A German version of an old story.
In former times there ruled at Olmütz, in Moravia, a Duke who allowed himself, when in anger, to do many cruel things. One day, Bruno, his falconer, came trembling before his master and announced to him that the finest of the falcons was dead. When the Duke heard this, he flew into a passion, and commanded his servants to chastise the man severely. Bruno, however, succeeded in escaping the intended punishment, and hid himself in the thick forest which extends from Olmütz to the Oder valley. There he lived by hunting, and occupied himself with charcoal-burning.
It happened one day that as Bruno, armed with bow and arrow and battle-axe, was going through the forest, he suddenly heard the well-known hunting-cry of the Duke. He quickly hid himself behind an oak-tree, in order that his master should not discover him, and saw, to his horror, that his master was pursued by a wild bison. The Duke would have lost his life, if Bruno, with his battle-axe, had not courageously attacked the furious animal and given it a mortal wound. Deeply touched, the Duke thanked the deliverer of his life for his proved fidelity, and bade him ask any favour he pleased.
Bruno did so. He asked to be allowed to possess as much land as he could encircle with the skin of the dead bison. Smilingly, the Duke promised to grant the request.
The falconer began to cut the skin into small strips, and with them encircled the whole hill upon which he had saved his prince's life. The Duke was highly pleased with this proof of Bruno's cleverness as well as courage, made him into a knight, and put him in a position of honour at his court. Bruno became dearer to his master every day, and rendered him many and great services. In later times he built a castle on the hill, which, in memory of the Duke's deliverance, he called Helfenstein.
W. Y.
CHASED BY SEAGULLS.
Seagulls are a very distinct tribe of birds, mostly lovers of the sea, yet from time to time showing themselves inland. They look larger than they really are, owing to their having a quantity of down and feathers, the wings being also long and the head large. They are equipped with a strong and straight bill, by means of which they devour a great variety of food. They will occasionally go out to sea hundreds of miles from land, but they are not welcome sights to the mariner, for he usually regards them as signs that bad weather is approaching. The most familiar species is the common seagull, white and grey, with greenish legs.
One of the peculiarities of the seagull is its habit of dashing in parties after any object that attracts its notice. This now and then furnishes amusement to men and boys who are strolling along the Thames banks or bridges. Supplying themselves with bits of bread or fragments of meat, they fling these upon the river, and watch the birds eagerly pursue the food.
Seagulls will also give chase to birds of other species they may come across. Not long ago the Cunard steamer Campania, from New York, was nearly due south of Nova Scotia, when the look-out observed a bird close at hand flying rapidly. In fact, it went faster than the ship, which was then moving twenty-four statute miles an hour. A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive, but could not make enough speed to catch it. At length the bird settled upon the deck, wearied, and proved to be a fine specimen of the snowy owl.
The snowy owl is a species chiefly found in the Arctic Circle, especially about Greenland and Iceland. It is a hardy bird, and has its nest among the rocks. The bill is hooked like a hawk's, having round the base a few stiff feathers. Its plumage is snowy white touched with some brown.
"A great number of seagulls were chasing the fugitive."
"'You shall go,' said the captain, 'if I lose every passenger.'"
THE CAPTAIN AND THE INVALID.
A fine instance of moral courage occurred not long ago at a small seaport. The captain of a little passenger-boat, a tall, sun-browned man, stood on his craft superintending the labours of his men, when the boat train came in, and about twelve minutes after, a party of half-a-dozen gentlemen came along, and, deliberately walking up to the captain, thus addressed him:—
'Sir, we wish to go by this boat, but our further progress to-day depends upon you. In the train we have just left there is a sick man, whose presence is extremely disagreeable to us. We have been chosen as a committee by the passengers, to ask that you will deny this man a passage on your boat; if he goes, we remain here.'
By this time others had come from the train.
'Gentlemen,' said the captain, 'I have heard the passengers through your committee. Has the invalid any representatives here? I wish to hear both sides of the question.'
To this unexpected inquiry there was not a single answer. Without a pause, the captain crossed to the car, and, entering, beheld a poor, emaciated, worn-out creature, who was obviously very weak and ill.
The man's head was bowed in his hands, and he was weeping. The captain advanced and spoke kindly to him.
'Oh, sir,' said the invalid, looking up, his face lit up with hope and expectation, 'are you the captain, and will you take me? The passengers shun me, and are so unkind. You see, sir, I am dying; but if I can live to see my mother, I shall die happy. She lives at B——, sir, and my journey is more than half performed. I am a poor printer, and the only child of her in whose arms I would wish to die.'
'You shall go,' said the captain, 'if I lose every passenger for the trip.'
By this time the whole crowd of passengers were grouped around the gangway, with their baggage piled on the pier, waiting for the decision of the captain, before engaging their passage.
A moment more, and that decision was made known, for they saw him coming from the cars with the sick man cradled in his strong arms. Pushing directly through the crowd with his burden, he ordered a mattress to be put in the cabin, where he laid the invalid with all the care of a parent.
Then, scarcely deigning to cast a look at the astonished crowd, he called loudly to his men: 'Let go!'
But a new feeling seemed to possess the passengers, that of shame and contrition at their own inhumanity. With a common impulse each seized his own baggage, and went in a shamefaced way on board the boat.
In a short time a message was sent to the captain, asking his presence in the cabin. He went, and one of the passengers, speaking for the rest, with faltering voice told the rough captain that he had taught them a lesson—that they felt humble before him, and they asked his forgiveness.
W. Y.
BOUQUETS.
uttercups and daisies,
Violets and May,
Pimpernels and cowslips,
Make a sweet bouquet.
Not a rose among them;
Nought the garden yields.
Yet a lot of beauty
Taken from the fields,
Gathered in the sunshine,
Through the happy hours—
What a sweet bouquet, dears,
Made of simple flowers!
Patience and forgiveness,
Kindness to the weak;
Willing in our labour
All the happy week;
No exalted actions
Striving after praise,
Yet a lot of beauty
From life's lowly ways,
Gathered through the day, dear,
By the heart that heeds—
What a sweet bouquet, dear!
Made of simple deeds.
J. L.