THE LEGEND OF TRAILING ARBUTUS
The bleak wind swept across the great lakes and piled snow-drifts all around a wigwam which stood at the edge of a pine forest. An Indian pulled aside a curtain of wolf-skin and stood listening in the doorway of his rude house. His dark eyes were fixed on the richly-tinted western sky. Long hair white as the frost fell about his bent shoulders and framed a thin dark face deeply lined with wrinkles.
“I thought I heard footsteps,” he muttered in a weak voice. He drew a deerskin mantle close about his shoulders, turned from the doorway and sat down on a mat of beaver fur which lay before a few dying embers. A shiver ran through his gaunt figure. He stirred the smouldering ashes and threw some dried sticks into the small flame.
“How weak and weary I am to-night,” he thought. “What has become of the hunter’s game? I could find none in the forest to-day.” His head drooped forward and he fell asleep.
At sunrise he was aroused by a flood of light in the wigwam. He looked up and saw standing in the doorway a beautiful maiden, clad in a robe of sweet-grass and ferns. Her moccasins were made of velvet mosses, and the fairest blossoms were entwined in her long dark hair. She carried an armful of budding twigs.
“Who art thou?” cried the old man.
“I am the Spring Manito,” she answered, merrily.
“Then thou wilt perish here,” said the old man, “for alas! I have no cheer to offer thee!”
“Art thou the great Winter Manito?” asked the maiden.
“I am the great Winter Manito! Thou hast no doubt heard of my power. At my command the North Wind rushes madly through the forest and the giant trees bow before him as he twists and tears their branches.”
“Cruel Manito,” sighed the maiden, but the old man did not hear her.
“I cover the pine-trees with sleet and drive the birds southward. With my sceptre of ice I silence the brooks and rivers. My breath turns the dew into frost. I shake my locks and a face-cloth of snow covers the withered leaves and blossoms. Mighty is the Winter Manito!”
“Mighty is the Winter Manito,” repeated the Maiden, sadly. “But my power is greater than his!”
“What meanest thou?” asked the old man quickly.
“At my call the soft breezes from the South caress the trees and heal the wounds the Winter Manito has made. My warm breath turns the frost into dew; my golden wand melts the frozen streams and their waters flow again toward the sea. I shake my tresses and the gentle rain falls; then the velvet buds burst forth and the birds hasten back to build their nests and to sing in the leafy branches. Where I walk in the fields and meadows the grass and blossoms spring forth to greet me. The children of the red men rejoice in the beauty which I bring to gladden the earth. The Winter Manito is mighty but his is the power of cruelty; the Spring Manito is strong, and hers is the strength of kindness. The Winter Manito’s sceptre is the biting frost; his rule brings pain and death; the Spring Manito bears the golden wand of sunshine and her hand-maidens bring joy and life.”
As she spoke the maiden noticed that the old man grew weaker and weaker until he finally sank down on the floor of his lodge. A flood of sunshine filled the wigwam. The Winter Manito grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared. Then the old man’s tent faded away and left the maiden standing under a tree. The sunshine had melted the snowdrifts, and a warm breeze was blowing.
The maiden stooped down and brushed away the dried leaves which had lain all winter under the snow. Then she enamelled the brown earth about her feet with star-like blossoms, pink and white, and shining green leaves.
“My precious Arbutus,” she whispered, bending low, “thou art born to bring joy to the children of the red men and thou shalt trail after me through the pine-forest and over the distant hilltops.”
She moved quickly through the woods and across the meadows. “Spring has come,” whispered the trees and flowers. “Spring has come,” sang the birds. Wherever she stepped the lovely Arbutus trailed after her on its delicate rosy vine and scented the air with sweetest fragrance.
THE FAIRY FLOWER[6]
Henry Ward Beecher
Once there was a little girl whose name was Clara. She had a very kind heart; but she was an only child and had been petted so much that she was becoming very selfish. Too late the mother lamented that she had indulged her child, and strove to repair the mischief by trying to make Clara think of other people’s happiness, not solely of her own.
On some days, no one could be more charming than Clara. She was gentle and obliging. She sang all day long, and made every one who came near her happy. Then everybody admired her, and her mother and aunt were sure that she was cured of her pettish disposition. But the very next day all her charming ways were changed. She wore a moody face. She was no longer courteous, and every one who came near her felt the chill of her manner.
One summer’s night, Clara went to her room. The moon was at its full, and was shining through the window so brightly that she needed no other light. Clara sat at the window feeling very unhappy. She was thinking over her conduct through the day, and was trying to imagine how it could be that on some days she was happy and on others so wretched.
As she mused, she laid her head back on the easy chair. No sooner had she shut her eyes than a strange thing happened. A feeble old man, carrying a basket, came into the room. In his basket, which he seemed hardly able to bear, were a handful of flowers and two great stones.
“My daughter,” said the old man, “will you help me for I am too old to carry this load; please lighten it.” Clara looked at him, pouting, and exclaimed, “Go away!”
“But I am weak and suffering,” he said; “will you not lighten my load?” At last Clara took the flowers out of his basket. They were very beautiful and she laid them in her lap.
“My daughter,” said the old man, “you have not lightened my basket; you have taken only the pleasant things out of it, and have left the heavy stones. Please lift one of them out of the basket.”
“Go away!” exclaimed Clara angrily. “I will not touch those dirty stones!”
No sooner had she said this than the old man began to change before her and to become so bright and white that he looked like a column of crystal. He took one of the stones and cast it out of the window, and it flew and flew, and fell on the eastern side of a grove where the sun shone first every morning.
Then the crystal old man took the flowers out of Clara’s lap. They were wet with dew, and he shook them over her head and exclaimed, “Change into a flower! Go and stand by the stone till your shadow shall be marked upon it.”
In a second, Clara was growing by the side of the wide, flat stone, and the moon cast upon it her shadow,—the shadow of a beautiful flower with a long and slender stem. All night she was very wretched. In the morning, she could not help looking at herself in a brook which came close up to the stone; then she recognised the beautiful flower and knew that her name was now Columbine.
All day her shadow fell upon the stone, but when the sun went away, the shadow, too, went away. At night her faint shadow lay upon the stone but when the moon went away, her shadow, also, went away. And the stone lay still all day and all night, and did not care for the flower nor feel its shadow.
Clara longed to be a little girl again. She asked the stone to tell her how, but the hard stone would not answer. She asked the brook, but the brook whispered, “Ask the Bobolink!” She asked the Bobolink, but he merely alighted upon the flower and teetered up and down. She could not learn from the Bobolink how to make her shadow stay upon the stone.
Then she asked a spider and he spun a web from her bright blossoms, fastened it to the stone, bent her over, and tied her up, till she feared she could never get loose. But all his nice films did her no good; her shadow would not stay upon the stone.
She asked the wind to help her. The wind swept away the spider’s web, and blew so hard that the flower lay its whole length upon the stone; but when the wind left her and she rose up, there was no shadow marked upon the stone.
“What is beauty worth,” thought Clara, “if it grows by the side of a stone that does not feel it, nor care for it?”
She asked the dew to help her. And the dew said, “How can I help you! I live contentedly in darkness, I put on my beauty only to please others. I let the sun come through my drops, though I know it will consume me.”
“I wish I were dew,” said Clara, “for then, I, too, could do some good. Now my beauty does no good, and I am wasting it every day upon a stone.” When Clara breathed this kind wish, there were glad flutters and whispers all around.
The next day a beautiful child came that way. She was gathering ferns, and mosses, and flowers. Whenever she saw a tuft of moss, she would ask, “Please, dear moss, may I take you?” And when she saw a beautiful branch with scarlet leaves, she would ask, “Dear bush, may I take these leaves?”
When she saw the beautiful columbine growing by the side of a stone, she asked, “Oh, sweet Columbine, may I pluck you?” And the fairy flower said, gently, “I must not go till my shadow is fastened upon the stone.”
Then the girl took from her case a pencil and in a moment traced the shadow of the columbine upon the stone. When she had done this, she reached out her hand, took the stem low down, and broke it off.
At that moment Clara sprang up from her chair by the window, and there stood her mother saying, “My dear daughter, you should not fall asleep by an open window, not even in summer. How damp you are! Come, hasten to bed.”
It was many days before Clara could persuade herself that she had only dreamed. It was months before she told the dream to her mother. And when she told it, her mother said:
“Ah, Clara, would that all little girls might dream, if only it made them as good as your dream has made you.”