh! what minding do they want, gorging themselves with clover as they are?"
"Ay, that's where 'tis, Master Ru; father's afraid they'll gorge too much; he's told me to watch 'em."
"Well, and what will watching do?"
"I must turn 'em into t'other fold in an hour's time—see, he gave me his watch to reckon by," and Jep held up a bumping, old-fashioned ticker, in his pride of possession.
"Well, an hour is a long time; we could have lots of fun in an hour." Ah! there was mighty persuasion in the boy's tone and dark, handsome face, and Jep, like many another before, faltered between duty and his love of fun.
"Come, your father need never know."
It was very plausible, all that Master Ru said that morning, and Jep never divined the half of what lay in the depths of his prankish, perhaps deceitful, heart.
He hung the watch on a hurdle stake, lest he might smash it in his games, by the side of Nip, sitting a pattern of fidelity and wary watchfulness there; then he accompanied his companion up the sunny hillside, and away to the ruins. Who could estimate the length of an hour, amid the excitement of fun and frolics? Not those two lads. Oh! high revel they held that morning; and when the echoes in the weird old chamber seemed furious at the noise they made, what did Ru do but step outside, shoot the rusty springbolt across the door, thus shutting in poor Jep.
"Upon my word I didn't half intend it," he protested; then Jep cried, with sudden compunction, "Oh! master Ru, how could ye; and the sheep there feedin' and feedin'? What shall I do?
"Do—why climb out of the window, like a man of sense," returned the other with selfish coolness.
"You know I can't do it—I'd break my neck."
"Nonsense! try it on."
As well tell poor Jep to fly as to scale a perpendicular wall, and that his tormenter knew. Oh! it was fun to him to hear the poor lad run about and rave, the echoes catching every sorrowful tone, and tossing them out to him, a legion of words. What a strange waywardness is in the half of us, to find amusement in that which is another's suffering! When at last master Ru let his prisoner out, with much ado, pretended or real, the sun was past its meridian, and the sheep—ah! the sheep—one, two, many of them were beyond the shepherd's tending and doctoring.
"They must e'en die," said he before sundown, with tears in his eyes—and that night Jep wept in the dewy orchard, one hand in wee Margaret's, the other stroking Spottie, with a sore smarting back and the squire's angry dismissal making his heart equally sore and smarting. Master Ru received a reprimand, but then he was a spoilt only son, and a gentleman, while Jep was a poor lad, and should have stuck to duty—so said the squire.
This escapade was but the beginning of troubles, for, as the winter deepened, Jep's father fell ill, and the squire frowned and fumed, and never spoke civilly to Jep when he called at the cottage, where the lad hung about in disgraced idleness.
"We shall have to sell Spottie!" said his mother, in her downheartedness at the expense and poverty falling on her, and the words hung like a weight at her son's heart. Sell Spottie! the children's souls clung to him.
"Father, that pet lamb of Jep Sharp's is more mine than his, you know," is what the squire's son said to him about that time.
"No my son, I gave it to him, and a gift is a gift," spoke the squire in his justice.
"Then buy him for me, father."
"I doubt if the lad would sell it," said the squire.
"Yes, he would; you could make him." His son was importunate; this was his cry, morning, noon, and night; and, at last, his indulgent parent walked to the cottage, to see what could be done.
"I want to buy your son's lamb for mine," said the great man, loftily, to Jep's mother.
"I doubt if he'd sell it, squire; 'twould go hard with him if he did," returned she, her motherly heart throbbing fast.
"He's my father's already," put in young Ru.
"Nay, Sir, the creature was a gift to my son."
"And I offer a fair price for it, so it is doubly mine, as it were."
"Yes, but I can't say yes or no without speaking to the lad," pleaded the gentle mother.
"Well, speak to him," returned squire Barlow, which she did, and the boy shed such a torrent of tears over his pet, that night, when he shut him up in the outhouse, as fairly to startle him.
Sorrowful days followed, after sending his refusal to the Hall, while they waited, and dared not mention the matter to the shepherd, sick nigh to death. And oh! frost and snow lay on the ground, but Spottie nestled and revelled in his hay.
"If you refuse to sell the lamb, you quit my cottage," this was the threat the angered squire sent them.
"The lad simply defies me—it is not the first ill turn he has played me," so he reasoned in his blindness and loftiness, while poor Jep's heart was well-nigh breaking. Still he never flinched or yielded, but locked the innocent lamb into the outhouse, and carried the key in his pocket.
"He'll be sending one of these days to take him away, and he shan't have him—he can't know how I love him," so said the poor boy.
SPOTTIE."
"The squire's servant and Master Ru have been here, lad, for the lamb; and they're coming again to-morrow, and'll burst the outhouse door if ye lock him in. 'Tis all over, lad; ye mustn't resist—surely a roof over your father's head is better than any lamb." These were his mother's tidings, when he came in tired, after a long journey to the doctor's for medicine, one cold spring evening, and Jep bowed his head.
"Mother, I must be with Spottie a while," said he, when it was time for him and wee Margaret to go to bed; and then he stole out into the outhouse, there in the cold and the darkness to weep and ponder over his great trouble. Could he give the darling up? Could he? A sense of wrong, of cruel injustice, made his heart bitter. He had locked himself in, and well he had, for, as he wept, some one tried the outhouse door.
"I'd let it be till to-morrow, Master Ru: 'tis mean, and very like thieving, to steal upon poor folk so, and try to break their locks." It was James, the footman at the Hall, who spoke, and it was Ru who answered him.
"Yes, and he's bound to let me have him, because of his sick father and the house. You see we're offering him a good price, and 'tis my father's lamb, you know."
"Yes; but maybe Jep doesn't think so; still, a fair price is a fair price, and once the money is his, the lamb is yours," returned the servant, and then there was silence again.
"I must e'en bear it like a man, for father's sake," said he, as he stood at the door, under the quiet stars, locking his pet in for the last time. And, on the morrow, before it was light, he led the lamb away over the crisp, frosty grounds, his woolly coat wet with his and Margaret's tears; but the boy was very calm and brave now, with his great sorrow and resolve upon him.
"No, it shall be a free gift; I can't take money for Spottie," said he to the footman, who came out to receive the unconscious animal, and offered him the price of it.
It was very like a miserable dream, that the deed of separation was done; but, anon, the spring smiled itself into bright, glowing days; John Sharpe took to his shepherd duties again, and Jep worked in the garden and longed for he knew not what. He heard that Master Ru had tired of his pet, and that the lamb was to be washed and sheared with the flocks, and then sold. Still, it came to both children as a terrible reality, when they saw him driven down the lane, past their cottage, to the place of shearing—their Spottie, who would be so startled and terrified at rough handling. Their very hearts seemed to cry out in their yearning, as they watched from afar the poor creature's ordeal, his first shearing; and they shivered in the night, as they heard the chill wind of early summer blow, and thought of Spottie bereft of his coat. And on the morrow—ah! those to-morrows, which sadden us or bring us gladness when we least expect it—to-morrow, as they went along the shady lane, what should they espy but Master Ru's pony riderless. No—yes, riderless, for he, poor lad, was being dragged along by one foot in the stirrup, over the hard road.
"Oh, my!" cried Jep, and then he held his breath and felt ready to die. Should he dash in and try to save him—he who had robbed him of Spottie, only to tire of him and cast him off? Yes, yes—all that was noble in the boy's soul cried—yes; and a low, soft voice stealing as from afar whispered—yes; so he sprang to the rescue, as the horse came up.
"Margaret, could ye dare to get near and loose his foot?" said he to his scared little sister—and she dared, like the small brave woman she was.
Once captured, the pony was gentle as a lamb. Jep tied him to a strong hedge-stake, and then came to his prostrate master. The poor fellow was in a sad maze of pain and half insensibility; it was not till the next day that they were sure he was not seriously hurt. And then? Well, the squire walked up to the shepherd's cottage, and made its inmates glad with the words he spoke.
"I thank your children for what they did for my son, and he thanks them also. I bought their lamb and never paid for it, which I do now, and my son gives it back to them, as—as—" the proud man faltered, "as a peace-offering, if you like to call it so; and Jep may take his old place with the sheep."
Oh! the joyful bringing of meek Spottie to his home again. The poor bewildered animal understood not the half of what was happening, but he gazed gratefully around at them when they covered his shorn back with Jep's jacket, thinking he must be cold.
"What did the squire call him, Jep—a peace-offering?" asked wee Margaret.
"Yes, that's about the word."
"And what's that?"
"Some'at as makes all smooth and above board, you know, when everything was wrong."
"Is it like"—an awe crept into the child's eyes and voice—"like Jesus?"
"Ah, like him," returned Jep, soberly.
"Oh! Jep, and He's called a Lamb in the Bible."
Was this lamb of earth shadowing forth to the minds of the simple children somewhat of the heavenly? If so, then the trouble that had come to Spottie's master was not in vain. Certainly he was a bond between the cottage and the Hall, and Jep was Master Ru's head shepherd years afterwards, when John Sharp and his old master had passed away.
