Chapter VI: The Tower Room (2)

"No manner of hurt was found upon him because he believed in his God," continued Ralph, with his mind still on his Sunday-school; "God delivers His faithful ones in time of trouble."

Turning away, John was about to walk off, but Tom detained him. "Wait a moment, John," he said, and then the others noticed that there were tears in his eyes. "I want to tell my brave little brother that I honor him for sticking to the truth. As for me, I shall confess to father, and promise not to repeat the offence."

"I am with you," John replied. "Come Ralph, we'll go together now and hereafter. We need never be afraid to go where a Daniel leads."

Little Redcap.[3]

BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

There was once a sweet little maid, much beloved by everybody, but most of all by her grandmother, who never knew how to make enough of her. Once she sent her a little cap of red velvet, and as it was very becoming to her, and she never wore anything else, people called her Little Redcap. One day her mother said to her:

"Come, Little Redcap, here are some cakes and a flask of milk for you to take to your grandmother; she is weak and ill, and they will do her good. Make haste and start before it grows hot, and walk properly and nicely, and don't run, or you might fall and break the flask of milk and there would be none left for grandmother. And when you go into her room, don't forget to say, 'Good morning' instead of staring about you."

"I will be sure to take care," said Little Redcap to her mother, and gave her hand upon it. Now the grandmother lived away in the wood, half an hour's walk from the village, and when Little Redcap had reached the wood, she met the wolf; but as she did not know what a bad sort of animal he was, she did not feel frightened.

"Good day, Little Redcap," said he.

"Thank you kindly, Wolf," answered she.

"Where are you going so early, Little Redcap?"

"To my grandmother's."

"What are you carrying under your apron?"

"Cakes and milk; we baked yesterday; and my grandmother is very weak and ill, so they will do her good, and strengthen her."

"Where does your grandmother live, Little Redcap?"

"A quarter of an hour's walk from here; her house stands beneath the three oak trees, and you may know it by the hazel bushes," said Little Redcap. The wolf thought to himself:

"That tender young thing would be a delicious morsel, and would taste better than the old one; I must manage somehow to get both of them."

Then he walked beside little Redcap for a little while, and said to her softly and sweetly:

"Little Redcap, just look at the pretty flowers that are growing all round you, and I don't think you are listening to the song of the birds; you are posting along just as if you were going to school, and it is so delightful out here in the wood."

Little Redcap glanced round her, and when she saw the sunbeams darting here and there through the trees, and lovely flowers everywhere, she thought to herself:

"If I were to take a fresh nosegay to my grandmother, she would be very pleased, and it is so early in the day that I shall reach her in plenty of time;" and so she ran about in the wood, looking for flowers. And as she picked one she saw a still prettier one a little farther off, and so she went farther and farther into the wood. But the wolf went straight to the grandmother's house and knocked at the door.

"Who is there?" cried the grandmother.

"Little Redcap," he answered, "and I have brought you some cake and some new milk. Please open the door."

"Lift the latch," cried the poor old grandmother, feebly; "I am too weak to get up."

So the wolf lifted the latch, and the door flew open, and he fell on the grandmother and ate her up without saying one word. Then he drew on her clothes, put on her cap, lay down in her bed and drew the curtains, the old wretch that he was.

Little Redcap was all this time running about among the flowers, and when she had gathered as many as she could hold; she remembered her grandmother, and set off to go to her. She was surprised to find the door standing wide open, and when she came inside she felt very strange and thought to herself:

"Oh, dear, how uncomfortable I feel, and I was so glad this morning to go to my grandmother!"

And when she said "Good morning!" there was no answer. Then she went up to the bed and drew back the curtains; there lay the grandmother with her cap pulled over her eyes, so that she looked very odd.

"Oh, grandmother, what large ears you have got!"

"The better to hear you with."

"Oh, grandmother, what great eyes you have got!"

"The better to see you with."

"Oh, grandmother, what large hands you have got!"

"The better to take hold of you with, my dear."

"But, grandmother, what a terrible large mouth you have got!"

"The better to devour you!" And no sooner had the wolf said this than he made one bound from the bed and swallowed up poor Little Redcap.

Then the wolf, having satisfied his hunger, lay down again in the bed, went to sleep and began to snore loudly. The huntsman heard him as he was passing by the house and thought:

"How the old lady snores--I would better see if there is anything the matter with her."

Then he went into the room and walked up to the bed, and saw the wolf lying there.

"At last I find you, you old sinner!" said he; "I have been looking for you for a long time." And he made up his mind that the wolf had swallowed the grandmother whole, and that she might yet be saved. So he did not fire, but took a pair of shears and began to slit up the wolf's body. When he made a few snips Little Redcap appeared, and after a few more snips she jumped out and cried, "Oh, dear, how frightened I have been, it is so dark inside the wolf!"

And then out came the old grandmother, still living and breathing. But Little Redcap went and quickly fetched some large stones, with which she filled the wolf's body, so that when he waked up, and was going to rush away, the stones were so heavy that he sank down and fell dead.

They were all three very much pleased. The huntsman took off the wolf's skin and carried it home to make a fur rug. The grandmother ate the cakes and drank the milk and held up her head again, and Little Redcap said to herself that she would never again stray about in the wood alone, but would mind what her mother told her, nor talk to strangers.

It must also be related how a few days afterward, when Little Redcap was again taking cakes to her grandmother, another wolf spoke to her, and wanted to tempt her to leave the path; but she was on her guard, and went straight on her way, and told her grandmother how that the wolf had met her and wished her good-day, but had looked so wicked about the eyes that she thought if it had not been on the high road he would have devoured her.

"Come," said the grandmother, "we will shut the door, so that he may not get in."

Soon after came the wolf knocking at the door, and calling out, "Open the door, grandmother, I am Little Redcap, bringing you cakes." But they remained still and did not open the door. After that the wolf slunk by the house, and got at last upon the roof to wait until Little Redcap should return home in the evening; then he meant to spring down upon her and devour her in the darkness. But the grandmother discovered his plot. Now, there stood before the house a great stone trough, and the grandmother said to the child: "Little Redcap, I was boiling sausages yesterday, so take the bucket and carry away the water they were boiled in and pour it into the trough."

And Little Redcap did so until the great trough was quite full. When the smell of the sausages reached the nose of the wolf he snuffed it up and looked around, and stretched out his neck so far that he lost his balance and began to slip, and he slipped down off the roof straight in the great trough and was drowned. Then Little Redcap went cheerfully home and came to no harm.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Every boy and girl should read this pretty fairy story.]

New Zealand Children.

New Zealand children are pretty, dark-eyed, smooth-cheeked little creatures, with clear skins of burnt umber color, and the reddest mouths in the world, until the girl grows up and her mother tattooes her lips blue, for gentility's sake.

All day they live in the open air, unless during a violent storm. But they are perfectly healthy and very clean, for the first thing they do is to plunge into the sea water. Besides this, they take baths in warm springs that abound everywhere, and which keep their skins in good order. As to their breakfast, I am afraid that often they have some very unpleasant things to eat--stale shark, for instance, and sour corn bread--so sour that you could not swallow it, and boiled fern root, or the pulp of fern stems, or crawfish.

Even if their father had happened to cut down a tall palm the day before, in order to take what white people call the "palm cabbage" out of it's very top, I'm afraid he would not share this dainty with the children. I am not sure he would offer even their mother a bite. It would be literally a bite if he did, for when people get together to eat in New Zealand, one takes a piece of something from the basket in which food is served, bites out a mouthful and hands it to the next, who does the same, and passes it to his neighbor, and so on until it is all gone, and some other morsel is begun upon.

Sixty or seventy years ago New Zealanders had never seen a pig or any animal larger than a cat. But about that time, one Captain King, feeling that a nation without pork and beans and succotash could never come to any good, brought them some Indian corn and some beans, and taught them how to plant and cultivate them, and shortly sent them some fine pigs, not doubting but that they would understand what to do with them without instruction.

However, the New Zealanders had no idea what the pigs were sent for, and everybody asked everybody else about it, until one--the smart fellow who knows it all--said that he had heard all about them from a sailor, and that they were horses! Oh, certainly they were horses! The sailor had described them perfectly--long heads, pointed ears, broad backs, four legs, and a tail. They were to ride upon. Great chiefs always rode them where the sailors lived.

So the New Zealand chiefs mounted the pigs, and when Captain King came to see how everything was going on, they had ridden them to death--all but a few obstinate ones, who had eaten up the maize as soon as it grew green, and finished up the beans by way of dessert before the vines were halfway up the poles.

Captain King did not despair, however. He took two natives home with him, taught them all about the cultivation of maize, and the rearing of pigs; and pork is now as popular in New Zealand as it is in Cincinnati. You can hardly take a walk without meeting a mother-pig and a lot of squealing piglets; and people pet them more than they ever did or ever will in their native lands. Here, you know, when baby wants something to play with, some one finds him a kitten, a ball of white floss, or a little Maltese, or a black morsel with green eyes and a red mouth; but in New Zealand they give him a very, very young pig, smooth as a kid glove, with little slits of eyes, and his curly tail twisted up into a little tight knot; and the brown baby hauls it about and pulls its ears and goes to sleep hugging it fast; and there they lie together, the piglet grunting comfortably, the baby snoring softly, for hours at a time.

It is pleasanter to think of a piggy as a pet than as pork, and pleasanter still to know that the little New Zealanders have something really nice to eat--the finest sweet potatoes that grow anywhere.

They say that sweet potatoes, which they call _kumere_, is the food good spirits eat, and they sing a song about them, and so do the mothers, which is very pretty. The song tells how, long ago, Ezi-Ki and his wife, Ko Paui, sailing on the water in a boat, were wrecked, and would have been drowned but for good New Zealanders, who rescued them. And Ko Paui saw that the children had very little that was wholesome for them to eat, and showed her gratitude by returning, all by herself, to Tawai, to bring them seeds of the _kumere_. And how storms arose and she was in danger, but at last arrived in New Zealand safely and taught them how to plant and raise this excellent food. And every verse of the song ends with: "Praise the memory of beautiful Ko Paui, wife of Ezi-Ki, forever."

Little New Zealanders run about with very little on, as a general thing, but they all have cloaks--they call them "mats." Their mother sits on the ground with a little weaving frame about two feet high before her, and makes them of what is called New Zealand flax. The long threads hang down in rows of fringes, one over the other, and shine like silk. They have also water-proofs, or "rain-mats," made of long polished leaves that shed the water. When a little New Zealand girl pulls this over her head she does not mind any shower. You may see a circle of these funny objects sitting in the pelting rain, talking to each other and looking just like tiny haystacks.

New Zealand children have, strange to say, many toys. They swim like ducks, and, as I have said, revel in the natural hot baths, where they will sit and talk by the hour. In fact, the life of a New Zealand child is full of occupation, and both girls and boys are bright, light-hearted, and intelligent.

The Breeze from the Peak.

A stiff Sea Breeze was having the wildest, merriest time, rocking the sailboats and fluttering the sails, chasing the breakers far up the beach, sending the fleecy cloudsails scudding across the blue ocean above, making old ocean roar with delight at its mad pranks, while all the little wavelets dimpled with laughter; the Cedar family on the shore, old and rheumatic as they were, laughed till their sides ached, and the children shouted and cheered upon the beach. How fresh and strong and life-giving it was. The children wondered why it was so jolly, but never guessed the reason; and its song was so wonderfully sweet, but only the waves understood the words of the wild, strange melody.

"I have come," it sang, "from a land far across the water. My home was on the mountain top, high up among the clouds. Such a white, white world as it was! The mountain peak hooded in snow-ermine, and the gray-white clouds floating all around me; and it was so very still; my voice, the only sound to be heard, and that was strange and muffled. But though the fluffy clouds were so silent, they were gay companions and full of fun; let them find me napping once, and, puff! Down they would send the feathery snow, choking and blinding me, then would come a wild chase; once in a mad frolic my breath parted the clouds and I saw down the mountain side! Never shall I forget the picture I saw that day, framed by the silvery clouds. I, who had known nothing but that pale stillness and bitter cold, for the first time saw life and color, and a shimmering, golden light, resting on tree and river and valley farm; do you wonder I forgot the mountain peak, the clouds--_everything_ that was behind, and, without even a last farewell, spread my wings and flew swiftly down the mountain side? Very soon I was far below that snowy cloud world, with a bright blue sky above me, and patches of red gravel and green moss and gray lichens beneath. Once I stopped to rest upon a great rock, moss-covered, and with curling ferns at its base; from its side flowed a crystal spring, so clear and cool that I caught up all I could carry to refresh me on my journey; but it assured me I need not take that trouble, for it was also on its way down the mountain side.

"'But you have no wings,' I said. 'Are you sure of that?' answered the spring, and I thought she looked up in an odd way at some of my cloud friends, who had followed in my track; then she added: 'And, even if you are right, there is more than one way to reach the foot of the mountain; I am sure you will find me there before you.'

"I could not but doubt this, for I am swifter than any bird of the air, but she only laughed at me as I flew on, and once, looking back, I saw she had started on her journey, and was creeping slowly along a tiny thread of water, almost hidden in the grass. I next floated upon some dark green trees, that sent out a spicy odor as I touched their boughs, and when I moved they sang a low, tuneful melody; their song was of the snowy mountain peak, the clouds, the bubbling spring, the sunshine and the green grass; yes, and there was something else, a deep undertone that I did not then understand, and the melody was a loom that wove them all into a living harmony; some of my breezes are there still, listening to the Pine Trees' song; but I hurried on, the grass grew green and luscious along my way, and the sheep, with their baby lambs, were pastured upon it; rills and brooks joined hands, and went racing faster and faster down between the rocks; one of the brooks had grown quite wide and deep, and as it leaped and sparkled and sang its way into the valley, where it flowed into a wide, foaming stream, it looked back with a gay laugh, and I saw in its depths the face of the little spring I had left far up the mountain side.

"It was summer in the valley, and the air was scented with roses and ripening fruits. It was very warm and sultry, and I fanned the children's faces until they laughed and clapped their hands, crying out: 'It's the breeze from the mountain peak! How fresh and sweet and cool it is.'

"I rocked the baby-birds to sleep in their leafy cradles. I entered the houses, making the curtains flutter, and filling the rooms with my mountain perfume. I longed to stay forever in that beautiful summer land, but now the mountain stream beckoned me on. Swiftly I flew along its banks, turning the windmills met on the way, and swelling out the sails of the boats until the sailors sang for joy. On and on we journeyed; my mountain friend, joined by a hundred meadow-brooks, grew deeper and wider as it flowed along, and its breath began to have a queer, salty odor. One day I heard a throbbing music far off that sounded like the undertone in the Pine Trees' melody; then very soon we reached this great body of water, and, looking across, could see no sign of land anywhere; but still we journeyed on. I feared at first that my friend was lost to me, but often she laughed from the crest of the wave, or glistened in a white cap, cheering my way to this sunny shore; and now, at last, we are here, laden with treasure for each one of you. Take it, and be glad!"

But the children did not understand the song of the Sea Breeze, nor did they know what made its breath so wonderfully sweet. But all day long they breathed in its fragrance, and gathered up the treasures brought to their feet by the tiny spring born up in the clouds.

"It's a beautiful world," they cried.

And at night, when the Sea Breeze was wakeful, and sang to the waves of the mountain peak, the children would lift their heads from the white pillows to listen, whispering softly to one another:

"Hear the Sea Breeze and the ocean moaning on the shore. Are they lonely without us, I wonder?"

The Bremen Town Musicians.

BY THE BROTHERS GRIMM.

[When I was a child I used to love the story which is coming next.
It is very funny and I like it still.]

There was once an ass whose master had made him carry sacks to the mill for many a long year, but whose strength began at last to fail, so that each day as it came found him less capable of work. Then his master began to think of turning him out, but the ass, guessing that something was in the wind that boded him no good, ran away, taking the road to Bremen; for there he thought he might get an engagement as town musician. When he had gone a little way he found a hound lying by the side of the road panting, as if he had run a long way.

"Now, Holdfast, what are you so out of breath about!" said the ass.

"Oh, dear!" said the dog, "now I am old, I get weaker every day, and can do no good in the hunt, so, as my master was going to have me killed, I have made my escape; but now, how am I to gain my living?"

"I will tell you what," said the ass, "I am going to Bremen to become town musician. You may as well go with me, and take up music too. I can play the lute, and you can beat the drum."

The dog consented, and they walked on together. It was not long before they came to a cat sitting in the road, looking as dismal as three wet days.

"Now, then, what is the matter with you, old friend?" said the ass.

"I should like to know who would be cheerful when his neck is in danger?" answered the cat. "Now that I am old, my teeth are getting blunt, and I would rather sit by the oven and purr than run about after mice, and my mistress wants to drown me; so I took myself off; but good advice is scarce, and I do not know what is to become of me."

"Go with us to Bremen," said the ass, "and become town musician. You understand serenading."

The cat thought well of the idea, and went with them accordingly. After that the three travelers passed by a yard, and a cock was perched on the gate crowing with all his might.

"Your cries are enough to pierce bone and marrow," said the ass; "what is the matter?"

"I have foretold good weather for Lady-day, so that all the shirts may be washed and dried; and now on Sunday morning company is coming, and the mistress has told the cook that I must be made into soup, and this evening my neck is to be wrung, so that I am crowing with all my might while I can."

"You had better go with us, Chanticleer," said the ass. "We are going to Bremen. At any rate that will be better than dying. You have a powerful voice, and when we are all performing together it will have a very good effect."

So the cock consented, and they went on, all four together.

But Bremen was too far off to be reached in one day, and toward evening they came to a wood, where they determined to pass the night. The ass and the dog lay down under a large tree; the cat got up among the branches, and the cock flew up to the top, as that was the safest place for him. Before he went to sleep he looked all around him to the four points of the compass, and perceived in the distance a little light shining, and he called out to his companions that there must be a house not far off, as he could see a light, so the ass said:

"We had better get up and go there, for these are uncomfortable quarters."

The dog began to fancy a few bones, not quite bare, would do him good. And they all set off in the direction of the light, and it grew larger and brighter until at last it led them to a robber's house, all lighted up. The ass, being the biggest, went up to the window and looked in.

"Well, what do you see?" asked the dog.

"What do I see?" answered the ass; "here is a table set out with splendid eatables and drinkables, and robbers sitting at it and making themselves very comfortable."

"That would just suit us," said the cock.

"Yes, indeed, I wish we were there," said the ass. Then they consulted together how it should be managed so as to get the robbers out of the house, and at last they hit on a plan. The ass was to place his forefeet on the window-sill, the dog was to get on the ass' back, the cat on the top of the dog, and lastly the cock was to fly up and perch on the cat's head. When that was done, at a given signal, they all began to perform their music. The ass brayed, the dog barked, the cat mewed, and the cock crowed; then they burst through into the room, breaking all the panes of glass. The robbers fled at the dreadful sound; they thought it was some goblin, and fled to the wood in the utmost terror. Then the four companions sat down to the table, and made free with the remains of the meal, and feasted as if they had been hungry for a month. And when they had finished they put out the lights, and each sought out a sleeping-place to suit his nature and habits. The ass laid himself down outside on the dunghill, the dog behind the door, the cat on the hearth by the warm ashes, and the cock settled himself in the cockloft, and as they were all tired with their long journey they soon fell fast asleep.

When midnight drew near, and the robbers from afar saw that no light was burning, and that everything appeared quiet, their captain said to them that he thought that they had run away without reason, telling one of them to go and reconnoitre. So one of them went and found everything quite quiet; he went into the kitchen to strike a light, and taking the glowing fiery eyes of the cat for burning coals, he held a match to them in order to kindle it. But the cat, not seeing the joke, flew into his face, spitting and scratching. Then he cried out in terror, and ran to get out at the back door, but the dog, who was lying there, ran at him and bit his leg; and as he was rushing through the yard by the dunghill the ass struck out and gave him a great kick with his hindfoot; and the cock, who had been awakened with the noise, and felt quite brisk, cried out, "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

Then the robber got back as well as he could to his captain, and said, "Oh dear! in that house there is a gruesome witch, and I felt her breath and her long nails in my face; and by the door there stands a man who stabbed me in the leg with a knife, and in the yard there lies a black spectre, who beat me with his wooden club; and above, upon the roof, there sits the justice, who cried, 'bring that rogue here!' And so I ran away from the place as fast as I could."

From that time forward the robbers never returned to that house, and the four Bremen town musicians found themselves so well off where they were, that there they stayed. And the person who last related this tale is still living, as you see.

A Very Queer Steed, and Some Strange Adventures.

TOLD AFTER ARIOSTO BY ELIZABETH ARMSTRONG.

An Italian poet named Ariosto, who lived before our grandfathers were born, has told some very funny stories, one of which I will tell you. Not contented with mounting his heroes on ordinary horses, he gave one of them a splendid winged creature to ride; a fiery steed with eyes of flame, and the great pinions of an eagle. This creature's name was Hippogrif. Let me tell you how Prince Roger caught the Hippogrif, and then you will want to know something about his queer journey. I may as well tell you that Prince Roger belonged to the Saracens, and that he loved a lady of France named Bradamante, also that an old enchanter had captured both the prince and the lady and gotten them into his power. They of course were planning a way of escape, and hoped to go off together, and be married, and live happily ever after, but this was not the intention of their captor. The two prisoners, who were allowed a good deal of liberty, were standing together one day, when Bradamante said to Roger:

"Look! there is the old man's Hippogrif still standing quietly by us. I have a mind to catch him and take a ride on him, for he is mine by right of conquest since I have overcome his master." So she went toward the winged steed and stretched out her hand to take him by the bridle; but the Hippogrif darted up into the air, and flew a hundred yards or so away before he settled again upon the ground. Again and again she tried to catch him, but he always flew off before she could touch him, and then came down to earth a little distance away, where he waited for her to get near him again, just as you may see a butterfly flit from one cabbage-row to another, and always manage to keep a yard or two ahead of the boy who chases it. At last, however, he alighted close by the side of Roger, whereupon the Prince cried to his lady: "I will catch him and give him a ride to break him in for you;" and, seizing hold of the bridle in his left hand, he vaulted on to the back of the Hippogrif, who stood still without attempting to escape, as if to acknowledge that here he had found his proper master. But the Prince was no sooner fairly in the saddle than his strange steed shot up fifty feet straight into the air, and, taking the bit between his teeth, with a dozen flaps of his mighty wings carried his unwilling rider far away over the mountains and out of sight of the unfortunate Bradamante.

You must know that though Roger was quite unable to hold his Hippogrif, and soon gave up the attempt in despair, the winged monster was really guided by something stronger than bit or bridle, and every motion of his headlong flight was controlled by the will of an invisible master. The whole affair, in fact, was the work of the wonderful enchanter Atlas, who was still persuaded that great dangers awaited his beloved Prince in the land of France, and determined to use all his cunning to remove him to a place of safety. With this design he had watched the noble lovers from his hiding place, and guided every movement of the Hippogrif by the mere muttering of spells; and by the same means he still steered the creature's course through the air, for he was so powerful an enchanter that he could make his purpose take effect from one end of the earth to the other. In the old days of fairy lore, enchanters were very numerous, and always found plenty to do.

Roger had a firm seat and a heart that knew no fear, and at any other time would have enjoyed nothing better than such an exciting adventure; but now he was terribly vexed at being separated again from his beloved Bradamante, and at being carried away from the land where Agramant his King and the Emperor Charlemagne were mustering all their forces for the great struggle. However, there was no help for it, for the Hippogrif flew through the air at such a pace that he soon left the realms of Europe far behind him, and after a flight of a few hours he had carried the Prince half round the globe. Roger in fact found himself hovering over the Fortunate Islands, which lie in the far Eastern seas beyond the shores of India. Here he checked his course, and descended in wide circles to the earth, and at length alighted on the largest and most beautiful island of all the group. Green meadows and rich fields were here watered by clear streams; and lovely groves of palm and myrtle, cedar and banyan, spread their thick shade over the gentle slopes of hill, and offered a refuge from the heat of the mid-day sun. Birds of paradise flashed like jewels in the blazing light, and modest brown nightingales sang their sweet refrain to the conceited parrots, who sat admiring themselves among the branches; while under the trees hares and rabbits frisked merrily about, and stately stags led their graceful does to drink at the river banks. Upon this fertile tract, which stretched down to the very brink of the sea, the Hippogrif descended; and his feet no sooner touched the ground than Prince Roger leaped from his back, and made fast his bridle to the stem of a spreading myrtle-bush. Then he took off his helmet and cuirass, and went to bathe his face and hands in the cool waters of the brook; for his pulses were throbbing from his swift ride, and he wanted nothing so much as an hour or two of repose. Such rapid flying through the air is very wearying.

Could he have retained his wonderful horse, there is no knowing what splendid adventures might have befallen him, but at a critical moment, the Hippogrif vanished, and Prince Roger had to fare as best he could on foot. After a time he met Bradamante again, he left the Saracen religion and became a Christian, and he and Bradamante were united in wedlock. He had formerly been a heathen.

Bradamante had a cousin named Astulf, who finally by a series of events became the owner of the winged steed, and on this animal he made the queerest trip ever heard of, a journey to the Mountains of the Moon. The Hippogrif soared up and up, and up, till tall palms looked like bunches of fern beneath him, and he penetrated belts of thick white clouds, and finally drew his bridle rein on summits laid out in lovely gardens, where flowers and fruit abounded, and the climate was soft and balmy as that of June. The traveler walked through a fine grove, in the centre of which rose a stately palace of the purest ivory, large enough to shelter a nation of kings within its walls, and ornamented throughout with carving more exquisite than that of an Indian casket.

While Astulf was gazing on this scene of splendor he was approached by a man of noble and courteous aspect, dressed in the toga of an ancient Roman, and bound about the brows with a laurel chaplet, who gave him grave and kindly salutation, saying: "Hail, noble Sir Duke, and marvel not that I know who you are, or that I expected you to-day in these gardens. For this is the Earthly Paradise, where poets have their dwelling after death; and I am the Mantuan VIRGIL, who sang the deeds of Æneas, and was the friend of the wise Emperor Augustus. But if you wish to know the reason of your coming hither, it is appointed for you to get back the lost wits of the peerless Count Roland, whose senses have been put away in the moon among the rest of the earth's missing rubbish. Now the mountains on the top of which we stand are called the Mountains of the Moon, because they are the only place from which an ascent to the moon is possible; and this very night I intend to guide you thither on your errand. But first, I pray you, take your dinner with us in our palace, for you have need of refreshment to prepare you for so strange a journey." I need hardly tell you that Astulf was delighted at being chosen to go to the moon on so worthy a mission, and thanked the noble poet a thousand times for his courtesy and kindness. But Virgil answered: "It is a pleasure to be of any service to such valiant warriors as Count Roland and yourself;" and thereupon he took the Duke through the shady alleys to the ivory palace which stood in the midst of the garden.

Here was Astulf conducted with much ceremony to a refectory where a banquet was spread. The great doors were thrown open, and the company of poets ranged themselves in two rows, while their King passed down between their ranks. He was a majestic old man with curly beard and hair, and his broad forehead was furrowed with lines that betokened a life of noble thought; but alas! he was totally blind, and leaned upon the shoulder of a beautiful Greek youth who guided him. Every head was bowed reverently as he passed, and Virgil whispered to his guest: "That is HOMER, the Father and King of poets."

At the end of the refectory was a dais with a table at which Homer took his seat, while another long table stretched down the middle of the hall; but Astulf saw with surprise that three places were laid on the upper board, though the King was apparently to sit there alone. But Virgil explained the reason, and said: "You must understand, Sir Duke, that it is our custom to lay a place for every poet who will ever ascend to this Earthly Paradise; and as yet there is none here worthy to sit beside our Father Homer. But after some five hundred and fifty years the seat at his left hand will be taken by the Florentine DANTE, who will find here the rest and happiness denied to him in his lifetime. The place on the right of the King, however, will remain vacant three hundred years more; but then it will be filled by a countryman of your own, and SHAKESPEARE will receive the honor due to him as the third great poet of the world." With these words Virgil took his seat at the head of the lower table, and motioned Astulf to an empty place at his right hand, saying: "This seat also will remain a long while vacant, being kept for another of your countrymen, who will come hither after more than a thousand years. He will be reviled and slandered in his lifetime; but after his death the very fools who abused him will pretend to admire and understand him, while here among his brethren he will be welcomed with joy and high honor." So Astulf sat in the seat of this poet to be honored in the future, and made a hearty dinner off nectar and ambrosia, "which are mighty fine viands," as he afterward told his friends at home; "but a hungry man, on the whole, would prefer good roast beef and a slice of plum pudding for a steady diet." Dinner being over, the pilgrim was led by the obliging poet to a pathway past the silent and lonesome River of Oblivion, where most mortal names and fames are forever lost, only a few being rescued from its waves and set on golden scrolls in the temple of Immortality.

Now when they had looked on for a while at this notable sight they left the River Oblivion and proceeded to the Valley of Lost Lumber. It was a long though narrow valley shut in between two lofty mountain ridges, and in it were stored away all the things which men lose or waste on earth. Here they found an infinite number of lovers' sighs, beyond which lay the useless moments lost in folly and crime, and the long wasted leisure of ignorant and idle men. Next came the vain desires and foolish wishes that can never take effect, and these were heaped together in such quantities that they blocked up the greater part of the valley. Here, too, were mountains of gold and silver which foolish politicians throw away in bribing voters to return them to Congress; a little farther on was an enormous pile of garlands with steel gins concealed among their flowers, which Virgil explained to be flatteries; while a heap of grasshoppers which had burst themselves in keeping up their shrill, monotonous chirp, represented, he said, the dedications and addresses which servile authors used to write in praise of unworthy patrons. In the middle of the valley lay a great pool of spilt broth, and this signified the alms which rich men are too selfish to give away in their lifetime but bequeath to charities in their wills, to be paid out of money they can no longer use. Next Astulf came upon numbers of beautiful dolls from Paris, which little girls throw aside because they prefer their dear old bundles of rags with beads for eyes; and one of the biggest hillocks in all the place was formed of a pile of knives lost out of careless schoolboys' pockets.

Now, when Astulf grew old and had boys and girls of his own, they used to clamber on his knee in the twilight and ask for a story, and oh! how they wished for the Hippogrif. Sometimes the old knight said that the Hippogrif was dead, but I have known people to shut their eyes and climb on his back, and cling to his mane, and go flying over the ocean and the hills clear through to the other end of the world. For Hippogrif is only a name for Fancy, and the Valley of Lost Lumber and the River of Oblivion and the Temple of Immortality exist for every one of us.

Freedom's Silent Host.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

There are many silent sleepers
In our country here and there,
Heeding not our restless clamor,
Bugle's peal nor trumpet's blare.
Soft they slumber,
Past forever earthly care.

O'er their beds the grasses creeping
Weave a robe of royal fold,
And the daisies add their homage,
Flinging down a cloth of gold.
Soft they slumber,
Once the gallant and the bold.

Oft as Spring, with dewy fingers,
Brings a waft of violet,
Sweet arbutus, dainty primrose,
On their lowly graves we set.
Soft they slumber,
We their lives do not forget.

Childish hands with rose and lily
Showering the furrows green,
Childish songs that lift and warble
Where the sleepers lie serene
(Soft they slumber)
Tell how true our hearts have been.

Wave the dear old flag above them,
Play the sweet old bugle call,
And because they died in honor
O'er them let the flowerets fall.
Soft they slumber,
Dreaming, stirring not at all.

Freedom's host of silent sleepers,
Where they lie is holy ground,
Heeding not our restless clamor,
Musket's rattle, trumpet's sound.
Soft they slumber,
Ever wrapped in peace profound.

Presence of Mind.

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

Such a forlorn little sunbonnet bobbing here and there among the bean poles in the garden back of Mr. Mason's house! It seemed as if the blue gingham ruffles and the deep cape must know something about the troubled little face they hid away, for they hung in a limp fashion that was enough to tell anybody who saw them just how badly the wearer of the sunbonnet was feeling. She had, as she thought, more than her share of toil and trouble in this busy world, and to-day she had a specially good reason to carry a heavy heart in her little breast.

All Morningside was in a perfect flutter of anticipation and excitement. There had never been a lawn party in the little village before, and Effie Dean, twelve years old to-day, was to have a lawn party, to which every child for miles, to say nothing of a gay troop of cousins and friends from the city, had been invited. Everybody was going, of course.

The Deans had taken for the season a beautiful old homestead, the owners of which were in Europe. They were having gala times there, and they managed to draw all the young folks of the village in to share them. All, indeed, except one little girl. Cynthia Mason did not expect to go to many festivities, but with her whole heart she longed to see what a lawn party might be. The very name sounded beautiful to her, and she said it over and over wistfully as she went slowly down the door-yard between the tigerlilies and the hollyhocks, through the rough gate which hung so clumsily on its leathern hinges, and, with her basket by her side, began her daily task of picking beans.

Cynthia Mason had no mother. Her father loved his little daughter and was kind to her, but he was a silent man, who was not very successful, and who had lost hope when his wife had died. People said he had never been the same man since then. His sister, Cynthia's Aunt Kate, was an active, stirring woman, who liked to be busy herself and to hurry other people. She kept the house as clean as a new pin, had the meals ready to the moment, and saw that everybody's clothing was washed and mended; but she never felt as if she had time for the kissing and petting which is to some of us as needful as our daily food.

In her way she was fond of Cynthia, and would have taken good care of the child if she had been ill or crippled. But as her niece was perfectly well, and not in want of salts or senna, Aunt Kate was often rather tried with her fondness for dreaming in the daytime, or dropping down to read a bit from the newspaper in the midst of the sweeping and dusting.

There were, in truth, a good many worries in the little weather-beaten house, and Miss Mason had her own trouble in making both ends meet. She was taking summer boarders now to help along, and when Cynthia had asked her if she might go to Effie's party, the busy woman had been planning how to crowd another family from New York into the already well-filled abode, so she had curtly replied:

"Go to a lawn party! What nonsense! Why, no child. You cannot be spared." And she had thought no more about it.

"Step around quickly this morning, Cynthy," she called from the buttery window. "Beans take for ever and ever to cook, you know. I can't imagine what's got into the child," she said to herself. "She walks as if her feet were shod with lead."

The blue gingham sunbonnet kept on bobbing up and down among the bean poles, when suddenly there was a rush and a rustle, two arms were thrown around Cynthia's waist, and a merry voice said:

"You never heard me, did you, till I was close by? You're going to the party, of course, Cynthy?"

"No, Lulu," was the sad answer. "There are new boarders coming, and Aunt Kate cannot do without me."

"I never heard of such a thing!" cried eleven-year old Lulu. "Not going! Cannot do without you! Why, Cynthy, it will be just splendid: tennis and croquet and games, and supper in a _tent_! ice cream and everything nice, and a birthday cake with a ring, and twelve candles on it. And there are to be musicians out of doors, and fireworks in the evening. Why, there are men hanging the lanterns in the trees now--to see where they ought to be hung, I suppose," said practical Lulu. "Not let you go? I'm sure she will, if I ask her." Lulu started bravely for the house, intent on pleading for her friend.

But Cynthia called her back. "Don't go, Lulu, dear. Aunt Kate is very busy this morning. She does not think I care so much, and she won't like it either, if she thinks I'm spending my time talking with you, when the beans ought to be on the fire. A bean dinner," observed Cynthia, wisely, "takes so long to get ready."

"Does it?" said Lulu, beginning to pick with all her might. She was a sweet little thing, and she hated to have her friend left out of the good time.

As for Cynthia, the sunbonnet fell back on her neck, showing a pair of soft eyes swimming with tears, and a sorrowful little mouth quivering in its determination not to cry.

"I won't be a baby!" she said to herself, resolutely. Presently there came a sharp call from the house.

"Cynthia Elizabeth! are you never coming with those beans? Make haste, child, do?"

Aunt Kate said "Cynthia Elizabeth" only when her patience was almost gone; so, with a quick answer, "Yes, Aunt Kate, I'm coming," Cynthia left Lulu and ran back to the buttery, sitting down, as soon as she reached it, to the weary task of stringing the beans.

Lulu, meanwhile, who was an idle little puss--her mother's pet--sauntered up the road and met Effie Dean's mother, who was driving by herself, and had stopped to gather some late wild roses.

"If there isn't Lulu Pease!" she said. "Lulu dear, won't you get those flowers for me? Thank you so much. And you're coming this afternoon?"

"Yes, 'm," said Lulu, with a dimple showing itself in each plump cheek; "but I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Dean, that my dearest friend, Cynthy Mason, has to stay at home. Her Aunt Kate can't spare her. Cynthy _never_ can go anywhere nor do anything like the rest of us."

"Cynthia Mason? That's the pretty child with the pale face and dark eyes who sits in the pew near the minister's, isn't it?" said Mrs. Dean. "Why, she must not stay at home to-day." And acting on a sudden impulse, the lady said good morning to Lulu, took a brisk turn along the road and back, and presently drew rein at Mr. Mason's door.

She came straight into the buttery, having rapped to give notice of her presence, and with a compliment to Miss Mason on the excellence of her butter, she asked whether that lady could supply her with a few more pounds next week; then her eyes falling on the little figure on the doorstep, she said: "By-the-way, Miss Mason, your niece is to be one of Effie's guests to-day, is she not? Can you, as a great favor, let her come home with me now? I have to drive to the Centre on some errands, and Cynthia, who is a helpful little woman, I can see, can be of so much use if you will part with her for the day. It will be very neighborly of you to say yes. I know it's a good deal to ask, but my own girls are very busy, and I wish you would let me keep Cynthia until to-morrow. I'll take good care of her, and she shall be at home early. Lend her to me, please?"

Mrs. Dean, with much gentleness of manner, had the air of a person to whom nobody ever says no, and Cynthia could hardly believe she heard aright when her aunt said, pleasantly:

"Cynthia's a good girl, but she's like all children--she needs to be kept at her work. She can go if you really wish it, Mrs. Dean, and I'll send for my cousin Jenny to stay here to-day. There are new boarders coming," she said, to explain her need of outside assistance. Miss Mason prided herself on getting through her work alone; hired help she couldn't afford, but she would not have had any one "under-foot," as she expressed it, had money been plenty with her.