Chapter I: Introduction: Golden Grain (1)

The best introduction to a book is a glance at its pages, an examination of its illustrations and the names of its authors.

In all the essentials which go to make up a work which shall meet with popular favor and a wide range of readers, the Editor and Publishers confidently believe that GOLDEN GRAIN presents a high standard of excellence.

That all tastes might be suited, the literature of all modern nations has been searched and selections of the highest standard made therefrom.

Golden Grain only has been garnered. The great fields of knowledge have been visited, and none but the choicest and ripest kernels have been chosen.

Young Folks must, and will, have something to read--something to feed the mind as well as the body. It therefore becomes a very important duty of parents to make choice of such books as are pure in tone and elevating in sentiment; and it follows also, as night follows day, that if parents fail or neglect this duty the young folks themselves will find something to read, nor will they be so careful in their selections.

In GOLDEN GRAIN will be found a work in every respect worthy of a place in the Family Circle. Its pages lend inspiration to fight life's battles nobly. Those who go out from a home with noble impulses, pure motives, and true hearts will bear the burden of Earth's cares, duties and disappointments with patience and resignation, having

"A heart to resolve, a head to contrive and a hand to execute."

CONTENTS.

Harvest Song John G. Whittier 13

Minute Men of Liberty George William Curtis 14

Kind Hearts 16

The Children's Hour Henry W. Longfellow 17

The Brook Alfred Tennyson 21

Eulogy on Garfield James G. Blaine 23

Gems from James A. Garfield 24

At the Fireside John D. Long 25

The Frost Spirit John G. Whittier 26

The Arrow and the Song Henry W. Longfellow 29

The Bridge Henry W. Longfellow 31

The Responsive Chord J. William Jones 34

Grandma's Angel Sidney Dayre 35

Cold, Bitter Cold Hans Christian Andersen 37

Nobody's Child Phila H. Case 42

Snow-White and Rosy-Red Friederich Grimm 45

The Song of the Thrush Lucy Larcom 58

The Fox and the Geese 60

Count That Day Lost 61

The Children in the Moon 62

A Night in a Norwegian
Forest P. Chr. Asbjornsen 65

Two Little Kittens 88

Labor of Authorship 90

She Was Somebody's Mother 92

Dot Lambs What Mary Haf Got 94

The Mills of God Henry W. Longfellow 95

Bob Cratchit's Christmas Charles Dickens 96

Full Many a Gem Thomas Gray 103

A Snug Little Island 104

Don't Crowd Charles Dickens 111

The Boys Oliver Wendell Holmes 112

Quarrel Between Mountain
and Squirrel Ralph Waldo Emerson 114

For Fathers Sake 116

Backbone 130

A Dog Sheep-Stealer 132

The Best Answer to
Calumny George Washington 133

If We Knew Ph[oe]be Cary 134

Holiday Song D. Bethune Duffield 137

A Queer Duckling Hans Christian Andersen 138

Truth James Russell Lowell 156

The Clearin' 157

Prince Willful's
Three Lessons J. T. Choate 161

Miss Edith Helps
Things Along F. Bret Harte 170

The Giant Who Had
No Heart P. Chr. Asbjornsen 173

Beauty Everywhere W. L. Smith 185

Bread on the Waters George L. Catlin 186

The Use of Books 189

The Spring 190

Gem from "Lalla Rookh" Thomas Moore 190

How Bayard Shot the Bear J. T. Choate 191

How We Live Phillip James Bailey 195

New Year's Eve Alfred Tennyson 197

East of the Sun and
West of the Moon P. Chr. Asbjornsen 199

Do; Not Dream Charles Kingsley 216

The Baby in the Home George MacDonald 217

Saturday Afternoon N. P. Willis 220

The King of the Night Barry Cornwall 222

A 'Rithmetic Lesson Phillip James Bailey 225

Press on 227

Fairies or Fireflies Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt 228

Speak No Ill 229

The Ambitious Twig Lucie Cobbe 230

Universal Law Samuel Rogers 233

The Turk and the Fiddler Friederich Grimm 234

Sober Second Thought Martin Van Buren 241

Little Lottie's Grievance Paul H. Hayne 242

There is no Death Lord Lytton 245

The Siege of Troy J. C. Chilton 248

Think for Thyself Wilson 251

George Nidiver F. Brete Hart 252

March and the Boys Mary D. Brine 255

The Crusades J. C. Chilton 259

Pride of Native Land Sir Walter Scott 262

The Children's Crusade J. C. Chilton 263

The Soldier's Reprieve Rose Hartwick Thorpe 265

The Maid of Orleans J. C. Chilton 269

'Tis Only Noble to be Good Alfred Tennyson 272

A Bird's Story M. E. B. 274

The Wolf and the
Seven Kids Freiderich Grimm 276

There is a Day of
Sunny Rest William Cullen Bryant 280

Birdie and Baby Alfred Tennyson 281

The Influence of Books Edwin P. Whipple 282

Rock Me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers 283

Heroism Ralph Waldo Emerson 285

Politeness 285

Measuring the Baby Emma Alice Brown 286

Pearl of Thought Johann Chr. F. Schiller 288

The Noble Roman John G. Saxe 288

The Engineer's Story 289

As He Saw Himself Sir Isaac Newton 293

The Random Shaft Sir Walter Scott 293

Two Brave Boys Pritt's "Border Life" 294

Undoubted Evidence Rev. Laurence Stern 298

The Flight of Years George D. Prentice 299

Airy Nothings William Shakespeare 304

HARVEST SONG.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

O Painter of the fruits and flowers!
We thank Thee for thy wise design
Whereby these human hands of ours
In Nature's garden work with thine.

And thanks that from our daily need
The joy of simple faith is born;
That he who smites the summer weed,
May trust Thee for the autumn corn.

Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;
Let fortune's bubbles rise and fall;
Who sows a field, or trains a flower,
Or plants a tree, is more than all.

For he who blesses most is blest;
And God and man shall own his worth,
Who toils to leave as his bequest
An added beauty to the earth.

And, soon or late, to all that sow,
The time of harvest shall be given;
The flowers shall bloom, the fruit shall grow,
If not on earth, at last in heaven!

MINUTE MEN OF LIBERTY.

Delivered on the one-hundredth anniversary of the battle of Lexington, Mass., by GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS, April 19, 1875.

After reviewing the leading incidents of the battle of Lexington, in 1775, and the subsequent victories of Washington; and closing with a brilliant picture of the final triumph of the Colonial troops, Mr. Curtis said:

"NOT such are our enemies to-day. They do not come proudly stepping to the drum-beat, with bayonets flashing in the morning sun. But wherever party spirit shall strain the ancient guarantees of Freedom, or bigotry and ignorance shall lay their fatal hands upon education, or the ignorance of caste shall strike at equal rights, or corruption shall poison the very springs of national life, there, Minutemen of Liberty are _your_ Lexington-Green and Concord-Bridge, and as you love your country and your kind, and would have your children rise up and call you blessed, spare not the enemy! Over the hills, out of the earth, down from the clouds pour in resistless might.

Fire! fire from every rock and tree, from every door and window, from hearthstone and chamber; hang upon his flank and rear from noon to sunset, and so through a land blazing with holy indignation, hurl the hordes of ignorance, corruption and injustice back, back into utter defeat and ruin!"

Kind hearts are the gardens,
Kind thoughts are the roots,
Kind words are the blossoms,
Kind deeds are the fruits.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Between the dark and the daylight,
When night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the children's hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper and then a silence;
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together,
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall,
By three doors left unguarded,
They enter my castle wall.

They climb up into my turret,
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me intwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen,
In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine.

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin
And moulder in dust away.

SONG OF THE BROOK.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

I come from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally;
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges:
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

I chatter, chatter as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance,
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses.

And out again I curve and flow,
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

EULOGY ON GARFIELD.

Surely if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning, James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident, in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence, and the grave.

Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death--and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage, he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes, whose lips may tell! Before him desolation and great darkness! And his soul was not shaken.

Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine-press alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the divine decree.

GEMS FROM JAS. A. GARFIELD.

If there be one thing upon this broad earth that mankind love and admire, better than another, it is a brave man--it is a man who dares look the Devil in the face and tell him he is a Devil.

Be fit for more than the thing you are now doing.

Things don't turn up in this world till somebody turns them up.

AT THE FIRESIDE.

At nightfall by the firelight's cheer
My little Margaret sits me near,
And begs me tell of things that were
When I was little just like her.

Ah, little lips you touch the spring
Of sweetest sad remembering,
And hearth and heart flash all aglow
With ruddy tints of long ago.

I at my father's fireside sit,
Youngest of all who circle it,
And beg him tell me what did he
When he was little just like me.

JOHN D. LONG

THE FROST SPIRIT.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
You may trace his footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields,
And the brown hill's withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees
Where their pleasant green came forth,
And the winds which follow wherever he goes,
Have shaken them down to earth.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
From the frozen Labrador,--
From the icy bridge of the Northern seas,
Which the white bear wanders o'er,--
Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice,
And the luckless forms below
In the sunless cold of the lingering night,
Into marble statues grow!

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
On the rushing Northern blast,
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed
As his fearful breath went past.
With an unscorched wing he has hurried on,
Where the fires of Hecla glow
On the darkly beautiful sky above,
And the ancient ice below.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
And the quiet lake shall feel
The torpid touch of his glazing breath,
And ring to the skater's heel;
And the streams which danced on the broken rocks,
Or sang to the leaning grass,
Shall bow again to their winter chain,
And in mournful silence pass.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!
Let us meet him as we may,
And turn with light of the parlor-fire
His evil power away;
And gather closer the circle round,
When that fire-light dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend,
As his sounding wing goes by.

THE ARROW AND THE SONG.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I know not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

THE BRIDGE.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them.
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The sea-weed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me,
That filled my eyes with tears.

How often; Oh! how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight,
And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often; Oh! how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me,
Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen upon me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean,
Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in Heaven,
And its wavering image here.

THE RESPONSIVE CHORD.

J. WILLIAM JONES.

One evening in 1863, when the Confederate and Union armies were both near Spottsylvania, two bands chanced, at the same hour, to begin to play on either bank of the river.

The soldiers of both armies gathered to listen, and soon the bands began to answer each other. First the Federal band would play "Hail Columbia" or some other national air, and at its close the "boys in blue" would cheer most lustily. Then the Confederate band would respond with "Dixie" or "Bonnie Blue Flag," and the "boys in gray" would yell their approval. But presently one of the bands struck up, in sweet and sad tones, the grand old tune "Home, Sweet Home." It was caught up by the other band, and at its close there went up a shout _from both sides of the river_--cheer followed cheer and the hills re-echoed the glad acclaim. A chord had been struck to which all hearts could beat in unison; and, for the time being, their enmity was forgotten.

GRANDMA'S ANGEL.

Mamma said; 'Little one, go and see
If Grandmother's ready to come to tea.'
I knew I must'nt disturb her, so
I stepped as gently along, tiptoe,
And stood a moment to take a peep--
And there was Grandmother, fast asleep.

"I knew it was time for her to wake;
I thought I'd give her a little shake,
Or tap at her door, or softly call;
But I had'nt the heart for that at all--
She looked so sweet and so quiet there,
Lying back in her high arm-chair,
With her dear white hair and a little smile,
That means she's loving you all the while.

"I did'nt make a speck of a noise;
I knew she was dreaming of little boys
And girls who lived with her, long ago,
And then went to Heaven--she told me so.

"I went up close, and I did'nt speak
One word, but I gave her on her cheek
The softest bit of a little kiss,
Just in a whisper, and then said this;
'Grandmother dear it's time for tea.'

"She opened her eyes and looked at me,
And said: 'Why, Pet, I have just now dreamed
Of a little angel who came, and seemed
To kiss me lovingly on my face.'
She pointed right at the very place.

"I never told her 'twas only me;
I took her hand and we went to tea."

SYDNEY DAYRE in St. Nicholas.

COLD--BITTER COLD.

It was dreadfully cold, it snowed, and was getting quite dark, for it was evening--yes, the last evening of the year.

Amid the cold and the darkness, a little girl, with bare head and naked feet, was roaming through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers, when she left home, but that was not of much use, for they were very large slippers; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto been used by her mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she hurried across the street, to avoid two carriages, that were driving at a fearful rate. One of the slippers was not to be found, and the other was pounced upon by a boy, who ran away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle when he should have children of his own.

So the little girl went along, with her little bare feet, that were red and blue with cold. She carried a number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day, and nobody had even given her a penny.

She crept along, shivering with cold and hunger, a perfect picture of misery--poor little thing!

The snowflakes covered her long, flaxen hair, which hung in pretty curls round her throat; but she heeded them not.

Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a savory smell of roast goose; for it was St. Sylvester's evening.

She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one of which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she felt colder than ever; yet she dared not return home, for she had not sold a match, and could not bring back a penny.

Her father would certainly beat her; and it was cold enough at home, besides,--for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with straw and rags.

Her little hands were nearly frozen with cold.

Alas! a single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one out of the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers.

So at last she drew one out. Whist! how it shed sparks, and how it burned! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held her hands over it,--truly, it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a large iron stove, with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned so blessedly, and warmed so nicely, that the little creature stretched out her feet to warm them likewise, when lo! the flame expired, the stove vanished, and left nothing but the little half-burned match in her hand.

She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and where it shown upon the wall, the latter became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room.

A snow-white table-cloth was spread upon the table, on which stood a splendid china dinner service, while a roast goose, stuffed with apples and prunes, sent forth the most savory fumes. And what was more delightful still, the goose jumped down from the dish, and waddled along the ground with a knife and fork in its breast, up to the poor girl.

The match then went out, and nothing remained but the thick, damp wall.

She lit another match.

She now sat under the most magnificent Christmas tree, that was larger, and more superbly decked, than even the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. A thousand tapers burned on its green branches, and gay pictures, such as one sees on targets, seemed to be looking down upon her. The match then went out.

The Christmas lights kept rising higher and higher. They now looked like stars in the sky. One of them fell down, and left a long streak of fire.

"Somebody is now dying," thought the little girl,--for her old grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her, that when a star falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven.

She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it was again light all round; and in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining like a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving.

"Grandmother," cried the little one, "oh! take me with you! I know you will go away when the match goes out,--you will vanish like the warm stove and the delicious roast goose, and the fine, large Christmas tree!"

And she made haste to rub the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches gave a light that was brighter than noonday. Her grandmother had never appeared so beautiful nor so large. She took the little girl in her arms, and both flew upwards, all radiant and joyful, far--far above mortal ken--where there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor care to be found; for it was to the land of the blessed that they had flown.

But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be seen leaning against the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth; she had been frozen on the last night of the old year.

The new year's sun shone upon the little corpse.

The child sat in the stiffness of death, still holding the matches, one bundle of which was burned.

People said: "She tried to warm herself."

Nobody dreamed of the fine things she had seen, nor in what splendor she had entered upon the joys of the new year, together with her grandmother.

NOBODY'S CHILD.

PHILA H. CASE.

Alone, in the dreary, pitiless street,
With my torn old dress and bare, cold feet,
All day I've wandered to and fro,
Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go;
The night's coming on in darkness and dread,
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head;
Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?
Is it because I'm nobody's child?
Just over the way there's a flood of light,
And warmth and beauty, and all things bright;

Beautiful children, in robes so fair,
Are caroling songs in rapture there.
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me;
Wandering alone in the merciless street,
Naked and shivering and nothing to eat.

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down,
In its terrible darkness, all over the town?
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,
On the cold, hard pavements, alone, to die?
When the beautiful children their prayers have said,
And mamas have tucked them up snugly in bed.
No dear mother ever upon me smiled--
Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child.

No father, no mother, no sister, not one
In all the world loves me; e'en the little dogs run,
When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see,
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!
Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie
Gazing far up in the dark, blue sky,

Watching for hours some large, bright star,
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar.

And a host of white-robed, nameless things,
Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings;
A hand that is strangely soft and fair,
Caresses gently my tangled hair,
And a voice like the carol of some wild bird,
The sweetest voice that was ever heard--
Calls me many a dear pet name,
'Till my heart and spirits are all aflame;

And tells me of such unbounded love,
And bids me come up to their home above,
And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise,
They look at me with their sweet blue eyes,
And it seems to me, out of the dreary night,
I am going up to the world of light,
And away from the hunger and storms so wild--
I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.

SNOW-WHITE AND ROSY-RED.

GRIMM.

A poor widow once lived in a small cottage, and before the cottage was a garden in which grew two rose-trees, one of which bore white roses, and the other red. She had two children, who resembled the rose trees--one was named Snow-white, and the other Rosy-red, and they were as pious, kind, and industrious as any two children ever were. Snow-white was quieter and more gentle than her sister, who preferred skipping over the fields, seeking flowers, and catching summer birds; while Snow-white remained at home with her mother, either assisting her in her work, or reading aloud to her when that was done. The two children had the greatest love for each other; they were always seen hand-in-hand, and if Snow-white said to her sister, "We will never separate!" the other replied, "Not while we live!" the mother adding, "what one has, let her always share with the other." They often ran together in the woods, and gathered ripe berries; but not a single animal would have done them an injury--on the contrary, they all felt the greatest regard for the young creatures: the hare came and ate parsley from their hands, the deer grazed by their side, the stag sprang past them unconcerned, the birds likewise stirred not from the branch, but sang in the most perfect security. No mischance befell them; if benighted in the wood, they laid themselves in the moss to repose, and slept until the morning, and their mother was satisfied they were safe, and felt no fear on their account. Once, when they had passed the night in the wood, and the bright sunrise awoke them, they saw a beautiful child, in a snow-white dress, which shone like diamonds, sitting near the place where they had rested. She stood up when they opened their eyes, and looked kindly at them, but said not a word, and passed from their sight into the wood. When the children looked around, they saw that they had slept on the edge of a high cliff, and would certainly have fallen over, if they had proceeded two steps farther in the darkness. Their mother told them the beautiful child must have been the angel who watches over good children. Snow-white and Rosy-red kept their mother's cottage so clean, that it was a pleasure only to look in. In the summer Rosy-red looked after the house, and placed by her mother's bed every morning, before she awoke, a bouquet, in which was a rose from each of the rose trees. In the winter Snow-white lighted the fire, and put the kettle on, after scouring it, so that it resembled gold in brightness. In the evening, when the snowflakes fell, her mother bade her bolt the door, and then seating themselves by the hearth, the good widow read aloud to them from a large book, while the girls spun; near them lay a lamb, and behind was a white pigeon upon a perch, with its head tucked under its wing.

One evening as they all sat thus comfortably together, a knock was heard at the door, as if somebody desired to enter, "Quick, Rosy-red," said her mother, "open the door; it must be some traveler seeking shelter." Rosy-red accordingly opened the door, thinking to see a poor man; but it was no such thing, it was a bear, who thrust his great black head into the open door. Rosy-red uttered a cry and sprang back, the lamb bleated, the dove fluttered her wings, and Snow-white hid herself behind her mother's bed. The bear began to speak, and said, "Fear not, I will do you no harm; I am half frozen, and only wish to warm myself a little at your fire." "Poor bear," returned the mother, "come and lie by the fire, only take care that your hair does not burn." Then calling Snow-white and Rosy-red, she bade them come out, "The bear," she said, "was kind, and would do them no harm." So they obeyed, and by degrees the lamb and the dove approached also, and had no fear. "Children," said the bear, "knock a little of the snow out of my coat." So they got the broom, and swept the bear's coat quite clean. After which, he stretched himself out before the fire and amused himself with a little growl, just to prove he was happy and comfortable. Before long, they were all quite good friends, and the children began to sport with their unexpected guest, tugging at his thick fur, or putting their feet on his back, or rolling him over and over. Then they took a thin hazel twig, with which they struck his thick fur, and when he growled, they laughed. The bear very kindly allowed them to amuse themselves thus, only sometimes, when it proceeded a little too far, he called out, "Children, children, leave me an inch of life.

"Snow-white and Rosy-red,
Strike not your lover dead."

When night came, and all prepared to go to bed, the widow said to the bear, "You can stay here, and lie on the hearth if you like, you will then be sheltered from the cold and the bad weather." The offer was accepted, but in the morning, as soon as day broke in the east, the two children let him out, and he trotted over the snow back into the wood. From this time the bear came every evening at the same hour, laid himself by the fire, and permitted the children to amuse themselves with him, so that they became quite attached to their strange playfellow, and the door was never bolted of an evening, until he had made his appearance.

When spring came, and everything around began to look green and bright, the bear said one morning to Snow-white, "I must now leave you, and I shall not be able to return for the whole summer." "Where are you then going, dear bear?" inquired Snow-white. "I must go to the woods, to protect my treasure from the bad dwarfs; in the winter, when the earth is hard frozen, they are obliged to stay underground, and cannot work their way through; but now the sun has thawed and warmed the earth, they find their way to the surface, and are ever on the watch for what they can steal, and whatever touches their hands, or reaches their caves, rarely, if ever, sees daylight again." Snow-white was very sorrowful when she took leave of the good-natured bear, and unbolted the door, that he might depart; but in passing out, he caught on a hook in the door-post, and a little of his fur being torn, Snow-white thought she saw something shine like gold through the rent; but he passed out so rapidly, that she did not feel sure what it was, and he was soon lost among the trees.

One day the mother sent her children into the wood to collect sticks; they found a large tree lying on the ground, which had been felled, and among the roots they saw something jumping and hopping, which they could not at all understand, it being sometimes hidden among the grass. When they drew nearer, they saw it was a dwarf, with an old withered face and a snow-white beard a yard long. The beard was fastened in a split in the trunk of the tree, and the little fellow was springing backwards and forwards like a dog at the end of a cord, but could not succeed in getting free. He stared at the children with his fiery red eyes, and cried out, "What are you standing there for? Can you not come and see if you can help me?" "What have you been doing, little man?" asked Rosy-red. "Silly inquisitive goose:" answered the dwarf, "I wanted to split the tree that I might chop it into sticks for the kitchen; thick logs would burn up the small portion of food we cook, for we do not swallow great mountains of provisions, as you coarse greedy folks do. I have driven in the wedge, and should soon have done what I wanted, but the tool sprang out of the split, which closed again so quickly, that my beautiful white beard was caught, and here I am detained for I cannot get away." "You silly white-faced creatures! you are laughing, are you?" Notwithstanding the little man's ill-temper, the girls gave themselves all imaginable trouble, in order to release the dwarf, but in vain--the beard was held too fast.

"I will run and call somebody else," said Rosy-red. "Idiot," replied the dwarf, "who would go and fetch more people? here are already two too many; can you not think of anything better?" "Do not be impatient," said Snow-white, "I will try and consider." Clapping her hands, as if she had found a remedy, she took out her scissors, and instantly released the dwarf by cutting off the end of his beard. Directly the dwarf felt himself free, he seized a sack filled with gold, which was hidden among the roots of the tree, and raising it, growled out, "Awkward creatures! to cut off a bit of my beautiful beard, of which I am so proud, the cuckoos may pay you for what you have done." With these words, he swung the sack over his shoulder and went away, without even casting a look upon the children.

Shortly after this the two sisters went to fish in the brook, thinking to catch some fish for dinner. As they approached the water, they saw something that looked like a large cricket jumping towards the brook as if it were going in. They ran to see what it could be, and perceived the dwarf. "Where are you going?" asked Rosy-red; "you will not surely jump into the water?" "I am not quite such a simpleton," screamed the dwarf; "do you not see that the confounded fish is pulling me in?" The little man had been sitting on the bank fishing, when unfortunately the wind had entangled his beard in the line, and as a large fish directly afterwards took the bait, the little fellow had not strength to pull it out; the fish therefore got the upper-hand, and was drawing the dwarf after it. It is true, he caught at every stalk and twig near him, but that did not help him much, he was obliged to follow all the movements of the fish, and was in danger of being drawn into the water.

The girls came up just in time; they held him fast and tried to disentangle his beard from the line, but in vain. Nothing remained but again to use the scissors, so they were taken out, and the part entangled cut off. When the dwarf saw what they were doing, he cried out in a great rage, "Is this the way you spoil my beard? Not content with shortening it before, you are now cutting it the other way, and ruining it entirely. I shall never dare to show my face to my friends. I wish you had lost your way, before you came this road." Then fetching a sack of pearls lying in the rushes, and without another word he hobbled away and vanished behind a large stone.

It happened that soon after this the poor widow sent her children to the town in order to buy thread, needles, ribbon and tape. The road lay over a heath on which large masses of rock were scattered in all directions, and the children's attention was soon drawn to a large bird hovering in the air: they observed that after flying slowly in a circle for some time, and gradually approaching nearer to the earth, it suddenly dashed down among a mass of rock; immediately a pitiable cry pierced their ears, and running hastily to the spot, they saw with horror that the eagle had seized their old acquaintance, the dwarf, and was preparing to bear him away. The children did not wait for a moment, but taking firm hold of the little man, they disputed so stoutly with the eagle for the possession of his prey, that after much rough handling on both sides, the dwarf remained in the hands of his little friends, and the eagle took to flight.

When the little man had in a degree recovered from his fright, his little thin cracked voice was heard saying, "Could you not handle me more gently? look at my little coat, you have torn and mangled it in a fine fashion, you awkward creatures!" He then took up a sack of precious stones, and slipped out of sight behind a fragment of a rock. The maidens were by this time quite accustomed to his thankless manner, so they thought nothing of it, but continued their way, executed their mother's commission, and then prepared to return to their happy home.

On their road thither, they suddenly came again upon their friend the dwarf; he had emptied out his sack of precious stones upon a clean spot, that he might number or admire them, for he did not expect that any one would be crossing the heath at so late an hour. The setting sun shone upon the bright stones, and their varying hues and brilliant rays induced the children to stop and admire them. "What are you looking at?" said the dwarf, rudely, at the same time reddening with anger; "and why do you stand there making faces?" It is likely that he might have continued in the same strain, but suddenly a loud growl was heard close to them, and a large black bear joined the party. The dwarf sprang up in the greatest terror, but was unable to reach his hiding-place, the bear was too near him; so he exclaimed in the most evident anguish, "Dear Mr. Bear, pray pardon me, I will give you all my treasure, only look at the valuable stones lying there. Grant me my life! You would not feel me between your teeth; but look at those two children, they would be tender morsels, and are as fat as quails--pray take them, good Mr. Bear, and let me go." The bear, however, was not to be moved with his words; he gave the dwarf one blow with his paw, and he lay lifeless on the ground.

In the meantime the maidens had ran away, and were making the best of their way towards their home, but they were suddenly stopped by a well-known voice, which cried, "Snow-white! Rosy-red! stop, do not be afraid. I will go with you."

The bear rapidly advanced towards them; but as he joined them, the bear-skin suddenly fell to the ground, and there stood before them a handsome man, entirely dressed in gold. "I am the son of a king," said he, "but was enchanted by the wicked dwarf lying yonder, who stole my treasure, and forced me to run about the woods in the form of a great bear, until I should be set free by his death. He has therefore only met with a well-merited punishment."

After some time, Snow-white married the prince, and Rosy-red his brother; and they divided between them the immense treasure that the dwarf had collected in his cave. The old mother passed many happy years with her children; but when she left her cottage, she carried with her the two rose-trees, and they stood before her window, and continued to bear the most beautiful red and white roses every year.

THE SONG OF THE THRUSH.

LUCY LARCOM.

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.
"He's singing to me! he's singing to me!"
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? Don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree,
I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper-tree?
Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! now I'm free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
But long it won't be,
Don't you know? Don't you see?
Unless we are as good as can be."

THE FOX AND THE GEESE.

A fox came suddenly into a meadow, where a flock of beautiful, fat geese were reposing; this amused him, so he laughed, and said, "It is just as if I had been called; I am just arrived at the right moment; you sit all there so comfortably together, that I can eat you up one after the other, without disturbing you much." The geese cackled with apprehension, and began to lament their impending fate, and entreat for their lives. The fox, however, would listen to nothing, and said, "There is no mercy for you; you must die!" At last one took courage, and said, "If we poor geese must lose our young, fresh lives, grant us at least this small favor--that we may repeat one prayer, and not die in our sins; after that we will place ourselves in a row, that you may be able to choose the fattest." "Well," said the fox, "perhaps that is only just, it is certainly proper, begin your prayer, and I will wait." The first began with a remarkably long prayer, nothing but "ga, ga," and as it did not seem inclined to leave off, the second would not wait until her turn came, but began likewise, "ga, ga," the third and fourth followed, and they soon all cackled together. (When the prayer is finished you shall have the rest of the story; but as far as I know, they are all still going on.)

"Count that day lost whose low-descending sun,
Views from thy hand no worthy action done."

THE CHILDREN IN THE MOON.

Harken, child, unto a story!
For the moon is in the sky,
And across her shield of silver,
See! two tiny cloudlets fly.

Watch them closely, mark them sharply,
As across the light they pass,--
Seem they not to have the figures
Of a little lad and lass?

See, my child, across their shoulders
Lies a little pole! and lo!
Yonder speck is just the bucket,
Swinging softly to and fro.

It is said, these little children,
Many and many a Summer night,
To a little well far northward
Wandered in the still moonlight.

To the wayside well they trotted,
Filled their little buckets there,
And the Moon-man looking downwards,
Saw how beautiful they were.

Quoth the man, "How vexed and sulky
Looks the little rosy boy!
But the little handsome maiden,
Trips behind him full of joy.

To the well behind the hedgerow
Trot the little lad and maiden;
From the well behind the hedgerow
Now the little pail is laden.

How they please me! how they tempt me!
Shall I snatch them up to-night?
Snatch them, set them here forever,
In the middle of my light?

Children, ay, and children's children
Should behold my babes on high,
And my babes should smile forever,
Calling others to the sky?"

Thus the philosophic Moon-man
Muttered many years ago,
Set the babes with pole and bucket,
To delight the folks below.

Never is the bucket empty,
Never are the children old;
Ever when the moon is shining
We the children may behold.

Ever young, and ever little,
Ever sweet and ever fair!
When thou art a man, my darling,
Still the children will be there!

Ever young, and ever little,
They will smile when thou art old!
When thy locks are thin and silver,
Theirs will still be shining gold.

They will haunt you from their heaven,
Softly beckoning down the gloom,--
Smiling in eternal sweetness
On thy cradle, on thy tomb!

A NIGHT IN A NORWEGIAN FOREST.

PETER CHRISTIAN ASBJORNSEN.

The evening shadows now unfold
Their curtain o'er the lonely wold;
The night wind sighs with dreary moan,
And whispers over stock and stone.
Tramp, Tramp! the trolls come trooping, hark!
Across the moor to the deep woods dark.

GEIJER.

When I was a boy about fourteen years old, I came one Saturday afternoon in the middle of the summer to Upper Lyse, the last farm in Sorkerdale. I had frequently walked or driven over the main road between Christiania and Ringerike, and I had now, after having been at home on a short visit, taken the road past Bokstad to Lyse for a change, with the intention of making a short cut through the north part of the Krog-wood.

I found all the doors of the farm-house wide open, but I looked in vain in the parlor, in the kitchen, and in the barn, for a human being whom I could ask for a drink and who could give me some direction about the road.

There was no one at home but a black cat, who was sitting quite content and purring on the hearth, and a dazzling white cock, who was walking up and down the passage breasting himself and crowing incessantly, as much as to say: "Now I am the cock of the walk!"

Tired with the heat and my walk, I threw myself down on the grass in the shadow of the house, where I lay half-asleep enjoying a quiet rest, when I was startled by an unpleasant clamour,--the jarring voice of a woman, who was trying by alternately scolding and using pet names to pacify a litter of grunting pigs on the farm. By following the sound I came upon a bare-footed old woman with a yellow dried-up countenance, who was bending down over the pigs' trough, busy filling it with food, for which the noisy little creatures were fighting, tearing, pushing, and yelling, with expectation and delight.

On my questioning her about the road, she answered me by asking me another question, while she, without raising herself up, turned her head half away from her pets to stare at me.

"Where might you come from?"

When she had got a satisfactory answer to this, she continued, while she repeatedly addressed herself to the young pigs:

"Ah, so!--you are at school at the parson's, eh!--hush, hush! little piggies, then!----The road to Stubdale, do you say?----Just look at that one now! Will you let the others get something as well, you rascal! Hush, hush! Be quiet, will you! Oh, poor fellow, did I kick you then?----Yes, yes, I'll tell you the road directly,--its--its straight on through the wood till you come to the big water-wheel!"

As this direction seemed to me to be rather vague for a road of about fourteen miles length through a forest, I asked her if I could not hire a lad who knew the road, to go with me.

"No, bless you! Is it likely?" she said, as she left the piggery and came out on the slope before the farm. "They are so busy now with the hay-making, that they've scarcely time to eat. But it's straight through the wood, and I'll explain it to you right enough, as if you saw the road before you. First you go up the crag and all the hills over yonder, and when you have got up on the heights, you have the straight road right before you to Heggelie. You have the river on your left hand all the way, and if you don't see it you'll hear it. But just about Heggelie there is a lot of twistings and turnings, and now and then the road is lost altogether for some distance--if one is a stranger there, it's not an easy thing to find one's way, but you are sure to find it as far as Heggelie, for that's close to the lake. Afterwards you go along the lake, till you come to the dam across a small tarn, just like a bridge, as they call it; bear away to the left there, and then turn off to the right, and you have the road straight before you to Stubdale, in Aasa."

Although this direction was not quite satisfactory, particularly as it was the first time I had started on an excursion off the main road, I set out confidently and soon all hesitation vanished. From the heights a view was now and then obtained between the lofty pine and fir trees of the valley below, with its smiling fields and variegated woods of birch and alder trees, between which the river wound like a narrow silvery streak. The red-painted farm-houses, peculiar to Norway, lay picturesquely scattered on the higher points of the undulating valley where men and women were busy hay-making. From some chimneys rose columns of blue smoke, which appeared quite light against the dark back-ground of thickly studded pine forests on the mountain slopes.