FOOTNOTES:
[3] Every boy and girl should read this pretty fairy story.
New Zealand Children.
New Zealand children are pretty, dark-eyed, smooth-cheeked little creatures, with clear skins of burnt umber color, and the reddest mouths in the world, until the girl grows up and her mother tattooes her lips blue, for gentility's sake.
All day they live in the open air, unless during a violent storm. But they are perfectly healthy and very clean, for the first thing they do is to plunge into the sea water. Besides this, they take baths in warm springs that abound everywhere, and which keep their skins in good order. As to their breakfast, I am afraid that often they have some very unpleasant things to eat—stale shark, for instance, and sour corn bread—so sour that you could not swallow it, and boiled fern root, or the pulp of fern stems, or crawfish.
Even if their father had happened to cut down a tall palm the day before, in order to take what white people call the "palm cabbage" out of it's very top, I'm afraid he would not share this dainty with the children. I am not sure he would offer even their mother a bite. It would be literally a bite if he did, for when people get together to eat in New Zealand, one takes a piece of something from the basket in which food is served, bites out a mouthful and hands it to the next, who does the same, and passes it to his neighbor, and so on until it is all gone, and some other morsel is begun upon.
Sixty or seventy years ago New Zealanders had never seen a pig or any animal larger than a cat. But about that time, one Captain King, feeling that a nation without pork and beans and succotash could never come to any good, brought them some Indian corn and some beans, and taught them how to plant and cultivate them, and shortly sent them some fine pigs, not doubting but that they would understand what to do with them without instruction.
However, the New Zealanders had no idea what the pigs were sent for, and everybody asked everybody else about it, until one—the smart fellow who knows it all—said that he had heard all about them from a sailor, and that they were horses! Oh, certainly they were horses! The sailor had described them perfectly—long heads, pointed ears, broad backs, four legs, and a tail. They were to ride upon. Great chiefs always rode them where the sailors lived.
So the New Zealand chiefs mounted the pigs, and when Captain King came to see how everything was going on, they had ridden them to death—all but a few obstinate ones, who had eaten up the maize as soon as it grew green, and finished up the beans by way of dessert before the vines were halfway up the poles.
Captain King did not despair, however. He took two natives home with him, taught them all about the cultivation of maize, and the rearing of pigs; and pork is now as popular in New Zealand as it is in Cincinnati. You can hardly take a walk without meeting a mother-pig and a lot of squealing piglets; and people pet them more than they ever did or ever will in their native lands. Here, you know, when baby wants something to play with, some one finds him a kitten, a ball of white floss, or a little Maltese, or a black morsel with green eyes and a red mouth; but in New Zealand they give him a very, very young pig, smooth as a kid glove, with little slits of eyes, and his curly tail twisted up into a little tight knot; and the brown baby hauls it about and pulls its ears and goes to sleep hugging it fast; and there they lie together, the piglet grunting comfortably, the baby snoring softly, for hours at a time.
It is pleasanter to think of a piggy as a pet than as pork, and pleasanter still to know that the little New Zealanders have something really nice to eat—the finest sweet potatoes that grow anywhere.
They say that sweet potatoes, which they call kumere, is the food good spirits eat, and they sing a song about them, and so do the mothers, which is very pretty. The song tells how, long ago, Ezi-Ki and his wife, Ko Paui, sailing on the water in a boat, were wrecked, and would have been drowned but for good New Zealanders, who rescued them. And Ko Paui saw that the children had very little that was wholesome for them to eat, and showed her gratitude by returning, all by herself, to Tawai, to bring them seeds of the kumere. And how storms arose and she was in danger, but at last arrived in New Zealand safely and taught them how to plant and raise this excellent food. And every verse of the song ends with: "Praise the memory of beautiful Ko Paui, wife of Ezi-Ki, forever."
Little New Zealanders run about with very little on, as a general thing, but they all have cloaks—they call them "mats." Their mother sits on the ground with a little weaving frame about two feet high before her, and makes them of what is called New Zealand flax. The long threads hang down in rows of fringes, one over the other, and shine like silk. They have also water-proofs, or "rain-mats," made of long polished leaves that shed the water. When a little New Zealand girl pulls this over her head she does not mind any shower. You may see a circle of these funny objects sitting in the pelting rain, talking to each other and looking just like tiny haystacks.
New Zealand children have, strange to say, many toys. They swim like ducks, and, as I have said, revel in the natural hot baths, where they will sit and talk by the hour. In fact, the life of a New Zealand child is full of occupation, and both girls and boys are bright, light-hearted, and intelligent.
The Breeze from the Peak.
A stiff Sea Breeze was having the wildest, merriest time, rocking the sailboats and fluttering the sails, chasing the breakers far up the beach, sending the fleecy cloudsails scudding across the blue ocean above, making old ocean roar with delight at its mad pranks, while all the little wavelets dimpled with laughter; the Cedar family on the shore, old and rheumatic as they were, laughed till their sides ached, and the children shouted and cheered upon the beach. How fresh and strong and life-giving it was. The children wondered why it was so jolly, but never guessed the reason; and its song was so wonderfully sweet, but only the waves understood the words of the wild, strange melody.
"I have come," it sang, "from a land far across the water. My home was on the mountain top, high up among the clouds. Such a white, white world as it was! The mountain peak hooded in snow-ermine, and the gray-white clouds floating all around me; and it was so very still; my voice, the only sound to be heard, and that was strange and muffled. But though the fluffy clouds were so silent, they were gay companions and full of fun; let them find me napping once, and, puff! Down they would send the feathery snow, choking and blinding me, then would come a wild chase; once in a mad frolic my breath parted the clouds and I saw down the mountain side! Never shall I forget the picture I saw that day, framed by the silvery clouds. I, who had known nothing but that pale stillness and bitter cold, for the first time saw life and color, and a shimmering, golden light, resting on tree and river and valley farm; do you wonder I forgot the mountain peak, the clouds—everything that was behind, and, without even a last farewell, spread my wings and flew swiftly down the mountain side? Very soon I was far below that snowy cloud world, with a bright blue sky above me, and patches of red gravel and green moss and gray lichens beneath. Once I stopped to rest upon a great rock, moss-covered, and with curling ferns at its base; from its side flowed a crystal spring, so clear and cool that I caught up all I could carry to refresh me on my journey; but it assured me I need not take that trouble, for it was also on its way down the mountain side.
"'But you have no wings,' I said. 'Are you sure of that?' answered the spring, and I thought she looked up in an odd way at some of my cloud friends, who had followed in my track; then she added: 'And, even if you are right, there is more than one way to reach the foot of the mountain; I am sure you will find me there before you.'
"I could not but doubt this, for I am swifter than any bird of the air, but she only laughed at me as I flew on, and once, looking back, I saw she had started on her journey, and was creeping slowly along a tiny thread of water, almost hidden in the grass. I next floated upon some dark green trees, that sent out a spicy odor as I touched their boughs, and when I moved they sang a low, tuneful melody; their song was of the snowy mountain peak, the clouds, the bubbling spring, the sunshine and the green grass; yes, and there was something else, a deep undertone that I did not then understand, and the melody was a loom that wove them all into a living harmony; some of my breezes are there still, listening to the Pine Trees' song; but I hurried on, the grass grew green and luscious along my way, and the sheep, with their baby lambs, were pastured upon it; rills and brooks joined hands, and went racing faster and faster down between the rocks; one of the brooks had grown quite wide and deep, and as it leaped and sparkled and sang its way into the valley, where it flowed into a wide, foaming stream, it looked back with a gay laugh, and I saw in its depths the face of the little spring I had left far up the mountain side.
"It was summer in the valley, and the air was scented with roses and ripening fruits. It was very warm and sultry, and I fanned the children's faces until they laughed and clapped their hands, crying out: 'It's the breeze from the mountain peak! How fresh and sweet and cool it is.'
"I rocked the baby-birds to sleep in their leafy cradles. I entered the houses, making the curtains flutter, and filling the rooms with my mountain perfume. I longed to stay forever in that beautiful summer land, but now the mountain stream beckoned me on. Swiftly I flew along its banks, turning the windmills met on the way, and swelling out the sails of the boats until the sailors sang for joy. On and on we journeyed; my mountain friend, joined by a hundred meadow-brooks, grew deeper and wider as it flowed along, and its breath began to have a queer, salty odor. One day I heard a throbbing music far off that sounded like the undertone in the Pine Trees' melody; then very soon we reached this great body of water, and, looking across, could see no sign of land anywhere; but still we journeyed on. I feared at first that my friend was lost to me, but often she laughed from the crest of the wave, or glistened in a white cap, cheering my way to this sunny shore; and now, at last, we are here, laden with treasure for each one of you. Take it, and be glad!"
But the children did not understand the song of the Sea Breeze, nor did they know what made its breath so wonderfully sweet. But all day long they breathed in its fragrance, and gathered up the treasures brought to their feet by the tiny spring born up in the clouds.
"It's a beautiful world," they cried.
And at night, when the Sea Breeze was wakeful, and sang to the waves of the mountain peak, the children would lift their heads from the white pillows to listen, whispering softly to one another:
"Hear the Sea Breeze and the ocean moaning on the shore. Are they lonely without us, I wonder?"
The Bremen Town Musicians.
by the brothers grimm.
[When I was a child I used to love the story which is coming next. It is very funny and I like it still.]
There was once an ass whose master had made him carry sacks to the mill for many a long year, but whose strength began at last to fail, so that each day as it came found him less capable of work. Then his master began to think of turning him out, but the ass, guessing that something was in the wind that boded him no good, ran away, taking the road to Bremen; for there he thought he might get an engagement as town musician. When he had gone a little way he found a hound lying by the side of the road panting, as if he had run a long way.
"Now, Holdfast, what are you so out of breath about!" said the ass.
"Oh, dear!" said the dog, "now I am old, I get weaker every day, and can do no good in the hunt, so, as my master was going to have me killed, I have made my escape; but now, how am I to gain my living?"
"I will tell you what," said the ass, "I am going to Bremen to become town musician. You may as well go with me, and take up music too. I can play the lute, and you can beat the drum."
The dog consented, and they walked on together. It was not long before they came to a cat sitting in the road, looking as dismal as three wet days.
"Now, then, what is the matter with you, old friend?" said the ass.
"I should like to know who would be cheerful when his neck is in danger?" answered the cat. "Now that I am old, my teeth are getting blunt, and I would rather sit by the oven and purr than run about after mice, and my mistress wants to drown me; so I took myself off; but good advice is scarce, and I do not know what is to become of me."
"Go with us to Bremen," said the ass, "and become town musician. You understand serenading."
The cat thought well of the idea, and went with them accordingly. After that the three travelers passed by a yard, and a cock was perched on the gate crowing with all his might.
"Your cries are enough to pierce bone and marrow," said the ass; "what is the matter?"
"I have foretold good weather for Lady-day, so that all the shirts may be washed and dried; and now on Sunday morning company is coming, and the mistress has told the cook that I must be made into soup, and this evening my neck is to be wrung, so that I am crowing with all my might while I can."
"You had better go with us, Chanticleer," said the ass. "We are going to Bremen. At any rate that will be better than dying. You have a powerful voice, and when we are all performing together it will have a very good effect."
So the cock consented, and they went on, all four together.
But Bremen was too far off to be reached in one day, and toward evening they came to a wood, where they determined to pass the night. The ass and the dog lay down under a large tree; the cat got up among the branches, and the cock flew up to the top, as that was the safest place for him. Before he went to sleep he looked all around him to the four points of the compass, and perceived in the distance a little light shining, and he called out to his companions that there must be a house not far off, as he could see a light, so the ass said:
"We had better get up and go there, for these are uncomfortable quarters."
The dog began to fancy a few bones, not quite bare, would do him good. And they all set off in the direction of the light, and it grew larger and brighter until at last it led them to a robber's house, all lighted up. The ass, being the biggest, went up to the window and looked in.
"Well, what do you see?" asked the dog.
"What do I see?" answered the ass; "here is a table set out with splendid eatables and drinkables, and robbers sitting at it and making themselves very comfortable."
"That would just suit us," said the cock.
"Yes, indeed, I wish we were there," said the ass. Then they consulted together how it should be managed so as to get the robbers out of the house, and at last they hit on a plan. The ass was to place his forefeet on the window-sill, the dog was to get on the ass' back, the cat on the top of the dog, and lastly the cock was to fly up and perch on the cat's head. When that was done, at a given signal, they all began to perform their music. The ass brayed, the dog barked, the cat mewed, and the cock crowed; then they burst through into the room, breaking all the panes of glass. The robbers fled at the dreadful sound; they thought it was some goblin, and fled to the wood in the utmost terror. Then the four companions sat down to the table, and made free with the remains of the meal, and feasted as if they had been hungry for a month. And when they had finished they put out the lights, and each sought out a sleeping-place to suit his nature and habits. The ass laid himself down outside on the dunghill, the dog behind the door, the cat on the hearth by the warm ashes, and the cock settled himself in the cockloft, and as they were all tired with their long journey they soon fell fast asleep.
When midnight drew near, and the robbers from afar saw that no light was burning, and that everything appeared quiet, their captain said to them that he thought that they had run away without reason, telling one of them to go and reconnoitre. So one of them went and found everything quite quiet; he went into the kitchen to strike a light, and taking the glowing fiery eyes of the cat for burning coals, he held a match to them in order to kindle it. But the cat, not seeing the joke, flew into his face, spitting and scratching. Then he cried out in terror, and ran to get out at the back door, but the dog, who was lying there, ran at him and bit his leg; and as he was rushing through the yard by the dunghill the ass struck out and gave him a great kick with his hindfoot; and the cock, who had been awakened with the noise, and felt quite brisk, cried out, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
Then the robber got back as well as he could to his captain, and said, "Oh dear! in that house there is a gruesome witch, and I felt her breath and her long nails in my face; and by the door there stands a man who stabbed me in the leg with a knife, and in the yard there lies a black spectre, who beat me with his wooden club; and above, upon the roof, there sits the justice, who cried, 'bring that rogue here!' And so I ran away from the place as fast as I could."
From that time forward the robbers never returned to that house, and the four Bremen town musicians found themselves so well off where they were, that there they stayed. And the person who last related this tale is still living, as you see.
A Very Queer Steed, and Some Strange Adventures.
told after ariosto, by elizabeth armstrong.
An Italian poet named Ariosto, who lived before our grandfathers were born, has told some very funny stories, one of which I will tell you. Not contented with mounting his heroes on ordinary horses, he gave one of them a splendid winged creature to ride; a fiery steed with eyes of flame, and the great pinions of an eagle. This creature's name was Hippogrif. Let me tell you how Prince Roger caught the Hippogrif, and then you will want to know something about his queer journey. I may as well tell you that Prince Roger belonged to the Saracens, and that he loved a lady of France named Bradamante, also that an old enchanter had captured both the prince and the lady and gotten them into his power. They of course were planning a way of escape, and hoped to go off together, and be married, and live happily ever after, but this was not the intention of their captor. The two prisoners, who were allowed a good deal of liberty, were standing together one day, when Bradamante said to Roger:
"Look! there is the old man's Hippogrif still standing quietly by us. I have a mind to catch him and take a ride on him, for he is mine by right of conquest since I have overcome his master." So she went toward the winged steed and stretched out her hand to take him by the bridle; but the Hippogrif darted up into the air, and flew a hundred yards or so away before he settled again upon the ground. Again and again she tried to catch him, but he always flew off before she could touch him, and then came down to earth a little distance away, where he waited for her to get near him again, just as you may see a butterfly flit from one cabbage-row to another, and always manage to keep a yard or two ahead of the boy who chases it. At last, however, he alighted close by the side of Roger, whereupon the Prince cried to his lady: "I will catch him and give him a ride to break him in for you;" and, seizing hold of the bridle in his left hand, he vaulted on to the back of the Hippogrif, who stood still without attempting to escape, as if to acknowledge that here he had found his proper master. But the Prince was no sooner fairly in the saddle than his strange steed shot up fifty feet straight into the air, and, taking the bit between his teeth, with a dozen flaps of his mighty wings carried his unwilling rider far away over the mountains and out of sight of the unfortunate Bradamante.
You must know that though Roger was quite unable to hold his Hippogrif, and soon gave up the attempt in despair, the winged monster was really guided by something stronger than bit or bridle, and every motion of his headlong flight was controlled by the will of an invisible master. The whole affair, in fact, was the work of the wonderful enchanter Atlas, who was still persuaded that great dangers awaited his beloved Prince in the land of France, and determined to use all his cunning to remove him to a place of safety. With this design he had watched the noble lovers from his hiding place, and guided every movement of the Hippogrif by the mere muttering of spells; and by the same means he still steered the creature's course through the air, for he was so powerful an enchanter that he could make his purpose take effect from one end of the earth to the other. In the old days of fairy lore, enchanters were very numerous, and always found plenty to do.
Roger had a firm seat and a heart that knew no fear, and at any other time would have enjoyed nothing better than such an exciting adventure; but now he was terribly vexed at being separated again from his beloved Bradamante, and at being carried away from the land where Agramant his King and the Emperor Charlemagne were mustering all their forces for the great struggle. However, there was no help for it, for the Hippogrif flew through the air at such a pace that he soon left the realms of Europe far behind him, and after a flight of a few hours he had carried the Prince half round the globe. Roger in fact found himself hovering over the Fortunate Islands, which lie in the far Eastern seas beyond the shores of India. Here he checked his course, and descended in wide circles to the earth, and at length alighted on the largest and most beautiful island of all the group. Green meadows and rich fields were here watered by clear streams; and lovely groves of palm and myrtle, cedar and banyan, spread their thick shade over the gentle slopes of hill, and offered a refuge from the heat of the mid-day sun. Birds of paradise flashed like jewels in the blazing light, and modest brown nightingales sang their sweet refrain to the conceited parrots, who sat admiring themselves among the branches; while under the trees hares and rabbits frisked merrily about, and stately stags led their graceful does to drink at the river banks. Upon this fertile tract, which stretched down to the very brink of the sea, the Hippogrif descended; and his feet no sooner touched the ground than Prince Roger leaped from his back, and made fast his bridle to the stem of a spreading myrtle-bush. Then he took off his helmet and cuirass, and went to bathe his face and hands in the cool waters of the brook; for his pulses were throbbing from his swift ride, and he wanted nothing so much as an hour or two of repose. Such rapid flying through the air is very wearying.
Could he have retained his wonderful horse, there is no knowing what splendid adventures might have befallen him, but at a critical moment, the Hippogrif vanished, and Prince Roger had to fare as best he could on foot. After a time he met Bradamante again, he left the Saracen religion and became a Christian, and he and Bradamante were united in wedlock. He had formerly been a heathen.
Bradamante had a cousin named Astulf, who finally by a series of events became the owner of the winged steed, and on this animal he made the queerest trip ever heard of, a journey to the Mountains of the Moon. The Hippogrif soared up and up, and up, till tall palms looked like bunches of fern beneath him, and he penetrated belts of thick white clouds, and finally drew his bridle rein on summits laid out in lovely gardens, where flowers and fruit abounded, and the climate was soft and balmy as that of June. The traveler walked through a fine grove, in the centre of which rose a stately palace of the purest ivory, large enough to shelter a nation of kings within its walls, and ornamented throughout with carving more exquisite than that of an Indian casket.
While Astulf was gazing on this scene of splendor he was approached by a man of noble and courteous aspect, dressed in the toga of an ancient Roman, and bound about the brows with a laurel chaplet, who gave him grave and kindly salutation, saying: "Hail, noble Sir Duke, and marvel not that I know who you are, or that I expected you to-day in these gardens. For this is the Earthly Paradise, where poets have their dwelling after death; and I am the Mantuan Virgil, who sang the deeds of Æneas, and was the friend of the wise Emperor Augustus. But if you wish to know the reason of your coming hither, it is appointed for you to get back the lost wits of the peerless Count Roland, whose senses have been put away in the moon among the rest of the earth's missing rubbish. Now the mountains on the top of which we stand are called the Mountains of the Moon, because they are the only place from which an ascent to the moon is possible; and this very night I intend to guide you thither on your errand. But first, I pray you, take your dinner with us in our palace, for you have need of refreshment to prepare you for so strange a journey." I need hardly tell you that Astulf was delighted at being chosen to go to the moon on so worthy a mission, and thanked the noble poet a thousand times for his courtesy and kindness. But Virgil answered: "It is a pleasure to be of any service to such valiant warriors as Count Roland and yourself;" and thereupon he took the Duke through the shady alleys to the ivory palace which stood in the midst of the garden.
Here was Astulf conducted with much ceremony to a refectory where a banquet was spread. The great doors were thrown open, and the company of poets ranged themselves in two rows, while their King passed down between their ranks. He was a majestic old man with curly beard and hair, and his broad forehead was furrowed with lines that betokened a life of noble thought; but alas! he was totally blind, and leaned upon the shoulder of a beautiful Greek youth who guided him. Every head was bowed reverently as he passed, and Virgil whispered to his guest: "That is Homer, the Father and King of poets."
At the end of the refectory was a dais with a table at which Homer took his seat, while another long table stretched down the middle of the hall; but Astulf saw with surprise that three places were laid on the upper board, though the King was apparently to sit there alone. But Virgil explained the reason, and said: "You must understand, Sir Duke, that it is our custom to lay a place for every poet who will ever ascend to this Earthly Paradise; and as yet there is none here worthy to sit beside our Father Homer. But after some five hundred and fifty years the seat at his left hand will be taken by the Florentine Dante, who will find here the rest and happiness denied to him in his lifetime. The place on the right of the King, however, will remain vacant three hundred years more; but then it will be filled by a countryman of your own, and Shakespeare will receive the honor due to him as the third great poet of the world." With these words Virgil took his seat at the head of the lower table, and motioned Astulf to an empty place at his right hand, saying: "This seat also will remain a long while vacant, being kept for another of your countrymen, who will come hither after more than a thousand years. He will be reviled and slandered in his lifetime; but after his death the very fools who abused him will pretend to admire and understand him, while here among his brethren he will be welcomed with joy and high honor." So Astulf sat in the seat of this poet to be honored in the future, and made a hearty dinner off nectar and ambrosia, "which are mighty fine viands," as he afterward told his friends at home; "but a hungry man, on the whole, would prefer good roast beef and a slice of plum pudding for a steady diet." Dinner being over, the pilgrim was led by the obliging poet to a pathway past the silent and lonesome River of Oblivion, where most mortal names and fames are forever lost, only a few being rescued from its waves and set on golden scrolls in the temple of Immortality.
Now when they had looked on for a while at this notable sight they left the River Oblivion and proceeded to the Valley of Lost Lumber. It was a long though narrow valley shut in between two lofty mountain ridges, and in it were stored away all the things which men lose or waste on earth. Here they found an infinite number of lovers' sighs, beyond which lay the useless moments lost in folly and crime, and the long wasted leisure of ignorant and idle men. Next came the vain desires and foolish wishes that can never take effect, and these were heaped together in such quantities that they blocked up the greater part of the valley. Here, too, were mountains of gold and silver which foolish politicians throw away in bribing voters to return them to Congress; a little farther on was an enormous pile of garlands with steel gins concealed among their flowers, which Virgil explained to be flatteries; while a heap of grasshoppers which had burst themselves in keeping up their shrill, monotonous chirp, represented, he said, the dedications and addresses which servile authors used to write in praise of unworthy patrons. In the middle of the valley lay a great pool of spilt broth, and this signified the alms which rich men are too selfish to give away in their lifetime but bequeath to charities in their wills, to be paid out of money they can no longer use. Next Astulf came upon numbers of beautiful dolls from Paris, which little girls throw aside because they prefer their dear old bundles of rags with beads for eyes; and one of the biggest hillocks in all the place was formed of a pile of knives lost out of careless schoolboys' pockets.
Now, when Astulf grew old and had boys and girls of his own, they used to clamber on his knee in the twilight and ask for a story, and oh! how they wished for the Hippogrif. Sometimes the old knight said that the Hippogrif was dead, but I have known people to shut their eyes and climb on his back, and cling to his mane, and go flying over the ocean and the hills clear through to the other end of the world. For Hippogrif is only a name for Fancy, and the Valley of Lost Lumber and the River of Oblivion and the Temple of Immortality exist for every one of us.
Freedom's Silent Host.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
There are many silent sleepers
In our country here and there,
Heeding not our restless clamor,
Bugle's peal nor trumpet's blare.
Soft they slumber,
Past forever earthly care.
O'er their beds the grasses creeping
Weave a robe of royal fold,
And the daisies add their homage,
Flinging down a cloth of gold.
Soft they slumber,
Once the gallant and the bold.
Oft as Spring, with dewy fingers,
Brings a waft of violet,
Sweet arbutus, dainty primrose,
On their lowly graves we set.
Soft they slumber,
We their lives do not forget.
Childish hands with rose and lily
Showering the furrows green,
Childish songs that lift and warble
Where the sleepers lie serene
(Soft they slumber)
Tell how true our hearts have been.
Wave the dear old flag above them,
Play the sweet old bugle call,
And because they died in honor
O'er them let the flowerets fall.
Soft they slumber,
Dreaming, stirring not at all.
Presence of Mind.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
Such a forlorn little sunbonnet bobbing here and there among the bean poles in the garden back of Mr. Mason's house! It seemed as if the blue gingham ruffles and the deep cape must know something about the troubled little face they hid away, for they hung in a limp fashion that was enough to tell anybody who saw them just how badly the wearer of the sunbonnet was feeling. She had, as she thought, more than her share of toil and trouble in this busy world, and to-day she had a specially good reason to carry a heavy heart in her little breast.
All Morningside was in a perfect flutter of anticipation and excitement. There had never been a lawn party in the little village before, and Effie Dean, twelve years old to-day, was to have a lawn party, to which every child for miles, to say nothing of a gay troop of cousins and friends from the city, had been invited. Everybody was going, of course.
The Deans had taken for the season a beautiful old homestead, the owners of which were in Europe. They were having gala times there, and they managed to draw all the young folks of the village in to share them. All, indeed, except one little girl. Cynthia Mason did not expect to go to many festivities, but with her whole heart she longed to see what a lawn party might be. The very name sounded beautiful to her, and she said it over and over wistfully as she went slowly down the door-yard between the tigerlilies and the hollyhocks, through the rough gate which hung so clumsily on its leathern hinges, and, with her basket by her side, began her daily task of picking beans.
Cynthia Mason had no mother. Her father loved his little daughter and was kind to her, but he was a silent man, who was not very successful, and who had lost hope when his wife had died. People said he had never been the same man since then. His sister, Cynthia's Aunt Kate, was an active, stirring woman, who liked to be busy herself and to hurry other people. She kept the house as clean as a new pin, had the meals ready to the moment, and saw that everybody's clothing was washed and mended; but she never felt as if she had time for the kissing and petting which is to some of us as needful as our daily food.
In her way she was fond of Cynthia, and would have taken good care of the child if she had been ill or crippled. But as her niece was perfectly well, and not in want of salts or senna, Aunt Kate was often rather tried with her fondness for dreaming in the daytime, or dropping down to read a bit from the newspaper in the midst of the sweeping and dusting.
There were, in truth, a good many worries in the little weather-beaten house, and Miss Mason had her own trouble in making both ends meet. She was taking summer boarders now to help along, and when Cynthia had asked her if she might go to Effie's party, the busy woman had been planning how to crowd another family from New York into the already well-filled abode, so she had curtly replied:
"Go to a lawn party! What nonsense! Why, no child. You cannot be spared." And she had thought no more about it.
"Step around quickly this morning, Cynthy," she called from the buttery window. "Beans take for ever and ever to cook, you know. I can't imagine what's got into the child," she said to herself. "She walks as if her feet were shod with lead."
The blue gingham sunbonnet kept on bobbing up and down among the bean poles, when suddenly there was a rush and a rustle, two arms were thrown around Cynthia's waist, and a merry voice said:
"You never heard me, did you, till I was close by? You're going to the party, of course, Cynthy?"
"No, Lulu," was the sad answer. "There are new boarders coming, and Aunt Kate cannot do without me."
"I never heard of such a thing!" cried eleven-year old Lulu. "Not going! Cannot do without you! Why, Cynthy, it will be just splendid: tennis and croquet and games, and supper in a tent! ice cream and everything nice, and a birthday cake with a ring, and twelve candles on it. And there are to be musicians out of doors, and fireworks in the evening. Why, there are men hanging the lanterns in the trees now—to see where they ought to be hung, I suppose," said practical Lulu. "Not let you go? I'm sure she will, if I ask her." Lulu started bravely for the house, intent on pleading for her friend.
But Cynthia called her back. "Don't go, Lulu, dear. Aunt Kate is very busy this morning. She does not think I care so much, and she won't like it either, if she thinks I'm spending my time talking with you, when the beans ought to be on the fire. A bean dinner," observed Cynthia, wisely, "takes so long to get ready."
"Does it?" said Lulu, beginning to pick with all her might. She was a sweet little thing, and she hated to have her friend left out of the good time.
As for Cynthia, the sunbonnet fell back on her neck, showing a pair of soft eyes swimming with tears, and a sorrowful little mouth quivering in its determination not to cry.
"I won't be a baby!" she said to herself, resolutely. Presently there came a sharp call from the house.
"Cynthia Elizabeth! are you never coming with those beans? Make haste, child, do?"
Aunt Kate said "Cynthia Elizabeth" only when her patience was almost gone; so, with a quick answer, "Yes, Aunt Kate, I'm coming," Cynthia left Lulu and ran back to the buttery, sitting down, as soon as she reached it, to the weary task of stringing the beans.
Lulu, meanwhile, who was an idle little puss—her mother's pet—sauntered up the road and met Effie Dean's mother, who was driving by herself, and had stopped to gather some late wild roses.
"If there isn't Lulu Pease!" she said. "Lulu dear, won't you get those flowers for me? Thank you so much. And you're coming this afternoon?"
"Yes, 'm," said Lulu, with a dimple showing itself in each plump cheek; "but I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Dean, that my dearest friend, Cynthy Mason, has to stay at home. Her Aunt Kate can't spare her. Cynthy never can go anywhere nor do anything like the rest of us."
"Cynthia Mason? That's the pretty child with the pale face and dark eyes who sits in the pew near the minister's, isn't it?" said Mrs. Dean. "Why, she must not stay at home to-day." And acting on a sudden impulse, the lady said good morning to Lulu, took a brisk turn along the road and back, and presently drew rein at Mr. Mason's door.
She came straight into the buttery, having rapped to give notice of her presence, and with a compliment to Miss Mason on the excellence of her butter, she asked whether that lady could supply her with a few more pounds next week; then her eyes falling on the little figure on the doorstep, she said: "By-the-way, Miss Mason, your niece is to be one of Effie's guests to-day, is she not? Can you, as a great favor, let her come home with me now? I have to drive to the Centre on some errands, and Cynthia, who is a helpful little woman, I can see, can be of so much use if you will part with her for the day. It will be very neighborly of you to say yes. I know it's a good deal to ask, but my own girls are very busy, and I wish you would let me keep Cynthia until to-morrow. I'll take good care of her, and she shall be at home early. Lend her to me, please?"
Mrs. Dean, with much gentleness of manner, had the air of a person to whom nobody ever says no, and Cynthia could hardly believe she heard aright when her aunt said, pleasantly:
"Cynthia's a good girl, but she's like all children—she needs to be kept at her work. She can go if you really wish it, Mrs. Dean, and I'll send for my cousin Jenny to stay here to-day. There are new boarders coming," she said, to explain her need of outside assistance. Miss Mason prided herself on getting through her work alone; hired help she couldn't afford, but she would not have had any one "under-foot," as she expressed it, had money been plenty with her.
"You are a wonderful woman," said Mrs. Dean, surveying the spotless tables and walls. "You are always so brisk, and such a perfect housekeeper! I wish, dear Miss Mason, you could look in on us yourself in the evening. It will be a pretty sight."
Miss Mason was gratified. "Run away, Cynthia; put on your best frock, and don't keep Mrs. Dean waiting," she said. In spite of her independence, she was rather pleased that her boarders should see the low phaeton at her door, the brown horse with the silver-mounted harness, and the dainty lady, in her delicate gray gown and driving gloves, chatting affably while waiting for Cynthia to dress. She offered Mrs. Dean a glass of her creamy milk, and it was gratefully accepted.
Cynthia came back directly. Her preparations had not taken her long. Her "best frock" was of green delaine with yellow spots—"a perfect horror" the lady thought; it had been purchased at a bargain by Mr. Mason, who knew nothing about what was suitable for a child. Some lace was basted in the neck, and her one article of ornament, an old-fashioned coral necklace with a gold clasp, was fastened just under the lace. The stout country-made shoes were not becoming to the child's feet, nor was the rim of white stocking visible above them at all according to the present styles. She was pretty as a picture, but not in the least arrayed as the other girls would be, whether from elegant city homes or the ample farm houses round about.
How her eyes sparkled and her color came and went when Mrs. Dean told her to step in and seat herself, then, following, took the reins, while Bonny Bess, the sagacious pony, who knew every tone of his mistress' voice, trotted merrily off!
Having secured her little guest, Mrs. Dean thought she would give her as much pleasure as she could. So they took a charming drive before pony's head was turned to the village. The phaeton glided swiftly over smooth, hard roads, between rich fields of corn, over a long bridge, and at last rolled into Main Street, where Mrs. Dean made so many purchases that the vehicle was soon quite crowded with packages and bundles.
"Now for home, my little one," said the lady, turning; and away they flew over hill and hollow till they reached the broad, wide open gates of the place known to everybody as Fernbrake, and skimming gaily down the long flower-bordered avenue, they stopped at the door of the beautiful house. The verandas looked inviting with their easy chairs and rockers, but no one was sitting there, so Cynthia followed her hostess shyly up the wide stairway, into a cool, airy room with white drapery at the windows, an upright piano standing open, and books everywhere, showing the taste of its occupants. Oh, those books! Cynthia's few story-books had been read until she knew them by heart. Though in these days it was seldom she was allowed to sit with a book in her hand, a book-loving child always manages somehow to secure a little space for the coveted pleasure. And here were shelves just overflowing with dainty, gaily covered volumes, and low cases crowded, and books lying about on window-seats and lounges.
Mrs. Dean observed the hungry, eager gaze, and taking off the wide-brimmed hat with its white ribbon bow and ends, she seated the little girl comfortably, and put a story into her hands, telling her to amuse herself until Effie and Florence should come.
A half-hour sped by, and then, answering the summons of a bell in the distance, the two daughters of the house appeared, and Cynthia was asked to go with them to luncheon.
Mrs. Dean was a little worried about Cynthia's dress, and was revolving in her mind whether she might not make her look more like the other children by lending her for the occasion a white dress of Florrie's, when, to her regret, she observed that Florrie's eyes were resting very scornfully on the faded green delaine and the stout coarse shoes.
Now if there is anything vulgar and unpardonable, it is this, children—that, being a hostess, you are ashamed of anything belonging to a guest. From the moment a guest enters your door he or she is sacred, and no true lady or gentlemen ever criticises, much less apologizes for, the dress of a visitor. Mrs. Dean was sorry to observe the sneer on Florrie's usually sweet face, and glancing from it to Cynthia's, she was struck with the contrast.
Never had Cynthia in her life been seated at a table so beautiful. The tumblers of ruby and amber glass, the plates with their delicate fruit and flower decoration, every plate a picture, the bouquet in the centre reflected in a beautiful little round mirror, the pretty silver tubs filled with broken ice, the shining knives and forks, and the dainty tea equipage, were so charming that she felt like a princess in an enchanted castle. But she expressed no surprise. She behaved quietly, made no mistakes, used her knife and fork like a little lady, and was as unconscious of herself and her looks as the carnation pink is of its color and shape.
Mrs. Dean meditated. She did not quite like to ask this child to wear a borrowed dress, and she felt that Florrie needed to take a lesson in politeness. Drawing the latter aside, she said, "My darling, I am sorry you should treat my little friend rudely; you have hardly spoken to her."
"I can't help it, mamma. She isn't one of the set we go with. A little common thing like that! See what shoes she has on. And her hands are so red and coarse! They look as if she washed dishes for a living."
"Something very like it is the case, I'm afraid, Florrie dear. I fear she has a very dull time at home. But the child is a little lady. I shall feel very much ashamed if she is more a lady than my own daughters. See, Effie has made friends with her."
"And so will I," said Florrie. "Forgive me, mamma, for being so silly." And the three girls had a pleasant chat before the visitors came, and grew so confidential that Cynthia told Effie and Florrie about the one great shadow of her life—the mortgage which made her papa so unhappy, and was such a worry to poor Aunt Kate. She didn't know what it was; it seemed to her like some dreadful ogre always in the background ready to pounce on the little home. Neither Effie nor Florrie knew, but they agreed with her that it must be something horrid, and Effie promised to ask her own papa, who knew everything, all about it.
"Depend upon it, Cynthia," said Effie, "if papa can do anything to help you, he will. There's nobody like papa in the whole world."
By and by the company began to arrive, and the wide grounds were gay with children in dainty summer costumes and bright silken sashes. Musicians were stationed in an arbor, and their instruments sent forth tripping waltzes and polkas, and the children danced, looking like fairies as they floated over the velvet grass. When the beautiful old Virginia reel was announced, even Cynthia was led out, Mr. Dean himself, a grand gentleman with stately manners and a long brown beard, showing her the steps. Cynthia felt as if she had been dancing with the President. Cinderella at the ball was not less delighted, and this little Cinderella, too, had a misgiving now and then about to-morrow, when she must go home to the housework and the boarders and the gathering of beans for dinner. Yet that should not spoil the present pleasure. Cynthia had never studied philosophy, but she knew enough not to fret foolishly about a trouble in the future when something agreeable was going on now.
In her mother's little well-worn Bible—one of her few treasures—Cynthia had seen this verse heavily underscored: "Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself." She did not know what it meant. She would know some day.
I cannot tell you about the supper, so delicious with its flavor of all that was sweet and fine, and the open-air appetite the children brought to it.
After supper came the fireworks. They were simply bewildering. Lulu, the staunch little friend who had gone to Cynthia's in the morning, speedily found her out, and was in a whirl of joy that she was there.
"How did you get away?" she whispered.
"Oh, Mrs. Dean came after me herself," returned Cynthia, "And Aunt Kate couldn't say no to her."
Lulu gave Cynthia's hand a squeeze of sympathy.
"What made you bring your mamma's shawl?" asked Cynthia, as she noticed that Lulu was encumbered with a plaid shawl of the heaviest woolen, which she kept on her arm.
"Malaria," returned the child. "Mamma's so afraid of it and she said if I felt the teentiest bit of a chill I must wrap myself up. Horrid old thing! I hate to lug it around with me. S'pose we sit on it, Cynthy."
They arranged it on the settee, and complacently seated themselves to enjoy the rockets, which soared in red and violet and silvery stars to the sky, then fell suddenly down and went out like lamps in a puff of wind.
Suddenly there was a stir, a shriek, a chorus of screams following it, from the group just around the fireworks. A pinwheel had exploded, sending a shower of sparks in every direction.
All in a second, Florrie Dean flew past the girls, her white fluffy dress on fire. And quick as the fire itself, Cynthia tore after her. Well was it that the shabby green delaine was a woolen dress, that the stout shoes did not encumber the nimble feet, that the child's faculties were so alert. In a second she had seized the great shawl, and almost before any of the grown people had realized the child's peril, had smothered the flames by winding the thick folds over and over, round and round, the fleecy dress and the frightened child.
Florrie was only slightly burned, but Cynthia's little hands were so blistered that they would neither wash dishes nor pick beans for many a day.
Mrs. Dean bathed them in sweet oil and bandaged them from the air, then put Cynthia to bed on a couch in a chamber opening out of her own room. From time to time in the night she went to see if the dear child was sleeping quietly, and Mr. Dean, standing and looking at her, said, "We owe this little one a great debt; her presence of mind saved Florrie's life."
Early the next morning Bonny Bess trotted up to Mr. Mason's door without Cynthia. Aunt Kate was feeling impatient for her return. She missed the willing little helper more than she had supposed possible. She had arranged half a dozen tasks for the day, in everyone of which she expected to employ Cynthia, and she felt quite disappointed when she saw that Mr. Dean was alone.
"Another picnic for to-day, I suppose," she said to herself. "Cynthia may just as well learn first as last that we cannot afford to let her go to such junketings often."
But Mr. Dean broke in upon her thoughts by saying, blandly: "Good morning, madam. Will you kindly tell me where to find Mr. Mason?"
"He's in the south meadow," she answered, civilly, pointing in that direction. "I see you've not brought Cynthia home, Mr. Dean. I need her badly. Mrs. Dean promised to send her home early."
"Mrs. Dean will call on you herself in the course of the day; and it is about Cynthia that I wish to consult her father, my good lady," said Mr. Dean, lifting his hat, as if to a queen, as he drove toward the meadow.
"Well! well! well!" said Aunt Kate, feeling rather resentful, but on the whole rather pleased with the "good lady" and the courteously lifted hat. A charming manner is a wonderful magician in the way of scattering sunshine.
The boarders, observing the little scene from the side porch, hoped that Cynthia's outing was to be prolonged. One and all liked the handy, obliging little maiden who had so much womanly work to do and so scanty a time for childish play.
When, however, at noon, Mr. Mason came home, holding his head up proudly and looking five years younger, and told how brave Cynthia had been; when neighbor after neighbor, as the news flew over the place, stopped to congratulate the Masons on the possession of such a little heroine—Miss Mason was at first puzzled, then triumphant.
"You see what there is in bringing up," she averred. "I've never spoiled Cynthy: I've trained her to be thoughtful and quick, and this is the result."
When Mrs. Dean first proposed that Cynthia should spend the rest of the summer at Fernbrake, sharing the lessons and play with her own girls, Aunt Kate opposed the idea. She did not know how one pair of hands and feet was to do all that was to be done in that house. Was she to send the boarders away, or how did her brother think she could get along.
Mr. Mason said he could afford to hire help for his sister if she wished it, and in any event he meant that Cynthia after this should go to school and study; for "thanks to her and to God"—he spoke reverently—"the mortgage was paid." Mr. Dean had taken that burden away because of Florrie's life which Cynthia had saved.
Under the new conditions Cynthia grew very lovely in face as well as in disposition. It came to pass that she spent fully half her time with the Deans; had all the books to read that she wanted, and saw her father and Aunt Kate so happy that she forgot the old days of worry and care, when she had sometimes felt lonely, and thought that they were cross. Half the crossness in the world comes from sorrow and anxiety, and so children should bear with tired grown people patiently.
As for Lulu, she never ceased to be glad that her mamma's terror of malaria had obliged her to carry a great shawl to Effie's lawn party. Privately, too, she was glad that the shawl was so scorched that she never was asked to wear it anywhere again.
The Boy Who Went from the Sheepfold to the Throne.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
A great many years ago in the morning of the world there was a boy who began by taking care of flocks, and ended by ruling a nation. He was the youngest of a large family and his older brothers did not respect him very much nor think much of his opinion, though they were no doubt fond of the ruddy, round-faced little fellow, and proud of his great courage and of his remarkable skill in music. For the boy did not know what fear was, and once when he was alone in the high hill pasture taking care of the ewes and the lambs, there came prowling along a lion of the desert, with his soft padding steps, intent on carrying off a sheep for Madam Lioness and her cubs. The boy did not run, not he; but took the lamb out of the lion's mouth, seized the creature by the beard and slew him, and thus defended the huddling, frightened flock from that peril. He served the next enemy a big, blundering old bear, in the same way. When there were no wild beasts creeping up to the rim of the fire he made near his little tent, the lad would amuse himself by playing on the flute, or the jewsharp he carried; and at home, when the father and sons were gathered around in silence, he used to play upon his larger harp so sweetly that all bad thoughts fled, and everybody was glad and at peace with the world.
One day an aged man with snowy hair and a look of great dignity and presence came to the boy's father's house. He proved to be a great prophet named Samuel, and he was received with much honor. In the course of his visit he asked to see the entire family, and one by one the tall and beautiful sons were presented to him until he had seen seven young men.
"Is this all your household? Have you not another son?" he inquired.
"Yes," said Jesse the Bethlehemite, who by the way was a grandson of that beautiful maiden, Ruth, who came out of Moab with Naomi, "yes, I have still a son, but he is only a youth, out in the fields; you would not wish to see him." But this was a mistake.
"Pray, send for him," answered the prophet.
Then David, for this was his name, came in, modest yet eager, with his pleasant face and his dark kindling eyes. And the prophet said, "This is the Lord's anointed," and then in a ceremony which the simple family seem not to have quite understood, he set the boy apart by prayer and blessing, poured the fragrant oil of consecration on his head, and said in effect that in days to come he would be the King of Israel.
David went back to his fields and his sheep and for a long while nothing happened.
But there arose against Israel in due time a nation of warlike people, called "The Philistines." Nearly all the strong young men of the country went out to fight against these invaders, and among them went the sons of old Jesse. Nobody stayed at home except the old men, the women and the younger boys and little ones. The whole country was turned into a moving camp, and there arrived a time before long when Israel and the Philistines each on a rolling hill, with a valley between them, set their battle in array.
I once supposed that battles were fought on open plains, with soldiers confronting one another in plain sight, as we set out toy regiments of wooden warriors to fight for children's amusement. But since then, in my later years, I have seen the old battlefields of our Civil War and I know better. Soldiers fight behind trees and barns and fences, and in the shelter of hedges and ditches, and a timbered mountain side makes a fine place for a battle ground.
Now I will quote a passage or two from a certain old book, which tells this part of the story in much finer style than I can. The old book is a familiar one, and is full of splendid stories for all the year round. I wish the young people who read this holiday book would make a point hereafter of looking every day in that treasure-house, the Bible.
And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philistines, named Goliath, of Gath, whose height was six cubits and a span.
And he had a helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with a coat of mail; and the weight of the coat was five thousand shekels of brass.
And he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of brass between his shoulders.
And the staff of his spear was like a weaver's beam; and his spear's head weighed six hundred shekels of iron: and one bearing a shield went before him.
And he stood and cried unto the armies of Israel, and said unto them, Why are ye come out to set your battle in array? am not I a Philistine, and ye servants to Saul? choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me.
If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I prevail against him, and kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve us.
And the Philistine said, I defy the armies of Israel this day; give me a man, that we may fight together.
When Saul and all Israel heard those words of the Philistine, they were dismayed, and greatly afraid.
Now David was the son of that Ephrathite of Bethlehem-judah, whose name was Jesse; and he had eight sons: and the man went among men for an old man in the days of Saul.
And the three eldest sons of Jesse went and followed Saul to the battle: and the names of his three sons that went to the battle were Eliab the first-born, and next unto him Abinadab, and the third Shammah.
And David was the youngest: and the three eldest followed Saul.
But David went and returned from Saul to feed his father's sheep at Beth-lehem.
And the Philistine drew near morning and evening, and presented himself forty days.
And Jesse said unto David his son, Take now for thy brethren an ephah of this parched corn, and these ten loaves, and run to the camp to thy brethren;
And carry these ten cheeses unto the captain of their thousand, and look how thy brethren fare, and take their pledge.
Now Saul, and they, and all the men of Israel, were in the valley of Elah, fighting with the Philistines.
And David rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a keeper, and took, and went, as Jesse had commanded him; and he came to the trench, as the host was going forth to the fight, and shouted for the battle.
For Israel and the Philistines had put the battle in array, army against army.
And David left his carriage in the hand of the keeper of the carriage, and ran into the army, and came and saluted his brethren.
And as he talked with them, behold, there came up the champion, the Philistine of Gath, Goliath by name, out of the armies of the Philistines, and spake according to the same words: and David heard them.
And all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled from him, and were sore afraid.
And the men of Israel said, Have ye seen this man that is come up? surely to defy Israel is he come up: and it shall be, that the man who killeth him, the king will enrich him with great riches, and will give him his daughter, and make his father's house free in Israel.
And David spake to the men that stood by him saying, What shall be done to the man that killeth this Philistine, and taketh away the reproach from Israel? for who is this uncircumcised Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God?
By "carriage" is meant luggage, the things David had brought for his brothers, not a conveyance as in our modern sense.
The brothers were angry when they found David putting himself forward, in a way which they thought absurd, but their taunts did not deter him from presenting himself to King Saul, who was pleased with the gallant boy, and proposed to arm him with his own armor, a coat of mail, greaves of brass and the like. But "no," said David, "I would feel clumsy and awkward in your accoutrements, I will meet the giant with my shepherd's sling and stone, in the name of the Lord God of Israel whom he has defied."
The giant came blustering out with a tread that shook the ground. When he saw his little antagonist he was vexed, for this seemed to him no foeman worthy of his spear. But when the conflict was really on, lo! the unerring eye and hand of David sent his pebble from the brook straight into the giant's head, and the victory was with Israel.
And after that, David went to the palace and played sweetly on the harp to charm and soothe the madness of King Saul, on whom there came by spells a fierce and terrible malady. He formed a close friendship with Jonathan, the king's son, a friendship which has passed into a proverb, so tender it was and so true. After a while he married the king's daughter. He had a great many wonderful adventures and strange experiences, and in time he became king himself, as the Lord by his prophet Samuel had foretold and chosen him to be.
But better than all, David's deeds of valor and the great fame he had among the nations, which abides to this day, was, in my mind, the fact that he wrote many of the psalms which we use in our public worship, this, the twenty-third, is one of the very sweetest of them all:
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
You must not think that David's life was ever an easy one. He always had hard battles to fight. Once, for quite a long period, he was an outlaw, much like Robin Hood of a later day, and with a band of brave young men he lived in the woods and the mountains, defending the property of his friends from other outlaws, and sometimes perhaps making forays against his foes, sweeping off their cattle and burning their tents and houses. Those were wild and exciting days, when the battle was for the strongest to win, and when many things were done of which in our modern times we cannot wholly approve. The thing about David which pleases me most is that he had a rare quality called magnanimity; he did not take a mean advantage of an enemy, and when, as occasionally it must be owned, he did commit a great sin, his repentance was deep and sincere. He lived in so much communion with God, that God spoke of him always as his servant, and he has been called, to distinguish him from other heroes in the Bible gallery, "The man after God's own heart." Whatever duties or trials came to David, they were met in a spirit of simple trust in the Lord, and with a child-like dependence on God's will.
David had many children, some very good and some very bad. His son Absalom was renowned for his beauty and for his wickedness, while Solomon became famous, and so continues to this day as the wisest among men, a man rich, far-sighted and exalted, who reigned long in Jerusalem after the death of David, his father, who passed away in a good old age. Wonderful lives are these to read and to think of, full of meaning for every one of us. And many, many years after both these men and their successors were gone there came to our earth, One born of a Virgin, who traced His mortal lineage back to David of Bethlehem, and who brought goodwill and peace to men. Even Christ our Blessed Lord.