Chapter D: Bethune Duffield (2)

And then the wedding came off, and the king gave a grand feast which lasted for many a day, and if they have not done feasting by this, why they are still at it.

[Footnote 1: The favorite hero of most Norwegian fairy tales is called "Askeladen," a sort of male "Cinderella" and is always the youngest son of the family.]

There is beauty in the forest,
When the trees are green and fair;
There is beauty in the meadow,
Where wild flowers scent the air;
There is beauty in the sunlight,
And the soft, blue beam above:
Oh, the world is full of beauty
When the heart is full of love!

W. L. SMITH.

BREAD ON THE WATERS.

GEORGE L. CATLIN.

"Mister," the little fellow said,
"_Please_ give me a dime to buy some bread."

I turned to look at the ragged form,
That, in the midst of the pitiless storm,
Pinched, and haggard, and old with care,
In accents pleading, was standing there.
'Twas a little boy not twelve years old;
He shivered and shook in the bitter cold,
His eyes were red--with weeping, I fear--
And adown his cheeks there rolled a tear
E'en then.

His misery struck me dumb;
'Twas a street in a crowded city slum,
Where an errand of duty led my feet
That day, through the storm and blinding sleet.
"Poor little fellow!" at last I said,
"Have you no father?"

"No, he's dead!"
The answer came; "You've a mother, then?"
"Yes, sir," he said, with a sob; "She's been
Sick for a year, and the doctor said
She'd never again get up from bed."
"You are hungry, too!" I asked in pain,
As I looked at his poor, wan face again.
"Hungry," he said, with a bitter groan
That would melt to pity a heart of stone;
"I am starved; we are all starving," he said,
"We haven't had a crust of bread--Me,
nor mother, nor baby Kate--Since
yesterday morning."

I did not wait
To ask him more. "Come, come!" I cried,
"You shall not hunger;" and at my side
His poor little pattering footsteps fell
On my ear with a sadness I cannot tell;

But his eyes beamed bright when he saw me stop
Before the door of a baker's shop,
And we entered.

"Now eat away, my boy,
As much as you like," I said. With joy,
And a soft expression of childish grace,
He looked up into my friendly face,
And sobbed, as he strove to hide a tear:
"Oh, if mother and baby Kate were here!"
"But eat," said I, "never mind them now,"
A thoughtful look stole over his brow,
And lo! from his face the joy had fled.
"What! while they're at home!" he said;
"Oh, no, sir! I'm hungry, indeed, 'tis true.
But I cannot eat till they've had some too."

The tears came rushing--I can't tell why--
To my eyes, as he spoke these words. Said I:
"God bless you! here, you brave little man,
Here, carry home all the bread you can."
Then I loaded him down with loaves, until
He could carry no more. I paid the bill;
And before he could quite understand
Just what I was doing, into his hand

I slipped a bright, new dollar; then said,
"Good-bye," and away on my journey sped.

'Twas four years ago. But one day last May,
As I wandered by chance through East Broadway,
A cheery voice accosted me. Lo!
'Twas the self-same lad of years ago,
Though larger grown--and his looks, in truth,
Bespoke a sober, industrious youth.

"Mister," he said, "I'll never forget
The kindness you showed when last we met.
I work at a trade, and mother is well,
So is baby Kate; and I want to tell
You this--that we owe it all to you.
'Twas you--don't blush, sir--that helped us through
In our darkest hour; and we always say
Our luck has been better since that day
When you sent me home with bread to feed
Those starving ones in their hour of need."

We should make the same use of books that the bee does of a flower: he gathers sweets from it, but does not injure it.

A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well,
Where weary men might turn;

He walled it in, and hung with care,
A ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that toil might drink.

He passed again, and lo! the well,
By summers never dried,
Had cooled a thousand parched tongues,
And saved a life beside.--ANON.

AND oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws
From the heart that bleeds, and breaks in her cause!

THOMAS MOORE: "LALLA ROOKH."

HOW BAYARD SHOT THE BEAR.

It was a hot summer day and Bayard was tired of playing horse with Ethel, or of swinging in the hammock; so he thought he would take a stroll in the fields back of the house, and, perhaps, go down as far as the creek. So he took his gun and started off.

Why he took the gun, Bayard himself could hardly have told; yet it was lucky he did take it, as we shall presently see.

The sun's rays were so scorching, and he got so warm walking, that when he arrived at the creek he thought he would lie down and rest. How cool it was under the trees, and how still it seemed! Not a sound was heard save the twittering of the birds, the babbling of the water over the stones, and the sound of the cow-bells in the neighboring pasture.

How Bayard wished he could see something to shoot. To be sure there were the birds; but they looked so happy and sang so sweetly, that it seemed a pity to kill them, and then--they were so common! Anyone could shoot a bird, a squirrel, or a rabbit. Bayard wanted game of a larger kind. He would never waste powder on a bird. No, indeed!

Oh! if he were only in a country where there were plenty of lions and tigers! But then, he wasn't; yet he had heard his father tell about seeing bears in that neighborhood, and might be there was one roaming around even then.

What if one should come out of the woods! Wouldn't he kill it, though! The bear would be dead in less time than it takes to tell it. To doubt that would be rank heresy.

Halloa! What was that! Only a twig snapping. There it is again! Twig snaps some more,--heavy body. Bushes move! See there! See that brown thing! What's that, that gleams so,--eyes?

It--it's--a bear!

Sure enough,--just what Bayard has been wanting to see. Old Bruin comes out from the bushes and sniffs around.

Bayard's heart beats fast, and he trembles; but not from fear. Oh, no! Perish the man who would suggest such a thing.

Bruin sees Bayard and shows his teeth.

Bayard picks up his gun. Bear growls, and stands upon his hind legs.

Bayard raises his gun to his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. Bear comes nearer.

Bayard aims. Bang!

Has he killed it? Smoke clears away. No, the bear is still there; and he is thoroughly angry, too. Perhaps some of the shot has lodged in his side.

Bear utters a loud growl, and springs forward. Bayard now thoroughly frightened; but too much excited to run.

Bang! bang! Another shot.

Bear nearer; and now he has Bayard in his claws. Tight,--tighter, the bear hugs him,--Oh, dear!

Bayard can't get away! Can't breathe! Almost dead! Oh! Oh! Help! Help!

"Bayard!" "Bayard!"

What was that?

Bayard starts up; rubs his eyes, yawns; stretches; yawns again.

What! Has he been asleep? Yes, for there he is, safe and sound, his gun on the grass, no bear in sight; and his mother is calling him to dinner.

And that is how Bayard shot the bear!

Indeed, he couldn't have shot it otherwise with his gun, for, don't you see, it was only a toy gun which Cousin Guy had given him as a birthday present.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY: "FESTUS."

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new;
Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land;
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

EAST OF THE SUN AND WEST OF THE MOON.

P. C. ASBJORNSEN.

There was once a poor tenant who had many children, but very little food or clothes to give them; they were all pretty children, but the prettiest was the youngest daughter, who was so lovely that there was almost too much of her loveliness.

So one Thursday evening, late in the autumn, when there was terrible weather and it was dreadfully dark out of doors, and it rained and blew as well till the wall creaked, they were all sitting by the hearth busy with something or other. All at once some one knocked three times on the window-pane. The good-man went out to see what was the matter; when he came outside he saw a great big white bear.

"Good evening!" said the white bear.

"Good evening!" said the man.

"Will you give me your youngest daughter, and I will make you as rich as you now are poor," said the bear.

Yes; the man thought it would be very nice to be so rich, but he must speak with his daughter first; so he went in and told her that a great white bear was outside, who promised that he would make them all rich if he could only get her. She said "No," and would not agree to any such arrangement; so the man went out and arranged with the white bear that he should come again next Thursday evening for an answer.

In the meantime they talked her round, and told her of all the riches they would come in possession of, and how fine she herself would have it in her new home; so at last she gave in to their entreaties and began washing and mending her few rags and made herself look as well as she could, and was at last ready for the journey. Her baggage of course, was not much to speak of.

Next Thursday evening the white bear came to fetch her; she got up on his back with her bundle, and away they went. When they had gone some distance the white bear said: "Are you afraid?"--No, she wasn't afraid.--"Well, only hold tight by my coat and there's no danger," said the bear.

And so she rode far, far away, and came at last to a big mountain. The white bear knocked at it and a gate was opened, and they came into a castle where there were a great many rooms all lit up and gleaming with silver and gold, and amongst these was a great hall, where a table stood ready laid; in fact, all was so grand and splendid that you would not believe it unless you saw it. So the white bear gave her a silver bell, which she was to ring whenever there was anything she wanted, and her wishes would be attended to at once.

Well, when she had eaten, it was getting late in the evening, and she became sleepy after the journey so she thought she would like to go to bed. She rang the bell, and had scarcely touched it, before she was in a room, where she found such a beautiful bed as anyone could wish for, with silken pillows and curtains, and gold fringes; everything else in the room was made of gold and silver. But when she had gone to bed and put out the light, she heard someone coming into the room and sitting down in the big arm-chair near the bed. It was the white bear, who at night could throw off his shape, and she could hear by his snoring as he sat in the chair that he was now in the shape of a man; but she never saw him, because he always came after she had put out the light, and in the morning before the day dawned he was gone.

Well, for awhile everything went on happily, but then she began to be silent and sorrowful, for she went about all day alone, and no wonder she longed to be home with her parents and her sisters and brothers again. When the white bear asked what ailed her, she said she was so lonely there, she walked about all alone, and longed for her home and her parents and brothers and sisters, and that was the reason she was so sad.

"But you may visit them, if you like," said the white bear, "if you will only promise me one thing. You must never talk alone with your mother, but only when there are others in the room. She will take you by the hand and try to lead you into a room to speak with you all by yourself; but you must not do this by any means, or you will make us both unhappy, and bring misfortune over us."

One Sunday the white bear came and told her that they were now going to see her parents. Away they went, she sitting on his back, and they traveled far and long; at last they came to a grand white farm-house, where her sisters and brothers were running about. Everything was so pretty that it was a pleasure to see it.

"Your parents are living there," said the bear; "but mind you don't forget what I have said, or you will make us both unhappy." No, she would not forget it. When they came to the farm, the bear turned around and went away.

There was such a joy when she came in to her parents that there was no end to it. They said they did not know how to thank her fully for what she had done for them. They had everything they wanted, and everybody asked after her and wanted to know how she was getting on, and where she was living. She said that she was very comfortable and had everything she wished for; but what she otherwise answered I don't know, but I believe they did not get much out of her.

But one day after dinner it happened exactly as the white bear had said; her mother wanted to speak with her alone in her chamber. But she recollected what the bear had told her, and would not go with her. "What we have got to talk about, we can do at some other time," she said.

But somehow or other her mother talked her round at last, and so she had to tell her everything. She told her how a man came into her room every night as soon as she had put out the light, and how she never saw him, for he was always gone before the day dawned. She was sorrowful at this, for she thought she would so like to see him; and in the day-time she walked about there all alone and felt very lonely and sad.

"Oh, dear me!" said her mother, "it may be a troll for all we know! But I will tell you how you can get a sight of him. You shall have a piece of candle from me, and this you must take with you home in your bosom. When he is asleep, light that candle, but take care not to drop any of the tallow on him."--Yes, she took the candle and hid it in her bosom, and in the evening the white bear came and fetched her.

When they had gone some distance of the way the bear asked her if everything hadn't happened as he had said. Yes, she couldn't deny that.--Well, if you have listened to your mother's advice you will make us both unhappy and all will be over between us," said the bear.--No, that she hadn't!

When she came home and had gone to bed, the same thing occurred as before. Some one came into the room and sat in the arm-chair by her bedside, but in the middle of the night when she heard that he was asleep, she got up and struck a light, lit the candle, and let the light fall on him. She then saw that he was the loveliest prince anyone could wish to see, and she fell at once in love with him; she thought that if she could not kiss him there and then she would not be able to live. And so she did, but she dropped three hot drops of tallow on him and he woke up.

"What have you done?" he said, "you have now made us both unhappy for ever, for if you had only held out one year I should have been saved. I have a stepmother who has bewitched me, and I am now a white bear by day and a man by night. But now all is over between us, and I must leave you and go back to her; she lives in a castle which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and in the same castle there is a princess with a nose two yards long, and now I must marry her."

She wept and cried, but there was no help for it; he must go and leave her. So she asked him if she might not go with him. No, that was impossible!--"But if you will tell me the way, I will try and find you," she said. "I suppose I may have leave to do that!"--Yes, she could do that, he said, but there was no road to that place; it lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and she could never find her way there.

Next morning when she awoke, both the prince and the castle were gone; she lay on a little green field far in the middle of the dark, thick forest, and by her side lay the same bundle with her old rags, which she had brought with her from home. When she had rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and wept till she was tired, she set out on her way and walked for many, many a day, till she at last came to a big mountain.

Close to it an old woman sat and played with a golden apple. She asked her if she knew the way to the prince who lived with his stepmother in a castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and who was going to marry a princess with a nose two yards long.

"How do you know him?" asked the old woman, "perhaps it was you who should have had him?"

Yes, it was she. "Ah, indeed! is that you?" said the woman; "well, all I know is that he lives in that castle which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and thither you will come late or never; but I will lend you my horse and on him you can ride to my neighbor, an old friend of mine; perhaps she can tell you. When you have got there, just give my horse a blow with your whip under the left ear and ask him to go home again;--and you had better take this golden apple with you."

So she got up on the horse and rode a long, long time till she at last came to a mountain, where an old woman was sitting with a golden carding-comb. She asked her if she knew the way to the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon. She answered like the first old woman, that she didn't know anything about it, but it was sure to be east of the sun and west of the moon, "and thither you will come, early or late, but I will lend you my horse as far as my neighbor; perhaps she can tell you. When you have got there, just give my horse a blow under the left ear and ask him to go home again." And the old woman gave her the golden carding-comb, which might come in useful for her.

The young girl got up on the horse and rode for a long, long, weary time, and came at last to a large mountain, where an old woman was sitting and spinning on a golden spinning-wheel. She asked her if she knew the way to the prince, and where the castle was that lay east of the sun and west of the moon. And so came the same question: "Perhaps it is you who should have had the prince?"--Yes, it was! But the old woman knew the way no better than the other two. It was east of the sun and west of the moon,--She knew that,--"and thither you will come, early or late," she said, "but I will lend you my horse, and I think you had better ride to the east wind and ask him. Perhaps he is known about those parts and can blow you there. When you have got there, just touch the horse under the ear and he'll go home again." And so she gave her the golden spinning-wheel. "You might find use for it," said the old woman.

She rode on many days for a long, weary time before she got to the east wind, but after a long time she did reach it, and so she asked him if he could tell her the way to the prince, who lived east of the sun and west of the moon. Yes, he had heard tell of that prince, said the east wind, and of the castle too, but he didn't know the way thither, for he had never blown so far. "But if you like, I'll go with you to my brother, the west wind. Perhaps he may know it, for he is much stronger. Just get up on my back and I'll carry you thither."

Yes, she did so, and away they went at a great speed. When they got to the west wind, they went in to him, and the east wind told him that his companion was the one who should have had the prince who lived in the castle, which lay east of the sun and west of the moon; she was now on her way to find him again, and so he had gone with her to hear if the west wind knew where that castle was.

"No, I have never blown so far," said the west wind, "but if you like I'll go with you to the south wind, for he is much stronger than any of us, and he has been far and wide; perhaps he may tell you. You had better sit up on my back and I'll carry you thither."

Well, she got on his back, and off they started for the south wind; they weren't long on the way, I can tell you! When they got there, the west wind asked his brother if he could tell him the way to that castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon. His companion was the one who should have had the prince who lived there.

"Oh, indeed!" said the south wind, "is that she? Well, I have been to many a nook and corner in my time, but so far I have never blown. But if you like, I'll go with you to my brother, the north wind; he is the oldest and strongest of all of us, and if he doesn't know where it is you will never be able to find any one who can tell you. Just get up on my back and I'll carry you thither."

Yes, she sat up on his back, and away they went at such a rate, that the way didn't seem to be very long.

When they got to where the north wind lived he was so wild and unruly that cold gusts were felt a long way off. "What do you want?" he shouted from far away, but still it made them shiver all over.

"Oh, you needn't be so very harsh," said the south wind, "it's I, your own brother; and then I have got her with me who should have had the prince who lives in that castle which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and she wants to ask you if you have ever been there and if you can tell her the way. She is very anxious to find him again."

"Well, yes, I do know where it is," said the north wind; I once blew an aspen leaf thither, but I was so tired that I wasn't able to blow for many days after. But if you really intend going there and you are not afraid to come with me, I will take you on my back and try if I can blow you so far."--Yes, she was willing; she must go thither, if it were possible, one way or another, and she wasn't a bit afraid, go how it would.

"Very well!" said the north wind, "you must stop here to-night then, for we must have a whole day before us and perhaps more, if we are to reach it."

Early next morning the north wind called her, and then he blew himself out and made himself so big and strong that he was terrible to look at. Away they went, high up through the air at such a fearful speed, as if they were going to the end of the world. There was such a hurricane on land that trees and houses were blown down, and when they came out on the big sea, ships were wrecked by hundreds. And onwards they swept, so far, far, that no one would believe how far they went, and still farther and farther out to sea, till the north wind got more and more tired and so used up that he was scarcely able to give another blow, and was sinking and going down more and more; and at last they were so low that the tops of the billows touched their heels.

"Are you afraid?" said the north wind.--"No," she said, she wasn't a bit afraid. But they were not so very far from land either, and the north wind had just sufficient strength left to reach the shore and put her off just under the windows of the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon; but he was then so tired and worn out that he had to rest for many days before he could start on his way home again.

Next morning she sat down under the castle windows, and began playing with the golden apple, and the first one she saw was the princess with the long nose, whom the prince was going to marry.

"What do you want for that golden apple of yours?" she asked, and opened the casement.--"It is not for sale, neither for gold nor money," said the girl.--"If it isn't for sale for gold or money, what do you want for it then?" said the princess; "I'll give you what you ask!"--"Well, if I to-night may sit in the arm-chair by the bedside of the prince who lives here, you shall have it," said the girl who came with the north wind.--Yes, she might do that, there would be no difficulty about that.

So the princess got the golden apple; but when the girl came up into the prince's bedroom in the evening, he was fast asleep; she called him and shook him, and now and then she cried and wept; but no, she could not wake him up so that she might speak to him. Next morning, as soon as the day dawned, the princess with the long nose came and turned her out of the room.

Later in the day she sat down under the castle windows and began carding with her golden carding-comb, and then the same thing happened again. The princess asked her what she wanted for the carding-comb, and she told her that it wasn't for sale, neither for gold nor money, but if she might get leave to sit in the arm-chair by the prince's bedside that night, she should have it. But when she came up into the bedroom she found him fast asleep again, and for all she cried and shook him, for all she wept, he slept so soundly that she could not get life into him; and when the day dawned in the early morning, in came the princess with the long nose and turned her out of the room again.

So as the day wore on, she sat down under the castle windows and began spinning on the spinning-wheel, and that the princess with the long nose wanted also to have. She opened the casement and asked the girl what she wanted for it. The girl told her, as she had done twice before, that it was not for sale, either for gold or money, but if she might sit in the arm-chair by the prince's bedside that night, she should have it. Yes, she might do that. But there were some Christian people who had been carried off and were imprisoned in the room next to the prince's, and they had heard that some woman had been in his room and wept and cried and called his name two nights running, and this they told the prince.

In the evening, when the princess came and brought him his drink, he made appear as if he drank, but he threw it over his shoulder, for he felt sure she had put a sleeping draught in his drink.

So when the girl came into his room that night she found the prince wide awake, and then she told him how she had come there. "You have just come in time," said the prince, "for to-morrow I was to be married to the princess; but I won't have that Long-nose, and you are the only one that can save me. I will say that I want to see what my bride can do, and if she is fit to be my wife; then I will ask her to wash the shirt with the three tallow stains on it. She will try, for she does not know that it is you who dropped the tallow on the shirt; but that can only be done by Christian folks, and not by a pack of trolls like we have in this place; and so I will say that I will not have anybody else for a bride except the one who can wash the shirt clean, and I know you can do that." And they felt very glad and happy, and they went on talking all night about the joyful time in store for them.

The next day, when the wedding was to take place, the prince said: "I think I must see first what my bride can do!"--"Yes, quite so!" said the stepmother.

"I have got a very fine shirt, which I am going to use for my wedding shirt; but there are three tallow stains on it which I want washed out; and I have made a vow that I will not take any other woman for a wife than the one who is able to do that; if she cannot do that, she is not worth having," said the prince.

"Well, that was easy enough," said the stepmother and agreed to this trial. Well, the princess with the long nose set to washing the best she could, but the more she washed the bigger grew the stains. "Why, you cannot wash," said the old witch, her stepmother; "let me try!"--but no sooner did she take the shirt than it got still worse, and the more she washed and rubbed the bigger and blacker the stains grew.

So did the other trolls try their hands at washing, but the longer they worked at it the dirtier the shirt grew, till at last it looked as if it had been up the chimney. "Ah, you are not worth anything, the whole lot of you!" said the prince; "there's a poor girl under the window just outside here, and I am sure she can wash much better than any of you. Come in, my girl!" he shouted out to her.--Yes, she would come in.--"Can you wash this shirt clean?" asked the prince.--"Well, I don't know," she said, "but I will try."

And no sooner had she taken the shirt and dipped it in the water, than it was as white as the driven snow, if not whiter. "Yes, you shall be my wife," said the prince. But the old witch flew into such a rage that she burst; and the princess with the long nose and all the trolls must have burst also, for I never heard of them since. The prince and his bride then set free all the people who had been carried off and imprisoned there, and so they took as much gold and silver with them as they could carry, and moved far away from the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon.

* * * * *

Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever;
_Do_ noble things, not _dream_ them all day long,
And so make life, death, and that _vast forever_,
One grand, sweet song.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

THE BABY IN THE HOME.

GEO. MAC DONALD.

Where did you come from, baby, dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get the eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.

Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose?
I saw something better than anyone knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pretty ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into hooks and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherub's wings.

How did they all come just to be you?
God thought of me and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, my dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here."

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

N. P. WILLIS.

I love to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart.
And makes his pulses fly,
To catch the thrill of a happy voice;
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for four score years,
And they say that I am old--
That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.
It is very true--it is very true--
I am old, and I "bide my time;"
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on! play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go--
For the world, at best, is a dreary place,
And my pulse is getting low;
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

THE KING OF THE NIGHT.

BARNEY CORNWALL.

In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,
The spectral owl doth dwell;
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk he's abroad and well;
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him,
All mock him outright by day;
But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away;
O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl.

And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveths the woods deep gloom;

And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom;
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill;
O, when the moon shines and the dogs do howl,
Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl!

Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight;
The owl hath his share of good:
If a prisoner he be in broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark green wood;
Nor lonely the bird nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride;
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside;
So, when the night falls and dogs do howl,
Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl.

We know not alway
Who are kings by day,
But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.

A 'RITHMETIC LESSON.

PHILLIP BAILEY.

Oh, ho, hum! my sakes alive!
Where is my old 'rithmetic?
Here 'tis: five times one are five.
This most makes a fellow sick!
Let me see: well, four times eight,
Guess I'll have to take a look;
I'm _so sick_ of this old slate.
Wish the scamp that made this book
Had to sleep on stacks of rules,
Covered up with multiplication!
Don't see who invented schools--
Meanest things in all creation!

It must be done before I go!
To-morrow's lesson's harder still.--
What's that! the boys are balling snow.
Oh, dear! I wonder if I ever will,
Think out this sum, in time for tea!

Press on! surmount the rocky steeps;
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch;
He fails alone who feebly creeps;
He wins who dares the hero's march.

Be thou a hero! let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,
And through the ebon walls of night,
Hew down a passage unto day.

FAIRIES--OR FIRE-FLIES.

MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.

Let's see. We believe in wings,
We believe in the grass and dew,
We believe in the moon--and other things,
That may be true.

But are there any? Talk low.
(Look! What is that eery spark?)
If there _are_ any--why, there they go,
Out in the dark.

Nay, speak no ill, but lenient be
To others' failings as your own;
If you're the first a fault to see,
Be not the first to make it known;
For life is but a passing day,
No lip may tell how brief its span;
Then, oh! the little time we stay,
Let's speak of all the best we can.

THE AMBITIOUS TWIG.

AN ALLEGORY.

LUCIE COBBE.

Many years ago, two little branches grew in a hedgerow; they were brothers, but their tastes were different. The younger one was lazy, and liked to stay in the shade; but the elder one kept pushing steadily upwards, and making all the haste to grow that he could.

He had seven leaves each side, but his brother had only three.

"Why can't you stay where you are?" said the younger one; "you are well in the middle of the hedge."

"I want to get higher," sighed the elder twig; "there is plenty to be seen outside."

And he kept growing taller and taller.

"You are going beyond us," cried his sister twigs, "bend down a little, brother."

"If I bent my back I should stop growing," said the twig; and he listened to catch their voices.

"Conceited fellow! he is trying to grow the tallest!" said some of the twigs; and a murmuring swept through the hedge.

One day more of pushing and striving, and he was nearly at the top of the hedge. He could no longer see his brother, but he called to him down through the branches.

"Brother, where are you?" he cried, "and what do you see down there?"

"I am wrapped up in softness," said the fair younger brother; "the green boughs are round me, the wind does not touch me--all round me is nothing but green. Just down below me grows a round, white daisy--oh, such a beautiful daisy! All the day long I am looking at her."

The first brother felt a little lonely when he heard all this, but the sun still drew him upward. The next day he was quite at the top of the hedge, and a head and shoulders taller than any of his brothers. The voice of his younger brother came up to him, but it sounded very faint and far away.

"Are you happy, brother, and what can you see up there?"

"I see the sky," said the elder twig; "there is blue all round me instead of green. I see trees that are taller than our hedge a great deal, and hills that are higher than all. I see white clouds like pillows, and birds that are lost in the clouds. Ah, I have longed for this! I feel a great joy and rapture to the end of my smallest leaf!"

"We don't know what you mean," said the younger one, "and there can't be anything higher than this hedge. And why do you speak so softly? We cannot hear half that you say."

"Insolent fellow! he is taller than any of us!" cried some of the twigs; but by this time he was too far off to hear their voices at all.

"I shall have a prize," said the twig to himself, "because I have grown so tall. What will it be? I will ask the swallow. Swallow, shall I have a gold crown?"

"No, not a crown," said the swallow, but something as good, I dare say. Far away down in the country I know of a twig like you. He grew far away from his fellows--so tall, and so strong, and so fair. He saw the world and all that was passing. He stretched right over the stile, and shaded those who sat there. He was painted by an artist, because he was so lovely. And last of all a fair wild rose came and rested on his bosom."

"I shall get my reward," said the little twig; "my white rose will come at last."

Just then there came walking around the garden, the gardener with his great long shears.

"The hedge is growing uneven," he said; "here's a twig much longer than the rest."

Clip, clip, clip, went the great big shears, and the tallest twig lay broken in the dust!

"They are all of one size now, I am glad to see," said the gardener, and he went away contented to his work.

* * * * *

That very law which moulds the tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves this world a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course!

SAMUEL ROGERS: "TO A TEAR."

THE TURK AND THE FIDDLER.

GRIMM.

There was once a rich farmer who had a faithful and diligent servant named Fritz. He was always the first up in the morning and last in bed at night, and whenever there was any hard work that others were averse to, he was always willing to do it. He was a good-natured fellow, but was content with everything, and was always cheerful.

At the end of the first year his master gave him no wages, thinking to himself that thus he would not only save something, but would also retain the man in his service. To this Fritz never said a word, but stayed another year with him, working as hard as he had the first; and when at the close of the second twelve-month he still received no wages, he submitted to that too, and continued to serve on.

At the end of the third year his master bethought himself, and put his hand into his pocket as if to give him something, but took out nothing. Then Fritz said, "Master, I have worked hard for you these three years; pray give me now what is right for my trouble; I want to go out into the wide world, and look about me," The miser answered, "Yes, my good man, you have served me honestly and faithfully, and for this I will now reward you generously."

He then put his hand into his pocket, and took out three farthings, which he gave him, saying, "Here is a farthing for each year; this is a great and generous reward, such as you would not have got from any other master." The simple-hearted fellow, who knew very little about money, put the sum into his pocket, thinking to himself, "Now that my pocket is full of money, why should I plague myself with hard work any longer?"

So he set out, and roamed over hill and dale, singing and dancing with joy. One day, when passing by a bush, a dwarf popped out of it, and accosted him, saying, "Whither away my merry fellow? I see your load of cares is not heavy to bear."

"Why should I be melancholy?" answered Fritz; "I have plenty of money; I have my three years' earnings safe in my pocket."

"How much may your treasure be?" said the dwarf. "How much? Three whole farthings," replied Fritz. "I wish you would give them to me," said the other; "I am very poor and needy, and can earn nothing; but you are young, and can easily work for your bread."

Then Fritz, who was very kind-hearted, took pity on the dwarf, and gave him his three farthings, saying, "Take them, I shall not be the worse off for the want of them," The dwarf then said, "As you have such a kind heart, I will grant you three wishes, one for each farthing; so choose whatever you like."

"My first wish," said Fritz, "is to have a fowling-piece that will bring down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set everyone dancing that hears me play on it; and thirdly, I should like to be able to make everyone grant me whatever I ask."

"All your wishes shall be fulfilled," said the dwarf. He thrust his hand into the bush, and only think! there lay the fiddle and the fowling-piece ready, as if they had been put there on purpose. So he gave them to Fritz, adding, "And whatever you ask for, nobody in the world shall ever refuse you."

"What else can my heart wish for?" said Fritz to himself; "I now have everything that I can desire;" and so he journeyed merrily on his way. He had not gone far before he met an old Turk, bearded like a goat, who was standing near a tree, listening to the sprightly song of a bird perched on its topmost branch.

"Oh, what a wonderful bird!" exclaimed the Turk; "how can such a little creature have such a powerful voice? Oh, if he were only mine! If one could but put salt on his tail and catch him!"

"If that's all," said Fritz, "I will soon bring him down."

So he took up his fowling-piece, and fired, when down came the bird into the thorn bushes that grew at the foot of the tree. "I will pick it up and keep it for myself, as you have hit it," said the Turk; and, laying himself down upon the ground, he began to work his way into the bush. But as soon as he had got into the middle of it, a fit of wanton playfulness seizing Fritz, he took up his fiddle, and gave him a tune, and the Turk began to dance and spring about; and the more lively the fiddler scraped, the more lively grew the dance.

The thorns soon began to tear the Turk's shabby clothes, comb his goat's beard, and scratch and wound him all over. "Oh, dear!" cried he, "mercy, mercy, master! pray stop your fiddling! I do not want to dance." But Fritz paid no heed, and only struck up another tune, thereby making the Turk cut and caper higher than ever, so that pieces torn out of his clothes, hung about the thorn.

"Oh, mercy!" cried the Turk, "do stop your fiddling, master! I will give you whatever you ask, a bagfull of gold, if you only will!"

"Ah! if you are as generous as that," said the man, "I will put up my fiddle; but I must say you are a capital dancer." He then took the offered purse, put up his fiddle, and traveled onward.

The Turk stood still looking after his tormentor for some time, and when he was almost out of sight, began to cry as loud as he could, "You miserable fiddler! you ale-house scraper! take care, if I get hold of you I will make you take to your heels; you beggarly knave! you ragamuffin!" And he went on loading him with all manner of abuse.

After having thus given vent to his feelings, he went to the judge, saying, "See, your honor, how I have been robbed and ill-used by a rascal on the highway! the very stones might pity me. Do but look at the deplorable state I am in. My clothes are torn, my body is wounded and scratched; the little money I had is gone, purse and all! nothing but ducats, one piece finer than the other. For Heaven's sake, do have the fellow caught and imprisoned!"

The judge then asked him whether it was a soldier who had put him in that plight with his sword. "By no means," said the Turk; "he had no sword, but he had a fowling-piece hanging on his back, and a fiddle round his neck. The fellow may easily be recognized."

So the judge sent out his bailiffs in search of the man. They met the honest fellow walking slowly and carelessly on, and, on searching him, found the money-bag in question.

When he was taken before the judge he said, "I have not touched the Turk, nor have I taken away his money; he offered it me of his own free will, if I would but leave off playing the fiddle, as he could not bear my music."

"Not a word of truth in it!" cried the Turk, "those are bare-faced lies." And the judge not believing it either, said, "That is a very poor excuse;" and sentenced the poor man to the gallows for highway robbery.

As he was being taken away, the Turk cried after him, "You lubber! you shall now get your well-deserved punishment!" The poor man ascended the ladder very composedly, accompanied by the executioner; but when he had got up to the top of it, he turned round and addressed the judge, saying, "May it please your honor to grant me but one last request before I die!"

"Anything but your life," replied the other.

"I do not ask my life," said Fritz; "only let me play one tune upon my fiddle for the last time."