The Moorish Pearls.  p. [31].

FAIRY TALES
FROM
GOLD LANDS.

BY MAY WENTWORTH.

List to these legends quaint and old,

Tales of the marvelous land of gold,

Rich in its mines of shining ore,

Rich in romance and mystic lore;

List to these tales, they come onto thee,

From over the waters—the boundless sea.

NEW YORK:
A. ROMAN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.
SAN FRANCISCO:
417 & 419 MONTGOMERY STREET.
1868.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867,
BY A. ROMAN & COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.

DEDICATION.

TO
CHILDREN EVERYWHERE,
A Merry Christmas
TO YOU ALL,
WITH MUCH LOVE, I DEDICATE THESE STORIES,
ESPECIALLY TO MY
LITTLE NIECE AND NEPHEW,
Mamie and Wentworth.
MAY WENTWORTH.

PREFACE

As a child, I was fond of stories, and well remember the dearth of the intermediate season, when "Jack the Giant Killer," had ceased to please, and I was yet unprepared to enjoy works written for older and more cultivated minds. Children require stories ingeniously written, with a pleasant tinge of romance about them to fix their attention, and a touch of pathos that goes to the heart, to make them good and happy.

In writing these Christmas Tales, I have earnestly hoped they may serve to while away many a weary hour, which finds its place even in the sunny days of childhood.

The scenes of most of these Tales, will be laid in California, a land full of romance and beauty.

It is not strange to hear from the miners of "the early days," tales as marvelous as those of the "Arabian Nights."

Of these "early days" I shall write, and of the Spaniards, and Mexicans who inhabited the country before the coming of the gold-seekers.

Now as I send away the first volume of the series, I think of the children who will read it, of their sweet, innocent faces, and guileless hearts.

May the blessed Christ, who smiles upon them in this holy Christmas season, never leave them, but dwell in their hearts making them pure and happy forever.

May Wentworth.

San Francisco, 1867.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

FAIRY TALES.

SANTA CLAUS AND THE CHRIST-CHILD.

It had been raining all day, and the mist hung so heavily over the bay that the vailed waters tossed their troubled billows in unseen restlessness, like the swelling of an aching heart that the mantle of a fair face covers.

Down Pine Street a hundred rills were rushing, as though each had its special and important mission to perform in advancing the prosperity of the queen city of the Pacific. Men passed along fearlessly, cased in the invulnerable armor of India-rubber coats and glazed caps, and now and then a woman dared to trust her dainty little feet to the mercy of mud and water.

Minnie Bell had been very uneasy all day, for she had been promised the pleasure of a walk on Montgomery Street, and she intended to choose a few rare gifts from all the Christmas treasures that brightened the gay shop-windows.

Minnie had not yet learned the woman's lesson, to smile when the heart aches, and be gentle in disappointment, so tears filled her large blue eyes, and the rosy lips pouted with vexation, as she looked out on the pouring rain. Her mamma was a fair, dashing woman, who loved Montgomery Street as well as Minnie herself; doated upon the theatre, opera, and every thing gay, but, of all things in the world, disliked to be annoyed by the petulance and nonsense of children. She lay all day upon a luxurious couch, reading "Les Miserables," leaving Minnie, poor little miserable of the household, to take care of herself, and thus I found her alone in the hall, picking in pieces the flowers of a pretty worsted lamp-mat, the very spirit of discontent and mischief. It takes so little to make a child happy, that I am always sorry to see a shadow upon their young faces at the time when this life should be all sunshine, so I called the little one to me, and taking her upon my lap, told her the story of Santa Claus and the Christ-child.

More than eighteen hundred years ago, one fair bright night, when the moon was casting her floods of silver light upon the mountains and valleys of Judea, it seemed to pause in worshipful wonder over the little village of Bethlehem.

Diamonds sparkled in the dew-drops, and emeralds in the green grass of the meadows, where the shepherds fed their flocks by night. The shepherds were amazed, as the holy light shed its soft brilliancy around them, and even the grazing flocks forgot the dewy grass, as a sweet, unknown voice, from the viewless air, told them how that night the fair Christ-child was born at Bethlehem, and lay cradled in a manger, with horned oxen feeding near him. A thousand angel voices joined in the rich deep melody of praise and gladness, and the first Christmas carol echoed and re-echoed through the mountains and valleys of Judea.

Wise men from the East, brought golden treasure, jewels, and rare perfumes, as offerings to the pure Christ-child. There he lay in the arms of his fair virgin mother, Mary, with all the native beauty of infancy brightening every feature of his lovely face, and that rare halo of divinity about him that even the inspiration of Raphael and Murillo has but half portrayed. These immortal artists had only the colors of earth to paint the brightness of heaven. The wise men bowed in adoration before the Christ-child and worshiped him as their temporal king, and for their rich gifts received blessings, and went away well pleased to their luxurious homes. Then came an old man, trembling with timid humility. He was but a poor keeper of the flocks upon the mountains, and brought only the few pale flowers of winter, as tokens of his devoted homage.

"Sweet mother," said he, kneeling, "I have nothing but these poor flowers and the unchanging love of a devoted heart to lay at the feet of the dear Christ-child; but, thrice-blessed mother, do not turn away from this humble offering. I bring thee all I have." Smiles, like the golden light of morning, shone upon the face of the fair Christ-child, and he took the flowers more pleased than with all the rich treasures of the East, that lay unnoticed around him.

The holy mother blessed the poor man, and with a voice teeming with maternal love and divine richness, she said: "Thy pure, loving heart is an offering dearer to the Christ-child than all the riches of the world, and these flowers are a fitting token of thy love. Thou shalt not die as other men do, but thou shalt sleep, to awaken each Christmas eve, and gladden young hearts through all time, and in all lands, with thy welcome Christmas gifts, and the blessing of the Christ-child shall rest upon the spirits of childhood through the holy Christmas season."

And thus it is that in all countries we hear of the good Santa Claus, who brings such beautiful presents on Christmas eve. In the cold north countries he wraps himself in furs, and rides swiftly over the crusted snow in a sleigh drawn by reindeers, his long beard shining with the frost of winter. In the sunny South he rides in a light car decked with flowers.

"But, May," said the now happy Minnie, smiling; "when Santa Claus comes to San Francisco he'd better bring his India-rubber coat and overshoes."

"I've no doubt he will, darling," said I, kissing the little face beaming with earnestness and beauty; "and perhaps he'll bring his umbrella, too, but 'twill make him no Paul Pry—I'm sure he won't intrude."

"No, indeed," said Minnie, "I want to see him too much for that. Do you think, May, if I sit up till ten o'clock, I shall see dear old Santa Claus?"

"I think, little one, if you go to bed at eight and sleep sweetly, he may come to you in your dreams. He generally manages to come when children are sleeping."

Thus it was that little Minnie forgot all her sorrows and disappointments in the anticipated vision of the good Santa Claus. The rain fell heavily, but in the sunny heart of childhood all was happiness.

Now, a "Merry Christmas" to you all—young and old! May the blessing of the pure Christ-child attend you, and Santa Claus be munificent in his beautiful Christmas gifts!

THE MOORISH PEARLS.

Many years ago, near the Mission of Santa Barbara, there lived a wealthy Spaniard and his wife, who had been married a great many years, and were still childless.

It was the cause of great regret to both, especially to the mother, who loved little ones dearly.

Every day she made an offering to the blessed Virgin, and prayed her to have compassion on her loneliness, and give her a dear little child to take care of, and love.

At last her prayers were answered.

One Christmas eve, when gifts in memory of the blessed Christ-child, were making so many young hearts happy, a beautiful little daughter was given to her, making her the happiest, most thankful woman, in all Santa Barbara.

As the parents were very rich, all the great Spanish families in the county were present at the christening; and all the priests from the Mission of Santa Barbara were invited.

There was a great feast, and every one was delighted; but, above all, the father and mother blessed God for his precious gift, which they prized more than all their great riches.

The little girl grew finely, and was very beautiful, not like the lovely children of the North, fair and golden haired, but her complexion was a rich olive, with the pure crimson blood of health tinging her cheeks, and her lips were red as ripe cherries. Her hair, in the sunshine, had a soft purple hue; in the shadow, it was black as a raven's wing, and her dark eyes were as soft as a young gazelle's.

She possessed in a wonderful degree, the symmetry and grace of the Spanish women, and her hands and feet were so small and exquisitely formed, that they were the marvel of the whole country.

In the family there was an old duenna, who had taken charge of the mother when she was young, and, to her superintending care, the little one was intrusted.

Years before, the old duenna came from Spain with the mother's family, and her love for the beautiful lady whom she had nursed in infancy, almost amounted to a passion; but for the proud Don Carlos, the husband, she had a jealous hatred, though he was always kind to her, and made her life in the "wilds of the strange country," (thus she always spoke of California,) as pleasant as possible.

Though she called herself a Christian, the wild blood of the Moors flowing through her veins, tinged her life with the mysticism and fire of that fated race.

Sometimes she would give herself over to strange devices and superstitions, which were very displeasing to her devout mistress, but the old woman covered these distasteful habits with so much art and affection, that she enjoyed the confidence and love of the good lady, and generally every thing moved on very smoothly and pleasantly, at the Buenna Vineyard.

The house was large and commodious, built, like most Spanish houses in California, in the form of a square, with an open court in the center, and broad piazzas on all sides. It was very cool and pleasant, with its latticed windows, and vine-covered porches.

In the rear was a beautiful garden, surrounded with a high, strong wall, and massive gates with bolts and bars.

There, in a grape-vine covered arbor, the purple fruit hanging within reach, the old duenna loved to sit, spinning lazily with her distaff, now and then stopping to see that no harm came to the little Lenore in her play, and often calling her to her side, to listen to some quaint old Moorish legend.

The father and mother were very fond of their little daughter, and gave her every thing that heart could wish. One day, when the little girl was about ten years old, the father called her to him, and said: "Papa is going away, far across the waters to the fair castellated land, which has been your childhood's dream, to dear, beautiful Spain, and what shall I bring back for my little daughter?"

Lenore's eyes grew large and liquid. "Beautiful Spain! beautiful Spain!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands in ecstasy.

"Every thing there is so lovely, how can I tell what to ask, dear papa; but wait one moment," and she ran to the garden arbor, and told the duenna all, and said, "What shall I ask?" The old woman frowned till her brows met, then she laughed strangely, and said, "You shall ask for a string of pearls, as pure and white as snow, and as large and clear as the dew-drops."

Lenore ran into the house, and throwing her arms around the father's neck, ran her pretty fingers through his hair, and said, "I would like, papa, a string of pearls for my hair, as pure and white as snow, and as large and clear as dew-drops in the first flush of the dawning."

The father looked at the little lady with a heart full of love and pride, and he kissed fondly the little, pure, oval face that was lifted to his, and said, "My little daughter shall have her wish, let it cost what it may."

The little girl clapped her hands, dancing about the room, full of happiness, saying, "The dear papa! the dear papa will bring me the most beautiful pearls in the world."

Her childish joy was subdued when she looked at the mother, who had a smile of love on her lips, but a tear of sorrow in her eyes.

Then the father said, "What shall I bring mamma?"

The mother answered, laying her head upon his shoulder, "Only yourself, dear husband, and your precious love." A tear came to his eye, but he brushed it hastily away, and whispered, "I shall soon return, dear wife, to my dearest treasures;" then he kissed them both, tenderly, and went away, leaving Lenore and the mother weeping bitterly.

Lenore soon sobbed herself to sleep, with the tears resting upon her eyelashes and cheeks. The sunlight stealing in, and shining full upon her innocent face, made a tiny rainbow over her head.

The sad mother saw it, and thanked God that the bow of promise overbends its beautiful arch over all childish griefs, and she wiped away her own tears, saying, "He will return again, my dear husband, why should I distrust kind Heaven."

When Lenore awoke, her pretty face was wreathed with smiles, and, kissing her mamma, she ran out into the garden to seek the old duenna.

She found her in her favorite arbor, spinning, but when she saw Lenore she laid aside her distaff, and drew the child to her, with a mischievous smile upon her dark face.

Her treatment of Lenore had always been marked by a strange commingling of the love she bore the mother, and aversion she felt for the father, but through it all, she wove a web of fascination, that gave her great power over the susceptible heart of the young girl. Lenore sat down by her side, and for a while she talked of Spain, smoothing the child's hair caressingly with her wrinkled hand, then she told her a curious legend; of how Boabdil, the Moorish king, had once a string of pearls like those she had asked the father for, and how, after the Spaniards had overcome the Moors in a great battle, he intrusted these lustrous gems, with much other treasure, to one of his servants to be hidden upon a distant island, but, by some strange misfortune, as they neared the landing, the Moor dropped the pearls into the sea.

Now this Moor was an enchanter, and, because he could not recover the lost treasure, he cast a spell upon it, that would bring death to the first, who should touch the pearls, perpetual servitude to the second, and riches, honor, beauty, and love to the third, who should retain them in the family forever.

"No matter how many years should elapse, this would surely come to pass," and again the old duenna laughed that strange, unpleasant laugh. Lenore, trembling with fright, sobbed convulsively, "Oh! the dear papa! the dear papa! he will die! I will call mamma, she will send a messenger for him, he shall not touch the horrid pearls," and she started up to go, but the duenna caught her. "Silly child," she said, "I will tell you no more pretty stories, that was only a legend, and the pearls were not real and true, but only dream pearls, just to please my pretty child." She soothed Lenore and laughed again, till her tears were dried, and she joined to the shrill voice of the weird duenna, the merry, childish laugh of trusting innocence. The days of absence passed by in dreamy quietude at the Buenna Vineyard.

The wife was very lonely, for no one could supply the place of the loved husband in her heart. The pretty, dark-eyed Lenore missed the dear papa sadly, but her time was much occupied by the master who taught her music, French, and English. Spanish she learned from the duenna, who in this language was quite a scholar.

Everywhere she followed the young Lenore, and, in her varied moods, treated her with a curious combination of love and selfishness, tenderness and severity, but, through all, maintaining her unbounded influence over her charge.

Full of wonderful legends of the Moors of old, she fostered a love of the marvelous in the mind of the maiden, till often she would waken in the darkness of the midnight, from fearful dreams trembling of superstitious dread. One morning early, she ran into her mother's chamber and woke her kissing her eyes and cheek.

"Oh mamma" she said, "do wake up, I have had such a beautiful dream about Boabdil's pearls, pure and white as snow, and large and glistening as the dew-drops. Some one from Spain brought them to me, so noble and handsome, mamma, that I could not help loving him dearly, and I was so happy." "But, Lenore," said the mother, "where was the dear papa." "Oh, mamma," said Lenore, "I did not see him, he was not there."

A strange terror filled her heart, and looked out from her startled eyes, and she buried her head in the pillow and wept piteously.

"'Twas only a dream, my daughter," said the mother, tenderly, but still Lenore sobbed. "How could I forget the dear papa, for a stranger and a string of pearls." Then the mother kissed her, and soothed her till she was comforted. Soon after a ship arrived, bringing letters from the father. "I am now in Spain," he wrote, my dear, native land. Bright Castile! the world has nothing like thee! No mountains like the snow-capped Sierras, no valleys like Granadas, and no river like the blue Guadalquivir, but, "where the treasure is, there will the heart be also," and my greatest earthly treasures, wife and child, are in California, and, though far away in castellated Spain, my heart wings its way homeward, and every delight is treasured, to be renewed again, with you. "I shall soon return to you, dear wife, the husband you love, but little daughter, the pearls, 'pure and white as snow, and large and clear as the dew-drops,' I have not found in Spain, but have heard of them, and if possible you shall have them at any price."

He wrote a long letter, glowing with hope and affection, promising a speedy return, and the mother took heart again, and was happy, while Lenore thought with delight, how beautifully the rare, Moorish pearls would glisten in her purple hair.

She seemed to have forgotten the dream, and the legend that frightened her so much. Even the name of pearls chained her listening ear, and the duenna often talked of them, their great beauty, and how pure and lustrous they shone among the crown jewels of the Moorish king, till the imagination of Lenore was spell-bound, by the magic beauty of the wondrous pearls. Often she would say, "Mamma, show me your pearls."

Then she would take them in her hands and count them, or twine them round the bands of her purple hair.

"Beautiful," she would say, as the sunlight kissed them, "but not clear and large enough. 'Pure and white as snow;' and large and clear as the dew-drops, these are not so, but the dear papa will bring them." Lenore's great gift was music.

She would often sit in the twilight, and improvise rare snatches of melody, and when the mother would say, "What is that Lenore?" she would answer, "My string of pearls, mamma," and go on playing as though the genius of music thrilled her dainty fingers. One day the duenna called her to an old lumber-room, to see a picture. The picture was really a good one, but had been cast aside because the frame was broken. 'Twas of a fair young girl, standing upon a rocky shore, looking eagerly out upon the waters, at the white sails of a ship the wind was wafting toward her.

"What does the picture represent, Lenore?" said the duenna. "'Tis a maiden watching on the shore, for the ship that brings her dear papa and the Moorish pearls, clear and white as snow, and large and glistening as the dew-drops." The old duenna smiled, as Lenore took the picture to her room, and hung it over her bed where she could see it on waking.

Every day they went to the sea-shore and looked out upon the waters, for the white sails of the ship that was to bring the father, till at last one evening, when all the west was gorgeous with the radiance of golden sunset clouds, the ship seemed to rise out of the waters, and there, on the sanded sea-shore of Santa Barbara, was the living picture of the lumber-room.

The duenna had called Lenore from the garden early, saying, "At sunset the ship will be here; come pretty child, let us hasten to the shore," so Lenore ran and kissed the mother saying, "Mamma! mamma! the ship, with its white sails spread like the wings of a bird, is flying to us, and I must go. Oh! my snow-white pearls! my beautiful pearls!"

"Lenore! Lenore!" called the duenna, and the maiden ran away dancing, and clapping her hands, as she always did, when very happy. On came the ship till it was moored in the harbor, and with one great rush the passengers came ashore.

Lenore's eyes dilated with delight, but by-and-by an anxious suspense filled them.

"No more! no more!" she cried, "all landed; where is the dear papa?"

The snow-white pearls were forgotten only the father filled her heart.

The duenna cast her eyes around. Don Carlos was not there, and who better than she knew that he could never return.

There was a handsome young stranger in the crowd, and, from his lordly bearing, she knew he must be a hidalgo of the old dominion, so she approached him and asked him for her master, Don Carlos.

"He is not here," said the stranger, "but I bring a rare and beautiful gift for his daughter—the famous Moorish pearls."

Lenore gave one glance at the stranger, she had seen him before in her dreams; and she trembled so that she could not move or speak.

"He is dead," said the duenna.

"He is dead," said the hidalgo, in a low tone, fixing his piercing eyes upon the sharp, eager face of the duenna.

Low as the words were spoken, they reached the strained ear of Lenore, and with a wild, broken wail, she fell insensible upon the ground.

The stranger handed the box which contained the pearls to the duenna, and taking the young girl tenderly in his arms, carried her home to the mother.

Poor, heart-broken wife! The pearls had come, but not her treasure. Lost! lost! God, pity all such!

The mother's love was all that saved her from madness; for her child, her beautiful Lenore, she bore the burden of life.

The stranger was kind and gentle.

He told the bitter story as soothingly as possible.

When they arrived at the island, Don Carlos was suddenly taken ill, and just as the ship was about sailing, he breathed his last, first sending his undying love to his devoted wife, and the Moorish pearls to Lenore.

"Tell them," he said, "my last words were to bless them."

In the confusion of the first moments of their grief, the duenna stole from the room, her sallow face flushed with feverish eagerness.

"The pearls," she said, "Don Carlos was the first to touch them, he is dead! This brave hidalgo was the second, and I will be the third to hold this wonderful talisman in my hands."

"Rich, fair, and beloved!

"Can I be fair, so old as I am?

"We shall see!"

She pressed the secret spring, and pure and white as snow, large and glistening as the morning dew-drops, lay the Moorish pearls in their golden casket. She took them in her hand, and held them to the light, and it seemed as though they absorbed whole floods of sunshine. "How beautiful," she exclaimed, then suddenly she dropped them upon her lap, and pressed her hand to her heart.

What a strange, agonizing pain.

It seemed as though chains were riveted about her vitals.

"Can I be the second to touch the pearls, and forever a slave? No! no! It cannot be!

"Don Carlos the first, the hidalgo the second, I am the third.

"Rich, fair, and beloved! But this pain," and again she pressed her hands upon her heart. Slowly she replaced the pearls in the casket, and the pain passed away.

When Lenore recovered she would not look at the pearls.

"Take them away, do not mention the hated gems to me," she said, with a shudder. So the duenna kept them.

Day by day Lenore sat by the dear, sad mother, who only smiled when she looked upon the beautiful face of her child, who grew more lovely with every rising sun, at least so thought the young hidalgo. In their sorrow he never left them.

All that a devoted son could be, he was to the mother, and to Lenore he was every thing.

Very often the duenna sat alone in the garden-arbor, plying her distaff, for Lenore seldom came to her. Often she would steal a glance at the beautiful pearls, saying: "I am surely the third, why am I not rich and fair?"

"Don Carlos is dead, the hidalgo was the second, I must be the third.

"I have the pearls, the rest will follow;" then the distaff would fall from her hands, and she would dream curious day-dreams, and build castles of her own in air.

One evening, just one year after their deep grief fell upon them, the young hidalgo and Lenore persuaded the mother to walk with them on the beach.

The time had been very long and lonely to her since the sorrow-freighted ship came in, and as she sat upon a moss-covered stone, and saw the white sails of a gallant ship, winging its way to the shore, the tears filled her eyes, and, that her sorrow might not sadden the hopeful young hearts of her children (as she loved to call them), she bowed her head upon her hands, that they might not notice the grief she could not restrain, when suddenly a joyous shout from Lenore sent a warm thrill through her heart, and the blood danced through her veins with renewed life.

"The dear papa," cried Lenore, and sure enough, the proud form of Don Carlos was before them.

One moment and the happy wife was folded to the warm, true heart of her returned husband, and Lenore clung to his arm, weeping for joy.

Once more light and happiness dawned upon the Buenna Vineyard, with the return of the loved husband and father. How beautiful home looked to the wanderer, as he sank into his own chair, upon the vine-covered piazza. His grateful wife sat beside him, and Lenore stood leaning upon his chair.

"How tall you have grown, my daughter," he said, looking proudly upon the young maiden, just blooming into womanhood; "but where are the pearls, my darling?"

"I have never seen them," said Lenore, "how could I think of pearls and you; dear papa, gone!" And again and again she kissed his bronzed cheek.

"Call the duenna," said the mother, smiling, "we must see the pearls." So Lenore called the duenna from her dreaming in the garden.

"Don Carlos returned! Not dead!" exclaimed the old woman, while her heart stood still with fear, as she entered the room pale as death, and trembling with an unknown dread.

"The pearls," said Don Carlos, after a kind greeting, to which her palsied tongue refused a response.

She gave them to him with a trembling hand, and, as he pressed the secret spring, the golden casket opened, and there lay the wonderful Moorish pearls, pure and white as snow, and large and shining as the dew-drops in the flush of morning.

"Take them, Lenore, daughter," said the happy father, fondly, and the fair taper fingers of the maiden clasped the luminous treasure.

The duenna's eyes were fixed upon her.

How beautiful she grew with pleasure. Her dark eyes soft as a gazelles, were radiant with light, her red lips parted with smiles, and the Moorish pearls adding a new luster to her purple hair.

"Can she be the third?" thought the duenna, and in a voice husky with emotion she gasped: "Don Carlos, those pearls! How came you by them? What hand has touched them?"

"Tell us all, dear papa," said Lenore, not noticing the duenna's agitation, in her own delight.

"In all Spain," said the father, "I could not find the pearls, but I heard of them from an old Moor.

"He said they were lost near the shore of a distant island, and he promised to procure them for me for a large reward, which I agreed to give him; so we sailed for the island, but I became so ill at sea that when we arrived I was confined to my bed.

"At length the old Moor brought me this beautiful casket, and pressing the spring I saw the pearls, radiant with all their snowy whiteness, but I was so ill I did not take them out, and when I handed them back to the old Moor to place in my cabinet, the pearls fell out into his hands, and flooded the whole room with light. Great Allah! exclaimed the old man, in terror, and, as he replaced them and closed the casket, he fell down and expired instantly.

"The physician said he died of heart disease. I grew much worse, and fearing I should die, confided the pearls to the care of our friend, who brought them to you, and soon after I fell into a swoon so like death that all thought me dead, and the ship sailed without me.

"The white sails were not hidden from sight when I began to recover, but a long, lingering illness detained me from home, but thank God I am with you at last, darlings, well and happy."

"And now that my dear papa is home again, I can enjoy the pearls, the beautiful pearls," said Lenore, still toying with the luminous gems.

"More beautiful in your hair than in the golden casket," said the admiring hidalgo.

"The señorita was the second to touch them," he continued, "since Boabdil's minion consigned them to their hiding-place."

"No, I was the second, shrieked the duenna, clasping her hands to her heart, where the chains of servitude were riveted.

"Always a slave," she moaned, as they bore her from the room, flushed with the delirium of fever.

For many days she lay prostrate upon a bed of sickness, but when at last she recovered the evil spirit had passed from her forever.

She was kind and gentle, ready to serve any one, but especially the master.

"I am but the servant of servants," she would say. "I will do my duty in the station whereunto I am called. God have mercy upon my soul."

Don Carlos and the mother lived to see Lenore wife of the handsome hidalgo, and the mother of a maiden beautiful as herself, whose purple hair often glowed in the luminous rays of the wonderful Moorish pearls.

"THE TWO GOOD-FOR-NOTHINGS."

A long time ago, in a little village on the banks of the Rhine, lived the young boy Karl, in the low, rude cottage of his father, Hans Heidermann, the carpenter.

Karl was the second son in a family of ten children, all boys but the baby in the cradle—the little, blue-eyed Ethel, the pet and darling of the household.

The good Lord had sent to the cottage plenty of children, "the poor man's blessing;" and in their youthful days, when Hans and his good wife were strong and full of hope, the little ones were greeted with smiles of love.

Later in life, when the mother found that, with all her patient labor, the tiny feet must go unclad, and eat little as she possibly could, the supper was not only poor but very scanty, the boy Julian and baby Ethel were wept over at their coming, yet with tears so full of compassionate tenderness that the mother's love shone through them more sweetly than through the sunshine of smiles that dawned upon their first baby.

The youthful days of Karl were passed in toil, and though the natural joyousness of childhood would sometimes bubble up and overflow, the mantle of care fell upon him very early.

When he was only sixteen, he was quite a man in his ways, and able to contribute not a little to the comfort and support of the family, and he, more than all the rest, was ever ready to lighten the burden of the mother's weariness and cares.

When Karl was eighteen years old, he was guilty of a great piece of folly for a poor boy, though I am sure he was not to blame. It was the pretty, violet eyes and sweet voice of the young maiden Chimlein that made him so much in love with her.

Poor, foolish Karl! with nothing but his handsome boyish face and honest German heart to give her, even his strong willing hands still belonged to the father and mother.

Poor, foolish Karl, to be in love! But he was very hopeful! The brothers were growing strong, and even now all but the little Julian, could add something to the family store. What brightness, wealth, and happiness might not two years bring them all.

One evening, about this time, Karl received from the merchant, his employer, for a successful month's work, quite a present over his usual pay, as a reward for his faithful industry.

He was very happy as he started homeward, and, looked smilingly upon his patched clothes, thinking "Now I shall be able to buy the new suit I need so much, and I can take Chimlein the beautiful, to hear the rare music that she loves so well, and she will store it away in her bird-like throat, and some day it will gush forth in loving songs in our own cottage home." Then he sung gay snatches of his favorite opera—for even the peasantry of Germany are born musicians—and, looking at the sunshine as it danced upon the bright waters of the Rhine, he blessed the good Lord for the brightness, beauty, and happiness of life.

Soon the shadow of the cottage fell upon him, and he entered to find tears dimming the eyes of the mother as she went silently about her work. She wiped them hastily away, but Karl had seen them, and all his bright dreams melted at the sight of the dear, pale face, shadowed by age and sorrow.

Throwing his strong arm round her, he softly said, "What ails thee, mother?"

Then she told him how an old debt of the father's became due on the morrow, and how she feared, she knew not what, because there was no money to pay it.

So Karl put his hand into his bosom and drew forth the treasure that was to bring him so much happiness, and placing it in his mother's hand, said: "Take it, mother, dear;" and before she could reply, he had gone out into the soft, summer air, down to the banks of the dear Rhine River.

The sun had sunk in clouds of crimson and gold, and the gray twilight cast its cold shadows upon the waters, and Karl's heart had grown very heavy as he thought of the sweet-voiced Chimlein, and her disappointment. "But 'twas for mother," he said. "Poor mother, how pale she looked, her eyes wet with tears."

He walked on, silently, looking with dreamy eyes out of the dim present into the untried future.

One year after, he stood by the mother's new made grave, and, while his heart swelled with sorrow, he blessed God that he had been to his care-burdened mother a loving and dutiful son. And then came the thought of the old clothes that, for her sake, he had worn so long, and he could have kissed the dear old clothes, grown so patched and threadbare, for her sake, the dear, dead mother.

After the mother's death, the family was broken up.

The little Ethel and Julian went away to another part of the country, to live with a good aunt, who was very kind to them, and the younger brothers went to trades, and only Karl and the father remained at the cottage. Then it was that Karl brought home the sweet-voiced Chimlein to be the angel of his house.

"The dear father is lonely," she would say, as with her quiet words, and small, white hands she smoothed his pathway down the rugged vale of dim old age.

The good God only lends us the presence of his angels for a short time, and in the spring-time he called Chimlein from her home by the blue Rhine River, to her home in heaven, the golden, and from the heart of Karl, her husband, to the bosom of the blessed Mother.

The cottage was very dark and lonely after Chimlein went to heaven. Karl went out to his work with a sad heart, and returned in silence to sit by his desolate hearth-stone, till the fire went out in the midnight darkness.

The father (now an old man with locks white as the driven snow) sat during the long, summer days by the little willow cradle, and sang in the shrill treble of broken and sorrowful old age, to Chimlein's little one; or, when the babe was full of playful innocent life, he would take it down to the banks of the clear Rhine, to revel in the sunshine and listen to the voice of the waters.

To the old man's desolate heart, that child was a priceless blessing, and in his eyes she was the most beautiful of all the good Lord's fair creation.

When she was three months old, he dressed her in snowy white, and bore her to the baptismal font, where she received the name of Gretchen, though to the grandfather she was always "mein schönes kind" (my beautiful child).

A circle of golden curls played around her baby face, and the violet eyes of her mother shone clearly in the fair light of the morning, as she looked steadily into the face of the priest who took her in his arms and blessed her with the baptismal water which consecrated her "a child of God and an heir of heaven."

The old grandfather gazed wonderingly at the child, as in the softened light of the sunshine stealing through the cathedral windows she looked so like the rare picture of the divine Christ-child.

"She is even now a bird of Paradise," whispered tremblingly the old man, as he received the little one from the priest's hands. "The angel soul is looking out from her violet eyes, and heaven's blessed light falls like a halo of glory upon her golden curls."

With a shudder, the old man sunk away into the shadow until the sunshine had faded from her hair, and rocking her to and fro, while a master's hand sent rare, glorious music from the grand cathedral organ, he watched the violet eyes till they closed, and the rich brown lashes rested upon her fair baby cheeks. One little soft hand was tangled in the old man's beard, and the tone of her gentle breathing told him that his darling slept the pure, refreshing sleep of healthful infancy, and once more his heart was calm and happy.

Karl loved the beautiful child; but when he looked at her, and saw her mother's eyes reflected in the dewy light of hers, a deep sadness filled his heart, and often he turned quickly away to hide the glistening of his eyes, and drew his rough hand over his face to drive back the unshed tears.

"Poor little motherless thing," he would say: "If it was only a boy!" "Poor little daughter, ever too much you will need a mother's care." Then he would snatch up his hat and go out to the banks of the blue Rhine, where the body of the angel Chimlein rested. To the man, nothing is so dear as the pure, true woman of his heart.

Two summers had passed over the head of the little Gretchen, making her more charming than ever, with all the winsome ways of her innocent childhood.

The grandfather was becoming every day more infirm in body, and every day brought his mind nearer to the innocent child who was the darling of his heart. Nearer and nearer to heaven, the golden, he walked with faltering steps through the darkened vale of second childhood.

When at home, Karl would watch sorrowfully over these two children, the old man and the beautiful child; but when he was away at his work, they were a constant care upon his mind.

In passing his neighbor's door, Karl often noticed Elizabeth, the thrifty daughter of the house. He saw that her restless hands were always busy; not one speck of dust escaped her sharp, black, eye.

Though her voice was loud and shrill (Karl knew too well he could never find another sweet-voiced Chimlein) he hoped her heart was kind, and he thought she might take better care of the father and the little Gretchen than he could. So he asked her to be his child's mother, his father's daughter, and the mistress of his cottage.

Elizabeth felt keenly that he was no ardent lover; but he was her first, and might be her last; so with no more intense feeling than a desire to secure a home for herself and a provider for her wants, she consented to be his wife, and become mistress of the cottage.

Elizabeth was full of energy, and after she went to the cottage there was a great change in its appearance. Every nook and corner was made thoroughly clean, the rents in the curtains were neatly mended, the bits of carpet were all washed and spread down upon the sanded floor, and there was always a clean shirt for Karl when he came from his work, and a button, was never known to be missing.

Altogether there was not a more notable housewife in all the burg than Elizabeth. But her shrill voice grated sharply upon the sensitive ear, and, worse than all, it seems as though the old grandfather and the little Gretchen were always in her way.

From morning till night the old grandfather had a vile pipe in his mouth, and the smoke made every thing black and dirty. She then would look at her clean curtains and whitewashed walls, and frown. He was continually dropping the ashes about, and sometimes would even spit upon the floor, which was too much for mortal woman to bear; and then there was no end to the trouble the little Gretchen made her in a thousand ways.

To think that she, who always disliked children, should be obliged to take care of another woman's child!

At first she would bite her lips and choke down the angry words that strove for utterance, but in her heart she called them "The Two Good-for-Nothing's," and would cast such angry looks upon them that in their shrinking sensitiveness they would steal away to the banks of the blue Rhine and try to forget Elizabeth and their trouble. But alas! poor unfortunates! too often they would return with torn or soiled clothes, and then the mistress would be more angry than ever.

It was only for a short time that Elizabeth confined her anger to black looks. Before she had been in the cottage two months, her sharp voice would ring its angry changes upon the Two Good-for-Nothings, as she now loudly called them, and both the grandfather and little Gretchen went about silent and trembling, like two culprits who feared detection and punishment.

She would have them to go to bed before Karl returned in the evening, for she was very careful to conceal her unkind treatment of them from him. He was obliged to go very early in the morning to his work, and saw but little of them, and as the cottage looked clean and cheerful when he returned, he thought they were well cared for.

Sometimes, for whole days the old grandfather and the little one would wander on the banks of the beautiful Rhine River, and in her sweet infantile voice she would rival the songs of the birds.

So wonderful a development of voice in the child was a marvel to all who heard her, and the fond old man's heart swelled with pride as the neighbors gathered round to hear her sing. Every one loved them but the mistress, and they were always sure of a welcome at the noon-day meal from any of the neighbors. The silver-haired old man was "grandfather" to them all, and the little child "mein schonest liebes."

The mistress did not object to their long strolls from home. "The Good-for-Nothings" were only in the way; it did her good to have them out of her sight a few minutes; while they, poor innocents, escaped many a rough scolding, and the little child many a blow from the hard hand of the mistress.

How they enjoyed those days together.

As Gretchen grew older, and the grandfather more feeble, she would lead him by the hand and run to the neighbor's for a coal to light his pipe, saying: "The dear grandfather must smoke." Then they would sit down on the green bank, and with the smoke-wreaths curling above his head the grandfather would tell old legends and fairy tales to half the children in the village, and "little Golden Hair," as the children called her, would sing to them.

One day, when Gretchen was about five years old, they returned from their accustomed stroll to find a new inmate at the cottage, and Karl called them to look at the little sister baby. The old grandfather looked sad, for he could not love the mistress's child as he did Chimlein's, and he feared it would bring yet greater trouble to his little Gretchen. But the unsuspecting child opened her large violet eyes full of wonder and delight, thinking, as all little girls do, there is nothing in the world so pretty as a baby.

But that baby was her destiny.

No more days by the dear Rhine River. No more songs with the village children, or fairy tales told under the waving trees with the fresh air blowing round them. But the little, golden-haired child became a fixture by the cradle. The baby would not go to sleep unless soothed by Gretchen's voice, which now was oftener full of subdued pathos than childish joyousness.

The grandfather, too, had his hours of care and watching. But day by day he was drawing nearer the dark river that rolled between him and heaven the golden. His earthly love seemed all centered in Gretchen. Karl he seldom saw except on Sundays, and then, in his rough manhood, though he was always kind to his father, he seemed a great way off with the harsh Elizabeth for his wife.

Only Golden Hair, knew and shared the old man's cares and sorrows. At night she slept in his bosom and always rested in his heart.

The two "Good-for-Nothings!"

Alike sufferers from the mistress's harshness, how they loved each other, though they dared not show it when the mistress was near. She was angry at such nonsense, as she termed their holy affection.

The winter after Gretchen was six years old, was very cold and stormy. The blue waters of the Rhine had grown black and sullen. In the cottage times were not improved. The baby was teething. The mistress was not well, and visited her accumulating ills upon the poor Good-for-Nothings.

She would not have allowed Gretchen to sing at all, but for the baby, of whom the little girl now had nearly the whole charge. And very thin and pale she looked, with the rich flush of her golden curls falling upon her white forehead, and her violet eyes large and languid; but her little hands were red and hard, poor little hands that had so much to do.

Child as she was, the woman was growing in her heart, and with tenderest care she watched the grandfather who had no one but her who understood his sensitive feebleness, and loved to care for him. Many times in the day, when the mistress was out of the room, she would put her little hand in his, and kiss him. Only the sick and sorrowful know how sweet was the pressure of that loving hand.

One day, in that miserable winter, the baby had been more troublesome than usual, the mistress more unkind and exacting, and the Two Good-for-Nothings more silent and depressed. Gretchen had been whipped because she did not sing; but how could she, when the grandfather's chair had been moved to be out of the way, into a corner far from the fire, and he was trembling with cold; and, more than this, Gretchen saw by his heavy eyes and pale face that he was ill—how much, poor child, she did not know.

After a time the baby slept, and the mistress left the room. Then Gretchen stole to the old man's side, and threw her arms round his neck, and begged him to draw near the fire.

"Never mind, Golden Hair," said the old man, "grandfather is going where he will never be sick or cold any more. But, oh, mein kleines kind (my little child), 'tis thou that break'st my heart. To leave thee alone! mein liebes, mein schonest."

Tears gathered in the dim eyes of the old man, and the cold, withered hand stroked lovingly the golden hair of the little maiden, who looked wonderingly at him with her large, violet eyes glistening, and the big tears rolling down her pale face.

"Mein kleines Gretchen, she'll whip you, and call you Good-for-Nothing when your old grandfather's gone; but sing, mein liebes, sing all you can; the good Lord will hear the voice of his own. Oh! to leave you, kleina, 'tis so hard! so hard!" And the old man rocked himself to and fro, weeping and trembling with cold and sickness.

The little Gretchen threw her arms around his neck, kissing his tears, and, half choking with sobs, she whispered: "You'll smoke, grandfather, darling; your little Golden Hair'll get your pipe." Little child! she could think of nothing else, and she must do something for the dear grandfather; and often before, the pipe had been a great solace to him, when the mistress had been unkind; so the little nimble feet ran for it, and brought it to him filled, and with the red coal glowing in the bowl.

Just then the baby cried out, and Elizabeth entered in time for her sharp, black eyes to take in the whole scene.

Snatching the pipe angrily from the little child's hand, she threw it against the chimney, breaking it into many pieces. "I'll teach you to leave the baby to be playing with fire. Take that, Good-for-Nothing." And she gave Gretchen a sharp blow upon the little golden-crowned head, and pushed her toward the cradle, adding, "see if you can sing now!"

And Gretchen tried hard to obey, but 'twas a wail, broken with sobs, that rose from the bursting heart of the child, through the winter cold air of the Rhine land, to the feet of the good Lord who took little children in his arms and blessed them.

That night when little Gretchen was sleeping, her weary head resting on the grandfather's bosom, his troubled spirit passed alone and silently through the dim portals of the dusky way, and, entering the pearly gates, found perfect rest in heaven the golden.

In the early morning, Karl was awakened by a wild, piteous cry.

'Twas little Gretchen. The grandfather was cold, icy cold, and she could not warm him, though she had rubbed him till her own little hands were like ice, and had pressed her soft, warm cheek to his.

She could not warm him! He could not speak to her—not one word from the dear grandfather for the poor, little, motherless child, now the lone "Good-for-Nothing."

When Karl found that the grandfather was really dead, with the big tears rolling down his cheek, he took the little Gretchen in his arms, and wrapping a blanket round her, walked to and fro, trying to soothe her.

He loved the old father and the little daughter. But the poor man's lot leaves little time for endearing cares. He must work early and late to procure even coarse food and clothes for his family.

Little Gretchen's bitter, but uncomplaining grief brought tears to the eyes of the kind neighbors, as they looked upon her sad, pale face, and large eyes, so filled with the shrinking loneliness of her sensitive nature. Even the mistress's heart was touched by the hopeless agony of the little one, and while the grandfather lay dead in the house, she was more gentle and kind to her than she had been before.

In a few days they buried him under the trees, by the blue Rhine River. By Chimlein's grave, where he had so often listened to the sweet voice of his little Golden Hair, the poor old "Good-for-Nothing" sleeps his last, cold sleep.

Very wearily rolled now the years for Gretchen.

As she grew older, the household drudgery fell upon her. The mistress seldom gave her a pleasant look or word, and no matter what went wrong with the house or children, the burden of all fell upon the poor "Good-for-Nothing."

The mistress had now four children, of whom Gretchen had almost the entire charge; and, at the age of fourteen, in the frail form of a delicate child, she bore the heart of a subdued and sorrowful woman.

She had had no opportunities for improvement, always at work in the cottage; yet her voice, a marvel in infancy, increased wonderfully in strength and clearness. It was a God's gift, and she sung with matchless sweetness and taste, heaven taught.

One day, as Gretchen sat rocking the youngest child in her arms, and singing as only she could, there came a knocking at the door. The mistress opened it, and saw a tall, sweet-faced lady dressed in deep mourning.

There was a fine carriage at the gate, and she knew by the lordly coat-of-arms, her visitor was no ordinary person, so she dropped a low courtesy and waited.

"Was it you, my good woman, I heard singing just now?" said the lady.

"Ah, no, madam, 'twas only Gretchen, the Good-for-Nothing, putting the baby to sleep."

"But the Good-for-Nothing can sing beautifully, and I would hear her again."

So the lady entered the cottage, to find Gretchen bending over the now sleeping child, with the flush of shame crimsoning her cheeks, for she had heard Elizabeth's coarse reply. But she rose and courtesied to the lady, and, as she did so, the old broken comb fell from her hair, and a shower of rich golden curls covered her neck and shoulders.

Poor little Gretchen! How the accident confused her. She did not know that she looked very beautiful, and that her modesty was an inexpressible charm.

"Sing again, my child," said the lady, kindly.

And Gretchen sang a little German song, full of pathos and beauty; and though her voice trembled with agitation, it lost none of its pure richness.

Tears came to the lady's eyes, and, as if speaking to herself, she said:—

"My little Adela was about her age; these golden curls are like hers, and she sang sweetly, but not like this child."

Then the lady drew Gretchen to her, and asked her if she would be her little girl, and love her.

She told her how her own little daughter had died, and Gretchen told her of the dear grandfather; then she threw her little, weary arms around the fair lady's neck, and they wept together—the childless mother and the motherless child.

Elizabeth was very angry when she found the lady wanted to adopt Gretchen. "The miserable Good-for-Nothing," after all the trouble she had had with her, and just as she was beginning to be able to "earn her salt." And she was to be the rich lady's child, while her own children must remain in poverty. 'Twas too much, and she determined to prevent it.

She went out to meet Karl, and told him her querulous story.

But Karl loved his child, and when the lady told him she would make Gretchen as her own child and love her dearly, he kissed his little daughter, and placing her hand in the good lady's, told her he had never been able to do for Gretchen as his heart desired, and he blessed the good Lord that she had at last found a friend who would give her a mother's care and love.

So they went away together, the high-born Countess and the beautiful peasant child.

The little Good-for-Nothing grew up to be a lovely and accomplished woman. Her matchless voice became the marvel of the gifted and high-born, as it had once been of the village peasantry.

After she had arrived at a proper age she married the countess's nephew, who had loved her tenderly for years, and lived to see her children's children noble, prosperous, and happy.

In her prosperity, Gretchen did not forget her toil-burdened father, and even Elizabeth and her children shared the favors heaped upon him by the once despised little Good-for-Nothing.

CHING CHONG CHINAMAN.

In the "early days" a gallant ship left the harbor of Hong Kong, in the land of the Celestials, bound for the port of San Francisco.

Among the emigrants was a young China boy, of the better class, whose father and mother had both died suddenly, leaving to their son only the memory of the happy days of the past, over which a fleeting prosperity and paternal love had cast the halo of perpetual sunshine.

His father was a merchant, supposed to be immensely wealthy, but after the debts of the house were paid Ching Chong found himself alone in the world, and very destitute.

One evening as he walked out through the suburbs of the city, he met a merchant who had been a great friend of his father. The old gentleman stopped the boy, and kindly inquired what he was doing, and how he had been getting along since his father's death.

Ching Chong was feeling very desolate, and at these expressions of interest the unbidden tears began to flow down his cheeks, till, unable to restrain himself, he bowed his face upon his hands, and sobbed as if his heart would break.