Chapter I: DREAMED that I had started on a journey, and as I trudged along the

path alone a man carrying a mirror, stopped me, saying:

“I want to speak with you.”

I replied: “From whence do you come, and what may your calling be?”

He answered: “I come from beyond that steep hill in front of you which you have yet to climb; and I am a teacher, teaching by the things that I show in my mirror.”

Then he held his mirror up before my eyes and told me to look. I obeyed, and saw a ship tossed in a storm. The sails were blown to pieces, the boats were broken, the deck was swept by the waves, and the ship was ready to sink. Then I saw the master come to the side, and stand there pouring oil from a vessel in his hand on the angry waters. And presently, although the storm continued to rage over the rest of the ocean, the ship seemed to be rocked in a little basin that was calm.

Said the teacher: “Gentleness overcomes where resistance would be in vain.”

He held up the mirror again, and I saw two stone-cutters at work dressing a great block of granite. On the wall above them was a clock. Now, one of the men stood with his back to the clock, so that he could not see it, and his arm dealt strong and rapid blows on the stone, seeming never to tire. But the other man stood facing the clock, and was constantly lifting up his eyes to it; and I noticed that his arm was raised slowly and feebly, as if losing its strength, and his face wore an expression of weariness.

The teacher said: “He who does not set his heart on his task, but on the rest that comes after it, makes poor work for his employer and long hours for himself.”

Again he held the mirror up, and I saw a vine planted in the ground, with branches growing out of each side. Now, the vine was as if it were made of glass, so that I could see the sap running from the stalk into the branches. And as it did this they all put forth leaves and blossoms. But suddenly, as I looked, the sap ceased to flow into one of the branches. Then the buds and blossoms fell from it to the earth, and the branch withered and died before my eyes.

Said the teacher: “It is not what the branch gives, but what it receives, that makes it of value in the vineyard.”

He held up the mirror again, and I saw a man with a lantern leading a company that followed him on a dark and narrow path. But presently he closed his eyes, and, as he did so, stumbled and fell. Then one of his followers seized the lantern from his hand and led the others in safety, but the one who had fallen did not return again.

The teacher said: “Even the guide who points out the way must tread carefully, or he may step aside and be lost.”

Again he held up the mirror, and I saw a great fire burning—not near, but, as it were, in a far-off abyss. In it were being consumed what I had always looked upon as the greatest works of men. And those of my own works in which I had taken the greatest pride were also being devoured by the flames. Only a few of the deeds that had seemed to me of lesser value, but that had been done for love (the love of One who first loved me), stood unconsumed in the fire.

And the teacher said: “Behold true and false immortality.”

Once more he held up the mirror, and I saw a man carrying a heavy load up a hill. The hill grew steeper at every step, and the man bent down under the weight of the load until his forehead nearly touched the ground in front of him. Then I saw one having a face full of love and a strong arm come up beside the man. But just as I supposed he was going to help him, what was my surprise to see this strong one pick up a heavy stone and put it on the top of his burden! Then I looked to see the man sink down, crushed, to the earth, but I saw the other touch him, and by that touch new strength was given him; so that he bore this heavy burden more easily than he had borne the lighter one.

And the teacher said: “No load is to be feared if only the strength be given to bear it.”

Then he took the mirror from before me and held it up to his own lips, breathing upon it. And I saw the vapor gather on its surface for a moment and then disappear.

And the teacher said: “Such are good impressions when made on the heart of man unless a higher Power fix them there.”

CLOUD-SHADOWS.

A CLOUD came sailing on the wind, which died away just as it reached a fruitful field.

“Pass on,” said the field, “and let me see the blue sky.”

The cloud spread itself out to catch the little air that was left, and slowly passed on to a field beyond. There it hung motionless. In the night it began to drop its watery contents upon the thirsty sward beneath, so that every green blade glistened as the sun rose upon it, and sprang up with renewed freshness and beauty. The field that had complained, seeing this and being parched with the sun’s rays, said:

“Ah that I had borne the cloud’s presence a while for the sake of the blessing it contained! I was impatient under its shadow, and now long for that which my neighbor has gained who submitted to its visitation without murmuring.”

* * * * *

We put out our hand and thrust away an imagined evil, to find out afterward that, if we had but welcomed it, it would have filled that hand with good.

THE PENITENT TRANSGRESSOR.

A GOOD natured poodle-dog, while trotting along the street one day, saw a friend of his, an ugly pug, lying on a doorstep looking very much dejected and out of spirits.

“Why do you look so mournful?” asked the poodle. “What has happened?”

“I feel sorry for something I’ve done,” replied the pug.

“What is it? Have you been peeping into your master’s looking-glass?”

“No, but I’ve bitten another dog.”

“Well, I suppose he took a bone away from you or snarled at you, or did something else to deserve it.”

“He did snarl at me, that’s true, but I don’t think I ought to have bitten him.”

“Didn’t he bite you back again?”

“No, and that makes me feel all the worse.”

“Oh, well, cheer up; it’s over now, and very likely you’ll never see him any more.”

“Yes, I will, though, for he’s a relation of mine.”

“But you’ll never bite him again after being so sorry for it—I’m sure of that—and that’s some comfort.”

“But I’m not sure, for I’ve done it before, and been sorry too. When anything doesn’t please me, all at once I get so mad that I hardly know what I’m about, and then I’m ready to bite my dearest friend.”

“Do you mean that you get crazy and lose your senses?”

“No, I only mean that I lose my temper. I’m sorry for it every time, but I go on losing it and biting my friends over and over again; and I’m discouraged about it, and don’t know what to do.”

“Well, if you haven’t got sense enough to stop it, right now and without any more whining, the sooner you go and give yourself up to the dog-catchers, the better.”

* * * * *

Persons who easily fly into a passion forfeit not only the regard and confidence of other people, but also their own self-respect.

THE DRY WELL.

A MAN who had always been able to get as much water from his well as he wanted, on drawing up the bucket one hot summer day, found less than a cupful in it. There was so little water at the bottom of the well that the bucket could not turn over and fill itself. As soon as the man discovered this he began abusing his well, saying:

“Is that all you can do? You are not worth the room you take or the money you cost to dig. If there is any one thing more useless and contemptible than another, it is a well that holds no water.”

“Does all my past service go for nothing, then?” asked the well. “I have filled your bucket, year after year, with unfailing streams, as you yourself know. And even now what I have I willingly offer, to the last drop.”

“‘Drop’ indeed, and little more!” said the man. “But what good will that do me? What I want is a barrelful or a hogsheadful if I need it.”

“I have not the ocean to draw from,” replied the well, “or even a river, but only one trickling spring. If that fails, I have no other resource, but must wait till its dried-up current begins to flow again. Can you, at all times, command the same fulness and excellence in your own work? Pray, do your powers never fail?”

* * * * *

How often are we intolerant of a single failure on the part of those who have generally succeeded in pleasing us, and who are still doing their very best to accomplish that end!

THE FRUIT TREE.

A FRUIT tree sprang up from a seed in the corner of a certain man’s field. It grew rapidly and put forth branches. Great was the man’s delight when he saw these bearing blossoms.

“Now I shall have fruit of my own,” he said.

Autumn came and the fruit appeared, but as it ripened, instead of growing round and rich and mellow, it grew knotted and hard and bitter to the taste.

“’Tis because it is young and the soil where it stands thin and poor,” the land-owner said.

Then he loosened the ground around its roots and enriched and watered it, and afterward waited for spring. Spring came, and again the tree put forth blossoms and bore fruit, more abundantly than before; but it was worthless and unfit to be eaten.

Another winter passed and spring returned once more, and one sunny morning, as the land-owner stood looking at his tree and repining over it, there came a gardener by that way.

“What troubles you?” he said, seeing the man’s sad face.

“My tree has proved worthless,” replied the other. “Yet I have done all that could be done to it, and still it bears only evil fruit.”

At this the gardener took out his pruning-knife and opening it, he came to the tree and at one stroke severed its top, with all its spreading boughs, so that they fell down on the ground, as fit only for the burning. Then he made a deep cleft in the stock of the tree, and into this he inserted a young shoot that he carried with him. Next he anointed, with clay, the wound that his knife had made, and wrapped it about carefully, and, turning to the land-owner, said:

“Be patient; give it time. All yet will be well.”

Another season came. The new shoot put forth buds; it blossomed, and then (after the gardener had grafted it, but not before) the tree brought forth good fruit.

* * * * *

There is a life which is ours by natural inheritance, and another which comes only as a free gift. Though both are housed in the same body, they are received at different times and have each a separate existence and destiny.

THE DEER.

A DEER that lived in a country far from the abodes of men used to stay during the winter on some low-lying lands where she could find patches of grass growing through the cold weather, and thick coverts, also, among the evergreens, in which to hide while the fierce snow-storms were prevailing. But as soon as spring returned she left the low-lands and hastened to a mountain many miles away, and there, roaming over its wooded heights and drinking from a quiet lake that lay spread out on its very top, she stayed, rejoicing, all the summer long.

After she had been doing thus for many years, and when she was no longer young, it happened one winter that certain strange sensations crept through her frame such as she had never before known. She rose from her lair with more difficulty than formerly, and walked at times with an unsteady step. She grew weak and thin, and afraid of the storms that she used to face boldly when going forth in search of food. Then she began to wonder, and say:

“What ails me, and what do these feelings mean?”

But presently she answered:

“I know what I need: it is a drink from the lake on the mountain-top. When I can taste of it once more, these feelings will pass away.”

So she waited in her low-land home, through the cold and dreary winter days that remained, for the opening buds and singing birds of spring. As soon as these appeared she started on her journey to the mountain. But now that journey seemed longer than it used to seem. She had to rest oftener by the way. Instead of leaping from crag to crag as she ascended the mountain-side, she found herself picking out the easiest and safest paths. Still laboring on up the steep ascent, she at last reached the summit and stood beside the lake that she loved. It looked the same. The rocks around its shores were reflected in its bosom, the water-lilies floated on its surface, the trees and wild-flowers grew down to its very edge. All was as it had ever been. She said: “I shall soon be well again;” and, putting her mouth down to the water, drank. But presently she raised it slowly, saying: “Either it is changed, or I am. It does not taste as it once did, or bring the refreshment it has always before brought to my wearied frame.”

Then, turning with feeble step to the bed of moss under the thick bushes where she had so often rested in years gone by, she lay down, to rise from it no more. The fresh, pure mountain-breeze was still blowing; other deer came and drank in new life and vigor at the lake; it was as beautiful and its surroundings were as health-giving as ever; but they could not recall the life that, having reached its farther bound, had passed away.

* * * * *

There is a day coming when the scenes and influences that once revived our failing strength will do so no more, and their failure will be a token that to us the end of earthly things is at hand.

HOMELY AND HANDSOME.

A HORSE and a cow that were turned out to pasture together cropped the grass in company until they came to a tree in the middle of the field, where they stopped to rest in the shade. The cow lay down and chewed the cud, but the horse stood switching off the flies with his long tail.

While doing this he turned to the cow and said:

“I’ve just been thinking what a contrast there is between us two. I am so swift, and you are so slow. You travel only from the barn to the field in summer, and hardly get out of the barnyard in winter. Your walk is clumsy and awkward; and when you try to run, you seem to have our old master’s rheumatism in every joint. How different it is with me, galloping swiftly over the country around, visiting our neighbors’ farms and hearing of all that is going on! But then it is not your fault that you were made to be only a cow, while I was made a fleet-footed horse.”

“I’m very glad,” said the cow, “that you are so well satisfied with your lot, but I don’t want you to think I am dissatisfied with mine. When our mistress pats me on the side and calls me kind names, after milking, I feel proud too. For this I go through the fields picking out the freshest grass and the richest clover, saying to myself, ‘I’ll give her a good pailful to-night.’ Then, when I see the red cheeks of the children, I know I’ve had something to do with them; and when our master drives you to market with his butter-tub well filled, I have a notion he would miss me, as well as you.”

“I don’t deny,” replied the horse, “that you have your good points and are useful in your way. I was only pitying you for being so slow and so ugly.”

As he spoke these words he saw the farmer coming through the gate into the field and bringing a strange man with him. They came directly to the tree where the horse and the cow were resting.

“Yes,” said the stranger, looking at the horse; “he’s a smart, good-looking colt, and by putting him through some pretty hard training I reckon I can work him off at a fair profit. I’ll give you your price for him.”

“Then you can have him,” said the farmer. “If he’s worth that, I can’t afford to keep him; a lower-priced beast will do just as well for me.”

With that the old man slipped a halter over the horse’s head and led him away. As he sadly followed his master he looked back at the old cow, still contentedly chewing her cud, and said:

“I go from this pleasant farm, where I was bred and have lived so long, to be driven and beaten, and then sold I know not where. Ah, my old friend! I wish now that I was as ugly and as slow as you.”

* * * * *

If we have any gifts beyond our neighbors, let us possess them humbly; for we cannot tell but what those very gifts may some day cause our happiness to be less than theirs.

THE COLT AND OLD GRAY.

A COLT that had just been broken to harness was driven in a milk-wagon every day to the city, where he was fastened to a hitching-post, and left standing, while the farmer went around to the neighboring houses serving milk.

A boy on the way to his work one morning chanced to rap against the post in passing, when the colt put back his ears. Seeing this, the boy stopped and gave him a thrust in the side, when the colt snapped at him and raised his hind foot, showing that he was angry.

Instead of checking the boy, this only encouraged him; so that the next morning he repeated his offence, and continued to do it afterward every morning, seeming to take a wicked delight in rousing the colt’s temper. Yet the colt, being tied, could do nothing to revenge himself, as the boy took good care to keep out of the reach of both his teeth and his heels.

One day, on going back to the stable, the colt told an old gray horse that stood in the next stall how cruelly he was tormented, without being able to stop his tormentor.

“I know how you could stop him,” said the old gray, “and that without giving yourself the least trouble.”

“Tell me,” said the colt.

“What will you give me for my secret?” asked Old Gray.

“My share of the feed that we’ll get for our dinner.”

“All right,” said Old Gray; “I’ll tell you as soon as I have eaten it.”

In a little while the farmer passed through the stable, and poured out six quarts of oats for each horse. And the colt, although he was very hungry and his mouth watered for them, allowed the old horse to put his head over and eat up every grain in his manger.

“Now,” said the colt, impatiently, “tell me, as you promised, how I can stop that young rogue from poking at my ribs every morning.”

“In this way,” said the old horse. “Let him do it, and pretend you don’t feel it.”

“Is that all you have to say?” said the colt, angrily. “I could have done that without being told, or being cheated out of my dinner, either.”

“But you never thought of it till I told you,” said Old Gray. “Now, just try it.”

As the oats were all gone and could never be gotten back, the colt concluded there was no use in fretting any more about them. Yet he found himself thinking over Old Gray’s advice, and before night concluded to try it.

The next morning the boy came along as usual, and, stealing up softly by the colt’s side, gave him a thrust in the tender spot just behind his shoulder. The colt never winced, nor even turned his eyes toward him. The boy tried it again and again, with no better success, until he had to hurry away, for fear of a scolding from his master.

For several mornings after this he renewed the attempt (though with less spirit each morning), until, finding it made no impression, he gave it up altogether, and passed by whistling, with his hands in his pockets, as if no colt were there.

Shortly after this, one evening about sundown, as the colt was drinking in the stable-yard, Old Gray came in from ploughing.

Said the colt, raising his head from the horse-trough:

“Your advice was good and worth the oats, after all. I ask your pardon for being so rude the other morning.”

“I can easily forgive you,” said Old Gray. “Trifles do not worry me. You are only a colt yet, just put to the milk-wagon. You’ll be wiser by the time you get to the plough.”

* * * * *

By noticing small affronts, we give every passer-by the power to vex us; by overlooking them, we take that power away.

THE KING’S ALMONER.

A KING was told that his subjects in a certain city were suffering from hunger and cold and nakedness. Then he said to himself,

“What man is there among them, of prudence and charity, with whom I can intrust supplies for their relief?”

And one being named he sent to him stores of food and raiment and money, with this message:

“These things are for the benefit of all the dwellers in your city. Not that you should be neglected while others are provided for; on the contrary, as you will have to wait on the rest as my almoner, you may keep somewhat the largest share for yourself.”

So the man received what the king sent, and divided it in due proportion between himself and the sufferers around him.

But after doing this justly and generously for a time he began, as new supplies came in, to increase his own portion and diminish that which he divided among his neighbors, thus making himself richer and richer, while they became poorer and poorer.

Now, it was the king’s custom at certain seasons to leave his royal palace and travel through his dominions, visiting his people in every city; and, the time for his departure having come, he set out on his journey, and at length came to the city which he had befriended. And he went among the people, visiting them in their houses, and found great poverty and distress among them.

Then he came to the house of his almoner, and walked through its spacious rooms (for the man had built himself a new house) and saw his children richly clothed and his table covered with dainties. And the king sat down with them and partook of the rich fare that was provided, and afterward went to his own home.

As soon as he came there he called his chief servant and commanded him to send fresh supplies of food and money and raiment—greater and more abundant than ever before—to the suffering city. And these, being sent forth in haste, quickly reached their destination. And the king’s almoner received them, and after giving a very little to the people around him laid up the rest for himself. As he did so he said,

“Now am I sure of the king’s love and favor, for behold by his bounty how my wealth has increased!”

But not many days after this the almoner’s servant who had charge of his storehouse came to him, saying,

“The food which you have laid up has bred worms and is spoiled.”

Then the servant who kept his raiment came and said,

“The rich garments sent by the king, which you have laid by so carefully, are being consumed by the moth and destroyed.”

And the keeper of his gold came, saying,

“The treasure-boxes which appeared so strong are falling to pieces; much gold has already been lost from them, and because they are opening of themselves they invite the hand of the pilferer and robber.”

Then the rich man was in great trouble, and he went in haste to the king and told him of the losses which had so suddenly befallen him.

The king replied,

“How can that be lost now which was given long ago to the poor?”

The rich man answered,

“I have done wrong in keeping for my own what did not belong to me.”

So he returned to his house sad at heart, to find all his riches melted away, and truly (as he knew) it was by his own act, and not by the hand of an enemy.

* * * * *

He who will be richer than he ought to be shall be poorer than he need to be.

PANSIES.

TWO purple pansies opened their velvet-like leaves one summer morning, but on looking around them saw that they had not the garden-bed alone. On one side a clump of crimson poppies towered above their heads, and on the other some tall golden lilies were nodding in the breeze.

When the lowly pansies saw their lofty neighbors, the joy which at first they felt in their new being quickly waned. They looked up enviously, first at the poppies, and then at the lilies, saying to one another,

“Between these haughty flowers, there is nothing left us but to hang our heads in shame.”

Just then the gardener passing by, they cried,

“Take us from here, we pray you, and plant us in a bed of flowers yet lowlier than ourselves.”

“And why do you ask this change?” he said.

“Do you not see,” they replied, “how our gorgeous neighbors overshadow us, and by contrast how poor and mean we seem?”

“Then it is nothing but pride,” the gardener answered, “that prompts the request: you would be to others what these gorgeous neighbors are to you. Be satisfied rather to remain where you are. And know that it is not for the glory of the flower its place in the garden is chosen, yet its greatest beauty may be attained where it stands in fulfilling my design.”

* * * * *

A desire to be the greatest as well as a willingness to be least may lead us to choose our place in a lower sphere.

THE BIRDS AND THE BELLS.

A VILLAGE church was presented with a chime of bells, which were rung for the first time on a bright spring morning. The country-people were delighted with the unusual sounds, but there was one class of hearers displeased. These were the birds. Heretofore they had made all the music for the fields and hills, and the sound of the bells seemed to them an invasion of their rights. They met together in an evergreen hedge to talk over the matter.

Said the robin:

“My notes can no longer be heard.”

The bluebird said:

“I might as well have no voice at all.”

The wrens and swallows whose nests were in the church-tower declared they were driven out of house and home. The meeting appointed the oriole and the dove to wait on the pastor and lay their grievance before him.

The next morning, as the good man was at work in his garden, the two appeared in a pear tree near by.

“Good-morning, sir,” said the oriole.

“Good-morning, my feathered friend,” replied the pastor. “When did you arrive from the South?”

“Only a few days ago, but it was to find a sad change here.”

“Pray, what may it be? Not gunners already, nor boys after your nests?”

“Not these, but the bells in your church-tower.”

“Why, do not they please you?”

“No, indeed! and all the birds have sent us to protest against them. We and our forefathers have enlivened these hills with our songs time out of mind, and we believe the air, for music, belongs to us still. And we have come to give you your choice: Take down the bells, or we will be still and never sing for you again.”

The pastor was dumb with astonishment as the birds flew away. He held the hoe in his hand full five minutes without moving, deep in thought concerning the strange interview. But of course submission to so unreasonable a demand was not to be thought of, and the next Sunday morning the bells again sent forth their glad peal. The ringers were in earnest, and their chimes floated far over hill and vale. But for the rest of the sacred day, and

for full twenty-four hours afterward, not a bird uttered a note. They could be seen flitting through the bushes and the trees, but all was perfectly still.

“How I miss their sweet voices!” said the pastor to his wife. “Though the leaves are unfolding and the rosebuds are swelling, without the birds’ voices it does not seem like spring.”

“Never fear,” replied his wife; “it will all come right again.”

Now, the birds, in resolving not to sing, had forgotten that, besides disobliging the people, they might inconvenience themselves. The spring was the season for their songs, and they soon found this out. After being silent for two whole days, the robin said:

“I really cannot keep still any longer. I will fly down to the other end of the woods, beyond the creek, where nobody can hear me, and sing a little song to myself.”

But great was his surprise, on reaching the woods, to hear the oriole, who had come there for the same purpose a little while before him. And presently the cuckoo, and a number of other birds, joined them at the place.

“What does this mean?” they said, looking round at each other.

“It is not hard to guess,” said the wren. “I don’t doubt we have all gone through the same experience. To confess the truth, I believe we are spiting ourselves more than anybody else.”

“Well, now,” said the owl, who spent his days asleep in that dark woods, but had been waked up by the voices, “let us reconsider our vote. Long ago, in the days of our fathers, these hills remained the same from age to age; but now the world has changed, and we must put up with it. The bells are not so bad as they might be, after all. They don’t ring all the time, and though they are not as musical as your songs, or as my hoot, yet they are not altogether without harmony. I move it be left to each bird to do as he chooses.”

The vote was taken and carried, and the birds flew off merrily; but the owl went to sleep again.

The next morning, as the pastor and his wife were in their garden tending their flower-beds, and both longing for the songs of the birds, suddenly the voice of the oriole was heard in the pear tree. He was leaping from branch to branch, singing as if to make up for lost time and as though he could not utter the notes fast enough.

“Here I am!” he said to the pastor. “We have thought the matter over and concluded to let the bells ring.”

The pastor looked up delighted, and his wife shared his joy.

“Did I not tell you,” she cried, “that it would all come right? For when no harm is intended and both sides mean to be fair, though they may sometimes get crooked, they are pretty sure to come straight again.”

JACK AND JENNY.

A SPARROW that lived with many others in a public park offended his neighbors by getting up too early in the morning and beginning to chirp before they were willing to be waked. They called a meeting of all the flock, and after considering the matter told him that he and his mate must look for another home.

This he refused to do, saying that he had as good a right to stay where he was as they had.

“These trees do not belong to you,” he said, “and you don’t pay rent for the bird-boxes we live in. They were put up by the people who own the park, because they love to see us building our nests and flying about here.

“Beside this,” he continued, “I have done nothing with which you ought to find fault, for I never wake till the break of day, and do not begin to chirp for several minutes after that, when all industrious sparrows should be ready for breakfast. This very morning I heard a cock crow before I opened my bill, and what sparrow would not be ashamed to be lazier than the chickens?”

When the other birds heard this speech, they did not try to answer it—for, indeed, it was every word true and they could say nothing against it—but, having the power on their side, they all at once fiercely attacked the sparrow with their beaks and claws. Nor did they attack him alone, but they flew at his innocent mate also, and hurt her more than they hurt him; for after they were both driven out of the park and had lodged on a neighboring fence it was found not only that her feathers were badly tumbled and torn, but, alas! that one of her eyes was pecked out.

As winter was just coming on, they knew not where to go or what to do. For the first few nights they roosted on the roof of a stable; but this was a forlorn, lonely place, and, as they had no perch to clasp with their little feet, the wind almost blew them away. Beside this, the man who kept the stable was so saving of his corn, and swept the yard so clean, that they could hardly pick up as much as would make a good meal in a whole day.

From the roof of the stable they moved under the eaves of a carpenter-shop, and thought they were nicely fixed, until one dark night a cat stole softly along the roof to the spot where they were sleeping, and, suddenly putting out her paw, almost caught them both in her sharp claws. As it was, she caught poor Jenny’s tail and pulled out every feather of it, which did the cat no good, but was a great loss to Jenny, for she could hardly guide herself in flying, and looked very odd beside.

After this they led a sad wandering life for the rest of the winter, always sleeping in fear on clothes-lines and fences, and picking up a poor living—mostly from frozen slop-buckets and around kitchen doors.

But toward spring better fortune came to them, for a little girl, looking out of the dining-room window one morning, spied them hopping about the pavement below, and threw them some crumbs. Her joy was great when she saw them quickly eat what she had thrown and then seem to look up for more. She ran back to the table, and brought them as much as they wanted.

The next day they came again, and after this, every day, almost as soon as it was light, they might be seen waiting for their breakfast from the hands of their little friend.

But think of their surprise one April morning, when the sun was shining brightly and the buds were just beginning to swell on the rose-bushes, to see the carpenter come in at the garden-gate carrying a new bird-box fastened to the top of a high pole, which he at once began to set up in the middle of the grass-plot, digging a deep hole to set it in, so that it would stand firm in spite of wind and weather.

Their kind little friend ran out from the house and almost danced for joy around the pole while it was being planted. And her father and mother, and brothers and sisters, sharing in her delight, all left the breakfast-table to watch the carpenter at his work.

That very day the happy pair—little Jack and Jenny—went into their new home, and before night were picking up dried grass and twigs with which to begin building their nest.

Now, it happened, not long after this, that a young sparrow who lived at the park, in taking a longer flight than usual one morning, spied the pretty bird-box with her old acquaintances perched at its door.

“Oh ho!” said she to herself, “is this where you have come? and to such a fine house, too!” and in a lower voice, which no one could hear, she whispered, “I would like to live in it myself.”

She waited till Jenny had gone off in search of a twig; then she quickly flew down to Jack, who was singing on the roof.

“Don’t you remember me?” she asked. “My parents lived next door to you at the park. But I was not one of those who drove you away; indeed, I never raised my wing against you.”

“I remember you,” replied Jack. “But how in the world did you get here?”

“I came to admire your beautiful new home,” said Pert, “and to tell you how glad I am that you have got up in the world.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” replied Jack.

“There is something else,” said Pert, “that I want to say, but I don’t like to mention it.”

“Speak out,” said Jack; “I want ever so much to hear it.”

“Well, then,” replied Pert, “to tell you the truth, I am afraid that all the other birds, when they hear of your good fortune, will laugh at your wife.”

“What ails her?” asked Jack.

“She is not the one,” replied Pert, “for so handsome a sparrow as you, and for such a fine house.” Here Miss Pert turned all the way round to show her fine feathers. “And I have come as a friend,” she continued, “to ask if I can help you in finding a prettier mate.”

“I don’t want one,” said Jack.

“What?” exclaimed Pert. “And Jenny with only one eye and all her tail-feathers pulled out?”

“Ah, but,” said Jack, “her other eye is the brightest and softest that ever was seen. And, as for her tail-feathers, they are all growing again.”

“Pooh!” said Pert, “she is too old for you, beside being ugly.”

“Oh no,” said Jack; “she is just the right age. And if she _has_ lost her good looks, she has lost them for me. When you were against me, then she was my friend; and now, when you are willing to be my friend because I have grown rich, I will not turn her off to please you. Go home again, Miss Pert, for nobody but Jenny shall share my fine house.”

* * * * *

That person seems the prettiest whom we love the best; and the one who was faithful to us when we were in trouble is the one we should remain faithful to when our troubles are taken away.

THE MEETING OF THE WINDS.

THE north and the south winds met one day in a field beside a river. The north wind had brought some snow the night before, but the south wind blew soon after, and melted nearly all of it. Only a few white patches were left, here and there, along the sunny banks of the stream.

As soon as the winds came near each other the south wind said:

“Good-morning, brother! I am glad to meet you, though your cold breath quite chills me.”

“But I am not glad to meet you,” answered the north wind. “Why did you melt my snow so quickly? Could you not let it lie for one day?”

“The time has come for the grass and flowers, you know, brother, and I must be at work,” said the gentle south wind.

“There was no need of such haste,” said the burly north wind; “when friends meet, they should be polite.”

“I have to call up the daisies and to waken the roses,” said the south wind, “and to make all the fields green by the first of May. I have no time to lose. Look at yonder meadow how brown it is, and at these trees how bare! Scarcely a fly is buzzing in the sunshine, and not a tortoise has yet crept out of his hole in the ground.”

“I do not care for your daisies and your tortoises,” muttered the north wind; “you want to hurry me off, but I will not go so soon.”

“Have you not had the whole winter to yourself,” asked the south wind, “freezing the brooks, driving away all my birds and my butterflies, and covering the fields and roads and bushes and barns with snow? If I chanced to come then and pay you a visit some bright morning, how quickly you drove me away again! Never might I stay till the sun went down!”

“The winter is my time,” said the north wind; “it belongs to me, and you had no right to come then.”

“And the spring is my time,” answered the south wind; “you know the law is that I must have the fields now.”

“You think a great deal of yourself,” said the north wind, angrily, “but I am stronger than you. I can fly farther, and I see things that you never see. Where do you think I came from this morning?”

“Tell me, I cannot guess?” answered the south wind.

“I came all the way from the icy pole, where the sea is frozen over, and the land is covered with snow that never melts. The white bear lives there. I saw one but a few hours ago, watching for fish by a hole that he had broken through the ice.”

“But you never saw my home, nor the strange sights that are there,” said the south wind. “I come from the far-off torrid zone, where the snow never falls, and the frost never kills the buds and the flowers. There the panther lives. I passed by one last night in the forest lying out on the branch of a great tree, watching for his prey, that he might spring down on it as it passed beneath.”

“But I see the Esquimaux,” answered the north wind, “in their strange skin dresses, living in houses of snow. They fight the fierce walrus on the ice, and spear the fur-covered seal from their little boats that dance on the waves. I watch the Northern Lights, so red and beautiful, shooting up like bright flames in the sky, and the night is almost as light as the day. Then the Esquimaux harnesses his dogs, and the Laplander his reindeer, and they travel swiftly over the frozen plain.”

“Yesterday I blew with all my might until I loosed a field of ice and sent it out to sea. A white bear was on it, and he sailed on his ice-boat across the sea to Iceland. As I passed the steep, high rocks on the shores of Greenland I saw the eider-ducks brooding there. Each one had lined her nest with soft down plucked off of her own breast. Then I frightened them with my hoarse voice, and thousands—yes, hundreds of thousands—rose up in the air like a cloud.”

“But let me ask you,” murmured the south wind, “did you ever hear among your icebergs and your frozen wastes the song of the oriole and the mocking-bird, that I hear every day in the woods where I live? You look at your Esquimaux in their snow houses, but I peep in at the hut of the Indian that stands under the forest shade, or I blow against the sail of his canoe and waft it up some quiet river where the trees grow thick on each side and meet overhead. The red flamingo wades out into the water, and the monkeys and parrots chatter among the branches.

“I see the boa-constrictor coiled among the roots on the shore, or watch the alligator floating down the stream. My home is among the orange trees and in the fields where the sugar-cane grows. There I lie still and sleep, or awake to go forth on my journeys over the earth—not to freeze up the ground and make it barren and bare, but to cover it with green and bring out the buds and flowers on every bush and tree.”

While the winds were talking in this way, the river, that had been listening to them, said:

“Why do you thus boast and provoke one another? Why not speak gently and kindly of the wonderful things you have seen? You would not change homes, would you?”

“No, indeed!” each one replied; “I love my own the best!”

“Then,” said the river, “what good can come of disputing when both are satisfied? As for me, I love you both. I am glad for the north wind to blow cold, and cover me with ice in the winter, so that the merry skaters can come and glide swiftly over my smooth surface.

“And I love the south wind to breathe softly in the spring, and make my banks green again, and waken the frogs along my shore, and bring the fisherman in his boat, and the boys to swim.

“Let us all be friends, then, and love each other, and be satisfied with what our kind Creator has given us, and happy in doing what will please Him.”

Then the north wind said:

“I am willing to be friends again. It is true that the spring is your time, gentle south wind; I will not stay to nip your opening flowers, but will fly away to my cold home.”

And the south wind said:

“Forgive me if I was rude, brother. When November shall come once more, I will leave the fields and woods to you. Take this sprig of evergreen to remember me by, and may it not fade till we meet again! Farewell!”

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 172, “lookod” changed to “looked” (Peter looked around the)

Page 457, “ou” changed to “on” (but on looking around)

End of Project Gutenberg's New Lights on Old Paths, by Charles Foster