THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth;
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old Sailor,
Had sailed to the Spanish Main:
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
“Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!”
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain,
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable’s length.
“Come hither! come hither! my little daughter,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale,
That ever wind did blow.”
He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
“O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
Oh say, what may it be?”
“’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!”—
And he steered for the open sea.
“O father! I hear the sound of guns.
Oh say, what may it be?”
“Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!”
“O father! I see a gleaming light.
Oh say, what may it be?”
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That saved she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Toward the reef of Norman’s Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman’s Woe.
BY ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
It was a little, little page,
Was brought from far away,
To bear the great queen’s velvet train
Upon her bridal day.
His yellow curls were long and bright,
His page’s suit was blue,
With golden clasps at neck and knee,
And ruffles fair and new.
And faith, he was the smallest page
The court had ever known:
His head scarce reached the topmost step
That led up to the throne.
And oh, ’t was but a little lad
Had never been before
So many leagues from kin and friends,
And from his father’s door!
And oh!—’t was but a little child
Who never yet, I wis,
Had stolen lonely to his bed
Without his mother’s kiss.
He had not seen the noble queen,
Of whom his heart had fear;
He knew no friend at court to give
A welcome and good cheer.
It was the busy night before
The great queen’s wedding-day,
And all was bustle, haste, and noise,
And every one was gay;
And each one had his task to do,
And none had time to spare
To tend a weeping little page
Whose mother was not there.
Far in a big and gloomy room
Within the castle keep,
The little page lay all alone,
And wept, and could not sleep.
The little page lay all alone,
And hid his head and cried,
Until it seemed his aching heart
Would burst his little side.
The chamber door was set ajar,
And one was passing by
Who heard the little page’s sobs
And then his piteous cry.
Then some one lifted up the latch
And pushed the heavy door,
And then a lady entered in
And crossed the chamber floor—
A lady tall and sweet and fair,
In bridal white who stepped;
She stood beside the page’s bed,
And asked him why he wept.
“—and none had time to spare to tend a little weeping page”
“he trembled and looked down”
And then he sobbed about a “kiss,”
His “mother,” and his “home,”
And wished the queen had called no page,
And wished he had not come;
For she was “such a proud, great queen”
He was afraid, he said;
And he was “lost and lonely” there
In that huge, gloomy bed.
And then the lady bent her down
And kissed him on the lips,
And smoothed his yellow, silken curls
With tender finger-tips.
The tears stood in her gentle eyes;
“Poor little lad!” she said,
And cuddled him up in her arms
And knelt down by the bed.
And so she held him, close and warm,
And sang him off to sleep,
While at her nod her waiting-maids
A silent watch did keep.
And when the morning smiled again
The little page awoke.
They clad him in a suit of white,
With velvet cap and cloak,
And crystal buckles on his shoes,
And led him to the queen,
All lovely in her bridal gear,
The fairest ever seen.
And he was such a tiny page,
He trembled and looked down,
For he was sore afraid to see
The great queen sternly frown.
But lo! he heard a soft voice say,
“O little page, look here!
Am I, who sing to sleep so well,
A queen for child to fear?”
He raised his eyes, and lo! the bride
Looked on the page and smiled,
And then he knew the queen had played
At nurse-maid for a child.
And well he graced the wedding-feast
And bore her velvet train,
And at his dear queen’s side thenceforth
Was never sad again.
THE SNOW-IMAGE
BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
One afternoon of a cold winter’s day, when the sun shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow.
The elder child was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modest disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents and other people who were familiar with her used to call Violet.
But her brother was known by the title of Peony, on account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers.
“Yes, Violet—yes, my little Peony,” said their kind mother; “you may go and play in the snow.”
Forth sallied the two children, with a hop-skip-and-jump that carried them at once into the very heart of a huge snowdrift, whence Violet emerged like a snow bunting, while little Peony floundered out with his round face in full bloom.
Then what a merry time had they! To look at them frolicking in the wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm had been sent for no other purpose but to provide a new plaything for Violet and Peony; and that they themselves had been created, as the snowbirds were, to take delight only in the tempest and in the white mantle which it spread over the earth.
At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony’s figure, was struck with a new idea.
“You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,” said she, “if your cheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out of snow—an image of a little girl—and it shall be our sister, and shall run about and play with us all winter long. Won’t it be nice?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but a little boy. “That will be nice! And mamma shall see it!”
“Yes,” answered Violet; “mamma shall see the new little girl. But she must not make her come into the warm parlor, for, you know, our little snow-sister will not love the warmth.”
And forthwith the children began this great business of making a snow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was sitting at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the gravity with which they set about it. They really seemed to imagine that there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out of the snow.
Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight—those bright little souls at their tasks. Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly and skillfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction and told Peony what to do, while, with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer parts of the snow-figure.
It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by the children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing and prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this; and the longer she looked, the more and more surprised she grew.
Now, for a few moments there was a busy and earnest but indistinct hum of the two children’s voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit; while Peony acted rather as a laborer and brought her the snow from far and near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the matter.
“Peony, Peony!” cried Violet; for her brother was at the other side of the garden. “Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have rested on the lower branches of the pear tree. You can clamber on the snowdrift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister’s head!”
“Here they are, Violet!” answered the little boy. “Take care you do not break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!”
“Does she not look sweet?” said Violet, with a very satisfied tone; “and now we must have some little shining bits of ice to make the brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see how very beautiful she is; but papa will say, ‘Tush! nonsense! come in out of the cold!’”
“Let us call mamma to look out,” said Peony; and then he shouted, “Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out and see what a nice ’ittle girl we are making!”
“What a nice playmate she will be for us all winter long!” said Violet. “I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold! Shan’t you love her dearly, Peony?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Peony. “And I will hug her and she shall sit down close by me and drink some of my warm milk.”
“Oh, no, Peony!” answered Violet, with grave wisdom. “That will not do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister. Little snow-people, like her, eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony; we must not give her anything warm to drink!”
There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs were never weary, had gone again to the other side of the garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully:
“Look here, Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that rose-colored cloud! And the color does not go away! Is not that beautiful?”
“Yes, it is beau-ti-ful,” answered Peony, pronouncing the three syllables with deliberate accuracy. “O Violet, only look at her hair! It is all like gold!”
“Oh, certainly,” said Violet, as if it were very much a matter of course. “That color, you know, comes from the golden clouds that we see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But her lips must be made very red—redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make them red if we both kiss them!”
Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her children were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But as this did not seem to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed that the snow-child should be invited to kiss Peony’s scarlet cheek.
“Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss me!” cried Peony.
“There! she has kissed you,” added Violet, “and now her lips are very red. And she blushed a little, too!”
“Oh, what a cold kiss!” cried Peony.
Just then there came a breeze of the pure west wind sweeping through the garden, and rattling the parlor windows. It sounded so wintry cold that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her thimbled finger to summon the two children in when they both cried out to her with one voice:
“Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is running about the garden with us!”
“What imaginative little beings my children are!” thought the mother, putting the last few stitches into Peony’s frock. “And it is strange, too, that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves are! I can hardly help believing now that the snow-image has really come to life!”
“Dear mamma!” cried Violet, “pray look out and see what a sweet playmate we have!”
The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth from the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent.
But there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady could look all over the garden and see everything and everybody in it. And what do you think she saw there? Violet and Peony, of course, her own two darling children.
Ah, but whom or what did she see besides? Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two children!
A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three had been playmates during the whole of their little lives.
The mother thought to herself that it must certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them.
So this kind lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into her comfortable parlor; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, the atmosphere out of doors was already growing very cold.
But, after opening the house door, she stood an instant on the threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real child after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the intensely cold west wind.
There was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the children of the neighborhood the lady could remember no such face, with its pure white and delicate rose-color, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks.
And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a little girl when sending her out to play in the depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them except a very thin pair of white slippers.
Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in its surface; while Violet could but just keep pace with her, and Peony’s short legs compelled him to lag behind.
All this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like a flying snowdrift, or how a snowdrift could look so very like a little girl.
“Violet, my darling, what is this child’s name?” asked she. “Does she live near us?”
“Why, dearest mamma,” answered Violet, laughing to think that her mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, “this is our little snow-sister whom we have just been making!”
“Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running to his mother and looking up simply into her face. “This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice ’ittle child?”
“Violet,” said her mother, greatly perplexed, “tell me the truth without any jest. Who is this little girl?”
“My darling mamma,” answered Violet, looking seriously into her mother’s face, surprised that she should need any further explanation, “I have told you truly who she is. It is our little snow-image which Peony and I have been making. Peony will tell you so, as well as I.”
“Yes, mamma,” asseverated Peony, with much gravity in his crimson little phiz; “this is ’ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one? But, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold!”
While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the street gate was thrown open and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur cap drawn down over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands.
Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary and yet a happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all the day long and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise at finding the whole family in the open air on so bleak a day, and after sunset, too.
He soon perceived the little white stranger, sporting to and fro in the garden like a dancing snow-wreath, and the flock of snowbirds fluttering about her head.
“Pray, what little girl may that be?” inquired this very sensible man. “Surely her mother must be crazy to let her go out in such bitter weather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy white gown and those thin slippers!”
“My dear husband,” said his wife, “I know no more about the little thing than you do. Some neighbor’s child, I suppose. Our Violet and Peony,” she added, laughing at herself for repeating so absurd a story, “insist that she is nothing but a snow-image which they have been busy about in the garden almost all the afternoon.”
As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes toward the spot where the children’s snow-image had been made. What was her surprise on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labor!—no image at all!—no piled-up heap of snow!—nothing whatever save the prints of little footsteps around a vacant space!
“This is very strange!” said she.
“What is strange, dear mother?” asked Violet. “Dear father, do not you see how it is? This is our snow-image, which Peony and I have made because we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony?”
“Yes, papa,” said crimson Peony. “This be our ’ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful? But she gave me such a cold kiss!”
“Poh, nonsense, children!” cried their good, honest father, who had a plain matter-of-fact way of looking at matters. “Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow. Come, wife; this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her into the parlor; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can.”
So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going toward the little white damsel, with the best intentions in the world. But Violet and Peony, each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him not to make her come in.
“Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense!” cried the father, half-vexed, half-laughing. “Run into the house, this moment! It is too late to play any longer now. I must take care of this little girl, or she will catch her death-a-cold!”
And so, with a most benevolent smile, this very well-meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the hand and led her toward the house.
She followed them, droopingly and reluctant, for all the glow and sparkle were gone out of her figure; and whereas just before she had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold horizon, she now looked as dull and languid as a thaw.
As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Violet and Peony looked into his face, their eyes full of tears, which froze before they could run down their cheeks, and entreated him not to bring their snow-image into the house.
“Not bring her in!” exclaimed the kind-hearted man. “Why, you are crazy, my little Violet—quite crazy, my small Peony! She is so cold already that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick gloves. Would you have her freeze to death?”
His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long, earnest gaze at the little white stranger. She hardly knew whether it was a dream or no; but she could not help fancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet’s fingers on the child’s neck. It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping out the image, she had given it a gentle pat with her hand, and had neglected to smooth the impression quite away.
“After all, husband,” said the mother, “after all, she does look strangely like a snow-image! I do believe she is made of snow!”
A puff of the west wind blew against the snow-child, and again she sparkled like a star.
“Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant guest over his hospitable threshold. “No wonder she looks like snow. She is half frozen, poor little thing! But a good fire will put everything to rights.”
The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearthrug, right in front of the hissing and fuming stove.
“Now she will be comfortable!” cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands and looking about him, with the pleasantest smile you ever saw. “Make yourself at home, my child.”
Sad, sad and drooping, looked the little white maiden as she stood on the hearthrug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her like a pestilence. Once she threw a glance toward the window, and caught a glimpse, through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs and the stars glimmering frostily and all the delicious intensity of the cold night. The bleak wind rattled the window panes as if it were summoning her to come forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot stove!
But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss.
“Come, wife,” said he, “let her have a pair of thick stockings and a woolen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Dora to give her some warm supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your little friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at finding herself in a strange place. For my part, I will go around among the neighbors and find out where she belongs.”
The mother, meanwhile, had gone in search of the shawl and stockings. Without heeding the remonstrances of his two children, who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlor door carefully behind him.
Turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and had barely reached the street-gate when he was recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony and the rapping of a thimbled finger against the parlor window.
“Husband! husband!” cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken face through the window panes. “There is no need of going for the child’s parents!”
“We told you so, father!” screamed Violet and Peony, as he re-entered the parlor. “You would bring her in; and now our poor—dear—beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed!”
And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears; so that their father, seeing what strange things occasionally happen in this everyday world, felt not a little anxious lest his children might be going to thaw, too. In the utmost perplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife.
She could only reply that, being summoned to the parlor by the cries of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were the remains of a heap of snow which, while she was gazing at it, melted quite away upon the hearthrug.
“And there you see all that is left of it!” added she, pointing to a pool of water in front of the stove.
“Yes, father,” said Violet, looking reproachfully at him through her tears, “there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!”
“Father!” cried Peony, stamping his foot, and—I shudder to say—shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. “We told you how it would be. What for did you bring her in?”
And the stove, through the isinglass of its door, seemed to glare at good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon triumphing in the mischief which it had done!
THE CASTLE OF GEMS
BY SOPHIE MAY
Once upon a time, though I cannot tell when, and in what country I do not now remember, there lived a maiden as fair as a lily, as gentle as a dewdrop, and as modest as a violet. A pure, sweet name she had: It was Blanche.
She stood one evening, with her friend Victor, by the shore of a lake. Never had the youth or maiden seen the moonlight so enchanting; but they did not know—
“It was midsummer day,
When all the fairy people
From elf-land came away.”
Presently, while they gazed at the lake, which shone like liquid emerald and sapphire and topaz, a boat, laden with strangely beautiful beings, glided toward them across the waters. The fair voyagers were clad in robes of misty blue, with white mantles about their waists, and on their heads wreaths of valley-lilies.
They were all as fair as need be; but fairest of all was the helms-woman, the Queen of the Fairies. Her face was soft and clear like moonlight; and she wore a crown of nine large diamonds, which refracted the evening rays, and formed nine lunar rainbows.
The fairies were singing a roundelay; and, as the melody floated over the water, Victor and Blanche listened with throbbing hearts. Fairy music has almost passed away from the earth; but those who hear it are strangely moved, and have dreams of beautiful things which have been, and may be again.
“It makes me think of the days of long ago when there was no sin,” whispered Blanche.
“It makes me long to be a hero,” answered Victor with a sparkling eye.
All the while the pearly boat was drifting toward the youth and maiden; and, when it had touched the shore the Queen stepped out upon the land as lightly as if she had been made entirely of dewdrops.
“I am Fontana,” said she: “and is this Blanche?”
She laid her soft hand upon the maiden’s shoulder; and Blanche thought she would like to die then and there, so full was she of joy.
“I have heard of thy good heart, my maiden: now what would please thee most?” inquired the Queen.
Blanche bowed her head, and dared not speak.
Queen Fontana smiled. When she smiled it was as if a soft cloud had slid away from the moon, revealing a beautiful light.
“Say pearls and diamonds,” said Victor in her ear.
“I don’t know,” whispered Blanche; “they are not the best things.”
“No,” said the Queen kindly; “pearls and diamonds are not the best things.”
Then Blanche knew that her whisper had been overheard, and she hid her face in her hands for shame. But the Queen only smiled down on her, and without speaking dropped into the ground a little seed. Right at the feet of Blanche it fell; and in a moment two green leaves shot upward, and between them a spotless lily, which hung its head with modest grace.
Victor gazed at the perfect flower in wonder, and before he knew it said aloud: “Ah, how like Blanche!”
The Queen herself broke it from the stem, and gave it to the maiden, saying:
“Take it! It is my choicest gift. Till it fades (which will never be), love will be thine; and in time to come it will have power to open the strongest locks, and swing back the heaviest doors.
“‘Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of this magic wand.’”
Blanche looked up to thank the Queen; but no words came—only tears.
“I see a wish in thine eyes,” said Fontana.
“It is for Victor,” faltered Blanche, at last; “he wishes to be rich and great.”
The Queen looked grave.
“Shall I make him one of the great men of the earth, little Blanche? Then he may one day go to the ends of the world, and forget thee.”
Blanche only smiled, and Victor’s cheek flushed.
“I shall be a great man,” said he—“perhaps a prince; but where I go Blanche shall go: she will be my wife.”
“That is well,” said the Queen. “Never forget Blanche, for her love will be your dearest blessing.”
Then, removing from her girdle a pair of spectacles, she placed them in the youth’s hand. He drew back in surprise. “Does she take me for an old man?” thought he. He had expected a casket of gems at least; perhaps a crown.
“Wait,” said Fontana; “they are the eyes of Wisdom. When you have learned their use, you will not despise my gift. Keep a pure heart, and always remember Blanche. And now farewell!”
So saying, she moved on to the boat, floating over the ground as softly as a creeping mist.
When Blanche awoke next morning, her first thought was, “Happy are the maidens who have sweet dreams!” for she believed she had only been wandering in a midsummer’s night’s dream; so, when she saw her lily in the broken pitcher where she had placed it, great was her delight. But a change had come over it during the night. It was no longer a common lily; its petals were now large pearls, and the green leaves were green emeralds. This strange thing had happened to the flower, that it might never fade.
After this, people looked at Blanche and said: “How is it? She grows fairer every day!” And every one loved her; for the human heart has no choice but to love what is good and gentle.
As for Victor, he at first put on his spectacles with a scornful smile; but, when he had worn them a moment, he found them very wonderful things. When he looked through them, he could see people’s thoughts written out on their faces; he could easily decipher the fine writing which you see traced on green leaves; and found there were long stories written on pebbles in little black and gray dots.
When he wore the spectacles, he looked so wise that Blanche hardly dared speak to him. She saw that one day he was to become great.
At last Victor said he must leave his home, and sail across the seas. Tears filled the eyes of Blanche; but the youth whispered:
“I am going away to find a home for you and me. So adieu, dearest Blanche!”
Now Victor thought the ship in which he sailed moved very slowly; for he longed to reach the land which he could see through his magic spectacles. It was a beautiful kingdom, rich with mines of gold and silver.
When the ship touched shore, the streets were lined with people who walked to and fro with sad faces. The King’s daughter, a beautiful young maiden, was very ill, and it was feared she must die.
Victor asked one of the people if there was no hope.
It so happened that this man was the greatest physician in the kingdom and he answered:
“Alas, there is no hope!”
Then Victor went to a distant forest where he knew a healing spring was to be found. Very few remembered it was there; and those who had seen it did not know of its power to heal disease.
Victor filled a crystal goblet with the precious water and carried it to the palace. The old King shook his head sadly, but consented to let the attendants moisten the parched lips of the Princess with the water, as it could do no harm. Far from doing harm, it wrought a great good; and in time the royal maiden was restored to health.
Then, for gratitude, the King would have given his daughter to Victor for a wife; but Victor remembered Blanche, and knew that no other maiden must be bride of his.
Not long after this the King was lost overboard at sea during a storm. Now the people must have a new ruler. They determined to choose a wise and brave man; and, young as he was, no man could be found braver and wiser than Victor; so the people elected him for their King. Thus Fontana’s gift of the eyes of Wisdom had made him truly “one of the great men of earth.”
In her humble home Blanche dreamed every night of Victor, and hoped he would grow good, if he did not become great; and Victor remembered Blanche, and knew that her love was his dearest blessing.
“This old palace,” thought he, “will never do for my beautiful bride.”
So he called together his people, and told them he must have a castle of gems. Some of the walls were to be of rubies, some of emeralds, some of pearls. There was to be any amount of beaten gold for doors and pillars; and the ceilings were to be of milk-white opals, with a rosy light which comes and goes.
All was done as he desired; and when the castle of gems was finished it would need a pen of jasponyx dipped in rainbows to describe it.
Victor thought he would not have a guard of soldiers for his castle, but would lock the four golden gates with a magic key, so that no one could enter unless the gates should swing back of their own accord.
When the castle of gems was just completed, and not a soul was in it, Victor locked the gates with a magic key, and then dropped the key into the ocean.
“Now,” thought he, “I have done a wise thing. None but the good and true can enter my castle of gems. The gates will not swing open for men with base thoughts or proud hearts!”
Then he hid himself under the shadow of a tree, and watched the people trying to enter. But they were proud men, and so the gates would not open.
King Victor laughed, and said to himself:
“I have done a wise thing with my magic key. How safe I shall be in my castle of gems!”
So he stepped out of his hiding place, and said to the people:
“None but the good and true can get in.”
Then he tried to go in himself; but the gates would not move.
The King bowed his head in shame, and walked back to his old palace.
“Alas!” said he to himself, “wise and great as I am, I thought I could go in. I see it must be because I am filled with pride. Let me hide my face; for what would Blanche say if she knew, that, because my heart is proud, I am shut out of my own castle? I am not worthy that she should love me; but I hope I shall learn of her to be humble and good.”
The next day he sailed for the home of his childhood. When Blanche saw him she blushed and cast down her eyes; but Victor knew they were full of tears of joy. He held her hand, and whispered:
“Will you go with me and be my bride, beautiful Blanche?”
“I will go with you,” she answered softly; and Victor’s heart rejoiced.
All the while Blanche never dreamed that he was a great Prince, and that the men who came with him were his courtiers.
When they reached Victor’s kingdom, and the people shouted “Long live the Queen!” Blanche veiled her face and trembled; for Victor whispered in her ear that the shouts were for her. And as the people saw her beautiful face through her gossamer veil, they cried all the more loudly:
“Long live Queen Blanche! Thrice welcome, fair lady!”
The sun was sinking in the west, and his rays fell with dazzling splendor upon the castle of gems. When Blanche saw the silent, closed castle and its golden gates she remembered the words of Queen Fontana, who had said that her lily should have power to “open the strongest locks, and swing back the heaviest doors.”
Like one walking in a dream, she led Victor toward the resplendent castle. She touched with her lily the lock which fastened one of the gates.
“Gates of gold could not withstand
One touch of that magic wand.”
In an instant, the hinges trembled; and the massive door swung open so far that forty people could walk in side by side. Then it slowly closed, and locked itself without noise.
One of the people who passed in was the King, whose heart was no longer proud. The others, who had entered unwittingly, could not speak for wonder. Some of them were poor, and some were lame or blind; but all were good and true.
At the rising of the moon a wonderful thing came to pass. The people entered the castle of gems and became beautiful. This was through the power of the magic lily.
Now there were no more crooked backs, and lame feet, and sightless eyes; and the King looked at these people, who were beautiful as well as good, and declared he would have them live in the castle; and the gentlemen should be knights; and the ladies maids of honor.
To this day Victor and Blanche rule the kingdom; and such is the charm of the lily—so like the pure heart of the Queen—that the people are becoming gentle and good.
Until Queen Fontana shall call for the magic spectacles and the lily of pearl, it is believed that Victor and Blanche will live in the castle of gems, though the time should be a hundred years.
THE HEN THAT HATCHED DUCKS
BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
Once there was a nice young hen that we will call Mrs. Feathertop. She was a hen of most excellent family, being a direct descendant of the Bolton Grays, and as pretty a young fowl as you wish to see of a summer’s day. She was, moreover, as fortunately situated in life as it was possible for a hen to be. She was bought by young Master Fred Little John, with four or five family connections of hers, and a lively young cock, who was held to be as brisk a scratcher and as capable a head of a family as any half-dozen sensible hens could desire.
I can’t say that at first Mrs. Feathertop was a very sensible hen. She was very pretty and lively, to be sure, and a great favorite with Master Bolton Gray Cock, on account of her bright eyes, her finely shaded feathers, and certain saucy dashing ways that she had, which seemed greatly to take his fancy. But old Mrs. Scratchard, living in the neighboring yard, assured all the neighborhood that Gray Cock was a fool for thinking so much of that flighty young thing—that she had not the smallest notion how to get on in life, and thought of nothing in the world but her own pretty feathers. “Wait till she comes to have chickens,” said Mrs. Scratchard. “Then you will see. I have brought up ten broods myself—as likely and respectable chickens as ever were a blessing to society—and I think I ought to know a good hatcher and brooder when I see her; and I know that fine piece of trumpery, with her white feathers tipped with gray, never will come down to family life. She scratch for chickens! Bless me, she never did anything in all her days but run round and eat the worms which somebody else scratched up for her!”
When Master Bolton Gray heard this he crowed very loudly, like a cock of spirit, and declared that old Mrs. Scratchard was envious because she had lost all her own tail-feathers, and looked more like a worn-out old feather duster than a respectable hen, and that therefore she was filled with sheer envy of anybody that was young and pretty. So young Mrs. Feathertop cackled gay defiance at her busy rubbishy neighbor, as she sunned herself under the bushes on fine June afternoons.
Now Master Fred Little John had been allowed to have these hens by his mamma on the condition that he would build their house himself, and take all the care of it; and, to do Master Fred justice, he executed the job in a small way quite creditably. He chose a sunny sloping bank covered with a thick growth of bushes, and erected there a nice little hen-house, with two glass windows, a little door, and a good pole for his family to roost on. He made, moreover, a row of nice little boxes with hay in them for nests, and he bought three or four little smooth white china eggs to put in them, so that, when his hens did lay, he might carry off their eggs without their being missed. The hen-house stood in a little grove that sloped down to a wide river, just where there was a little cove which reached almost to the hen-house.
The situation inspired one of Master Fred’s boy advisers with a new scheme in relation to his poultry enterprise. “Hullo! I say, Fred,” said Tom Seymour, “you ought to raise ducks—you’ve got a capital place for ducks there.”
“Yes, but I’ve bought hens, you see,” said Freddy; “so it’s no use trying.”
“No use! Of course there is! Just as if your hens couldn’t hatch ducks’ eggs. Now, you just wait till one of your hens wants to set, and you put ducks’ eggs under her, and you’ll have a family of ducks in a twinkling. You can buy ducks’ eggs, a plenty, of old Sam under the hill; he always has hens hatch his ducks.”
So Freddy thought it would be a good experiment, and informed his mother the next morning that he intended to furnish the ducks for the next Christmas dinner; and when she wondered how he was to come by them, he said, mysteriously, “O, I will show you how!” but did not further explain himself. The next day he went with Tom Seymour, and made a trade with old Sam, and gave him a middle-aged jack-knife for eight of his ducks’ eggs. Sam, by the bye, was a woolly-headed old negro man, who lived by the pond hard by, and who had long cast envying eyes on Fred’s jack-knife, because it was of extra-fine steel, having been a Christmas present the year before. But Fred knew very well there were any number more of jack-knives where that came from, and that, in order to get a new one, he must dispose of the old; so he made the trade and came home rejoicing.
Now, about this time Mrs. Feathertop, having laid her eggs daily with great credit to herself, notwithstanding Mrs. Scratchard’s predictions, began to find herself suddenly attacked with nervous symptoms. She lost her gay spirits, grew dumpish and morose, stuck up her feathers in a bristling way, and pecked at her neighbors if they did so much as look at her. Master Gray Cock was greatly concerned, and went to old Doctor Peppercorn, who looked solemn and recommended an infusion of angle-worms, and said he would look in on the patient twice a day till she was better.
“Gracious me, Gray Cock!” said old Goody Kertarkut, who had been lolling at the corner as he passed, “a’n’t you a fool?—cocks always are fools. Don’t you know what’s the matter with your wife? She wants to set—that’s all; and you just let her set! A fiddlestick for Doctor Peppercorn! Why, any good old hen that has brought up a family knows more than a doctor about such things. You just go home and tell her to set, if she wants to, and behave herself.”
When Gray Cock came home, he found that Master Freddy had been before him, and established Mrs. Feathertop upon eight nice eggs, where she was sitting in gloomy grandeur. He tried to make a little affable conversation with her, and to relate his interview with the Doctor and Goody Kertarkut, but she was morose and sullen, and only pecked at him now and then in a very sharp, unpleasant way; so, after a few more efforts to make himself agreeable, he left her, and went out promenading with the captivating Mrs. Red Comb, a charming young Spanish widow, who had just been imported into the neighboring yard.
“Bless my soul!” said he, “you’ve no idea how cross my wife is.”
“O you horrid creature!” said Mrs. Red Comb; “how little you feel for the weaknesses of us poor hens!”
“On my word, ma’am,” said Gray Cock, “you do me injustice. But when a hen gives way to temper, ma’am and no longer meets her husband with a smile—when she even pecks at him whom she is bound to honor and obey——”
“Horrid monster! talking of obedience! I should say, sir, you came straight from Turkey!” And Mrs. Red Comb tossed her head with a most bewitching air, and pretended to run away, and old Mrs. Scratchard looked out of her coop and called to Goody Kertarkut:
“Look how Mr. Gray Cock is flirting with that widow. I always knew she was a baggage.”
“And his poor wife left at home alone,” said Goody Kertarkut. “It’s the way with ’em all!”
“Yes, yes,” said Dame Scratchard, “she’ll know what real life is now, and she won’t go about holding her head so high, and looking down on her practical neighbors that have raised families.”
“Poor thing, what’ll she do with a family?” said Goody Kertarkut.
“Well, what business have such young flirts to get married,” said Dame Scratchard. “I don’t expect she’ll raise a single chick; and there’s Gray Cock flirting about fine as ever. Folks didn’t do so when I was young. I’m sure my husband knew what treatment a setting hen ought to have—poor old Long Spur—he never minded a peck or so now and then. I must say these modern fowls a’n’t what fowls used to be.”
Meanwhile the sun rose and set, and Master Fred was almost the only friend and associate of poor little Mrs. Feathertop, whom he fed daily with meal and water, and only interrupted her sad reflections by pulling her up occasionally to see how the eggs were coming on.
At last “Peep, peep, peep!” began to be heard in the nest, and one little downy head after another poked forth from under the feathers, surveying the world with round, bright, winking eyes; and gradually the brood was hatched, and Mrs. Feathertop arose, a proud and happy mother, with all the bustling, scratching, caretaking instincts of family life warm within her breast. She clucked and scratched, and cuddled the little downy bits of things as handily and discreetly as a seven-year-old hen could have done, exciting thereby the wonder of the community.
Master Gray Cock came home in high spirits and complimented her; told her she was looking charmingly once more, and said, “Very well, very nice!” as he surveyed the young brood. So that Mrs. Feathertop began to feel the world going well with her, when suddenly in came Dame Scratchard and Goody Kertarkut to make a morning call.
“Let’s see the chicks,” said Dame Scratchard.
“Goodness me,” said Goody Kertarkut, “what a likeness to their dear papa!”
“Well, but bless me, what’s the matter with their bills?” said Dame Scratchard. “Why, my dear, these chicks are deformed! I’m sorry for you, my dear, but it’s all the result of your inexperience; you ought to have eaten pebble-stones with your meal when you were setting. Don’t you see, Dame Kertarkut, what bills they have? That’ll increase, and they’ll be frightful!”
“What shall I do?” said Mrs. Feathertop, now greatly alarmed.
“Nothing as I know of,” said Dame Scratchard, “since you didn’t come to me before you set. I could have told you all about it. Maybe it won’t kill ’em, but they’ll always be deformed.”
And so the gossips departed, leaving a sting under the pin-feathers of the poor little hen mamma, who began to see that her darlings had curious little spoon-bills different from her own, and to worry and fret about it.
“My dear,” she said to her spouse, “do get Doctor Peppercorn to come in and look at their bills, and see if anything can be done.”
Doctor Peppercorn came in, and put on a monstrous pair of spectacles and said: “Hum! Ha! Extraordinary case—very singular!”
“Did you ever see anything like it, Doctor?” said both parents, in a breath.
“I’ve read of such cases. It’s a calcareous enlargement of the vascular bony tissue, threatening ossification,“ said the Doctor.
“Oh, dreadful!—can it be possible?” shrieked both parents. “Can anything be done?”
“Well, I should recommend a daily lotion made of mosquitoes’ horns and bicarbonate of frogs’ toes together with a powder, to be taken morning and night, of muriate of fleas. One thing you must be careful about: they must never wet their feet, nor drink any water.”
“Dear me, Doctor, I don’t know what I shall do, for they seem to have a particular fancy for getting into water.”
“Yes, a morbid tendency often found in these cases of bony tumification of the vascular tissue of the mouth; but you must resist it, ma’am, as their life depends upon it.” And with that Doctor Peppercorn glared gloomily on the young ducks, who were stealthily poking the objectionable little spoon-bills out from under their mothers’ feathers.
After this poor Mrs. Feathertop led a weary life of it; for the young fry were as healthy and enterprising a brood of young ducks as ever carried saucepans on the end of their noses, and they most utterly set themselves against the doctor’s prescriptions, murmured at the muriate of fleas and the bicarbonate of frogs’ toes and took every opportunity to waddle their little ways down to the mud and water which was in their near vicinity. So their bills grew larger and larger, as did the rest of their bodies, and family government grew weaker and weaker.
“You’ll wear me out children, you certainly will,” said poor Mrs. Feathertop.
“You’ll go to destruction, do ye hear?” said Master Gray Cock.
“Did you ever see such frights as poor Mrs. Feathertop has got?” said Dame Scratchard. “I knew what would come of her family—all deformed, and with a dreadful sort of madness, which makes them love to shovel mud with those shocking spoon-bills of theirs.”
“they must never wet their feet, nor drink any water,” said the doctor
“It’s a kind of idiocy,” said Goody Kertarkut. “Poor things! they can’t be kept from the water, nor made to take powders, and so they got worse and worse.”
“I understand it’s affecting their feet so that they can’t walk, and a dreadful sort of net is growing between their toes; what a shocking visitation!”
“She brought it on herself,” said Dame Scratchard. “Why didn’t she come to me before she set? She was always an upstart, self-conceited thing, but I’m sure I pity her.”
Meanwhile the young ducks throve apace. Their necks grew glossy like changeable green and gold satin, and though they would not take the doctor’s medicine, and would waddle in the mud and water—for which they always felt themselves to be very naughty ducks—yet they grew quite vigorous and hearty. At last one day the whole little tribe waddled off down to the bank of the river. It was a beautiful day, and the river was dancing and dimpling and winking as the little breezes shook the trees that hung over it.
“Well,” said the biggest of the little ducks, “in spite of Doctor Peppercorn I can’t help longing for the water. I don’t believe it is going to hurt me; at any rate, here goes.” And in he plumped, and in went every duck after him, and they threw out their great brown feet as cleverly as if they had taken rowing-lessons all their lives, and sailed off on the river, away, away, among the ferns, under the pink azalias, through reeds and rushes and arrow-heads and pickerel-weed, the happiest ducks that ever were born; and soon they were quite out of sight.
“Well, Mrs. Feathertop, this is a dispensation,” said Mrs. Scratchard. “Your children are all drowned at last, just as I knew they’d be. The old music-teacher Master Bullfrog, that lives down in Water-Dock Lane, saw ’em all plump madly into the water together this morning; that’s what comes of not knowing how to bring up a family.”
Mrs. Feathertop gave only one shriek and fainted dead away, and was carried home on a cabbage leaf, and Mr. Gray Cock was sent for, where he was waiting on Mrs. Red Comb through the squash vines.
“It’s a serious time in your family, sir,” said Goody Kertarkut, “and you ought to be at home supporting your wife. Send for Doctor Peppercorn without delay.”
Now as the case was a very dreadful one, Doctor Peppercorn called a council from the barnyard of the Squire two miles off, and a brisk young Doctor Partlett appeared in a fine suit of brown and gold, with tail-feathers like meteors. A fine young fellow he was, lately from Paris, with all the modern scientific improvements fresh in his head.
When he had listened to the whole story, he clapped his spur into the ground, and, leaning back laughed so loud that all the cocks in the neighborhood crowed.
Mrs. Feathertop rose up out of her swoon, and Mr. Gray Cock was greatly enraged.
“What do you mean, sir, by such behavior in the house of mourning?”
“My dear sir, pardon me, but there is no occasion for mourning. My dear madam, let me congratulate you. There is no harm done. The simple matter is, dear madam, you have been under a hallucination all along. The neighborhood and my learned friend the doctor have all made a mistake in thinking that these children of yours were hens at all. They are ducks, ma’am, evidently ducks, and very finely formed ducks, I dare say.”
At this moment a quack was heard, and at a distance the whole tribe were seen coming waddling home, their feathers gleaming in green and gold, and they themselves in high good spirits.
“Such a splendid day as we have had!” they all cried in a breath. “And we know now how to get our own living; we can take care of ourselves in future, so you need have no further trouble with us.”
“Madam,” said the Doctor, making a bow with an air which displayed his tail-feathers to advantage, “let me congratulate you on the charming family you have raised. A finer brood of young healthy ducks I never saw. Give claw, my dear friend,” he said, addressing the elder son. “In our barnyard no family is more respected than that of the ducks.”
And so Madam Feathertop came off glorious at last; and when after this the ducks used to go swimming up and down the river, like so many nabobs, among the admiring hens, Doctor Peppercorn used to look after them and say: “Ah! I had the care of their infancy!”
And Mr. Gray Cock and his wife used to say to each other: “It was our system of education did that!”
BY ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH
There was a lad named Piping Will
With tattered coat and poor;
He had no home to bide him in,
But roamed from door to door.
This lad had naught except a pipe
On which he used to play;
Yet never lad did laugh so free,
Nor had a look so gay.
“Nay, bide, thou merry piper-boy!”
The kindly house-dames said.
“The roads are rough, the skies are wild,
And thou dost lack for bread.
“The hills are steep, the stones unkind—
Why wilt thou always roam?
And winter turns a barren heart
To them that have no home.”
Then would he smile and pipe awhile,
But would not ever stay.
How strange that he could be so poor,
Yet have a heart so gay!
And so the good folk shook their heads,
And they would turn and stare
To see him piping through the fields.
What was he doing there?
It fell about the blithe Yule-tide,
When winter winds were keen,
The Burgomaster’s little maid
Slipped from the house unseen;
For she had heard that in the wood
The dear snow-children run,
And play where shadows are most cold
And where there is no sun.
But lo, the evening hurried on,
And bitter sleet blew cold;
It whitened all her scarlet cloak
And flying locks of gold.
The road was hid, and she was lost,
And knew not where to go;
And still the sharp blast swept her on,
Whether she would or no.
Now who is this amid the sleet?
His face she cannot see!
He tunes his pipe against the wind,
As merry as can be.
He tunes his pipe against the wind
With music sweet and wild,
When lo, a fluttering scarlet cape,
The sobbing of a child!
He took her up and held her close;
“I’ll take you home,” he said.
But still the little maid sobbed on,
Nor was she comforted.
“What! Cold and hungry, little maid,
And frightened of the storm?
I’ll play upon my pipe,” said he,
“And that will keep you warm!”
And lo, when first he blew his pipe,
It was a wondrous thing—
The sleet and snow turned all to flowers,
The birds began to sing!
When next he blew upon his pipe,
She marveled more and more;
For, built of gold with strange device,
A palace rose before!
A lovely lady led them in,
And there they sat them down;
The piper wore a purple cloak,
And she a snow-white gown.
And there was song and light and cheer,
Feasting and everything!
Who would have thought that Piping Will
Could be so great a king?
The third time that he blew his pipe
They took her to the queen;
Her hair was yellow as the sun,
And she was clothed in green.
“they took her to the queen”
Yet did she kiss that little maid,
Who should no longer roam—
When lo, the dear dream flashed away,
And there she was at home!
“Make this thy home, thou Piping Will,”
The Burgomaster cried.
“Thou hast restored our little maid!
I tell thee, thou must bide.”
“‘nay, bide, thou merry piper boy!’ the kindly house-dames said”
“Make this thy home, thou Piping Will,”
The bustling mother said.
“Come, warm thyself before the hearth
And eat the good white bread.”
But Piping Will would only smile:
“Good friends, I cannot wait!”
(Who could have thought that tattered coat
Had been a robe of state!)
So forth he fared into the night,
And, piping, went his way.
“How strange,” they said, “a lad so poor
Can have a heart so gay!”
Only the little maid that sat
Upon her father’s knee
Remembered how they two had fared
That night right pleasantly.
And as she ate her bread and milk,
So close and safe and warm,
She wondered what strange, lovely lands
He wrought of wind and storm.
For he that plays a fairy pipe
Is lord of everything!
She laughed to think that Piping Will
Should be so great a king.
“a lovely lady led them in”