Chapter VI: A Circulating Library (1)

After supper that night, Bab and Betty sat in the old porch playing with Josephus and Belinda, and discussing the events of the day, for the appearance of the strange boy and his dog had been a most exciting occurrence in their quiet lives. They had seen nothing of him since morning, as he took his meals at the Squire's, and was at work with Pat in a distant field when the children passed. Sancho had stuck closely to his master, evidently rather bewildered by the new order of things, and bound to see that no harm happened to Ben.

"I wish they'd come. It's sun-down, and I heard the cows mooing, so I know they have gone home," said Betty, impatiently; for she regarded the new comer in the light of an entertaining book, and wished to read on as fast as possible.

"I'm going to learn the signs he makes when he wants Sancho to dance; then we can have fun with him whenever we like. He's the dearest dog I ever saw" answered Bab, who was fonder of animals than her sister.

"Ma said--Ow, what's that!" cried Betty, with a start as something bumped against the gate outside, and in a moment Ben's head peeped over the top as he swung himself up to the iron arch, in the middle of which was the empty lantern frame.

"Please to locate, gentlemen; please to locate. The performance is about to begin with the great Flyin' Coopid act, in which Master Bloomsbury has appeared before the crowned heads of Europe. Pronounced by all beholders the most remarkable youthful progidy agoin'. Hooray! here we are!"

Having rattled off the familiar speech in Mr. Smithers's elegant manner, Ben began to cut up such capers that even a party of dignified hens, going down the avenue to bed, paused to look on with clucks of astonishment, evidently fancying that salt had set him to fluttering and tumbling as it did them. Never had the old gate beheld such antics, though it had seen gay doings in its time; for of all the boys who had climbed over it, not one had ever stood on his head upon each of the big balls which ornamented the posts, hung by his heels from the arch, gone round and round like a wheel with the bar for an axis, played a tattoo with his toes while holding on by his chin, walked about the wall on his hands, or closed the entertainment by festooning himself in an airy posture over the side of the lantern frame, and kissing his hand to the audience, as a well-bred Cupid is supposed to do on making his bow.

The little girls clapped and stamped enthusiastically, while Sancho, who had been calmly surveying the show, barked his approval as he leaped up to snap at Ben's feet.

"Come down and tell what you did up at the Squire's. Was he cross? Did you have to work hard? Do you like it?" asked Bab, when the noise had subsided.

"It's cooler up here," answered Ben, composing himself in the frame, and fanning his hot face with a green spray broken from the tall bushes rustling odorously all about him. "I did all sorts of jobs. The old gentleman wasn't cross; he gave me a dime, and I like him first-rate. But I just _hate_ "Carrots"; he swears at a feller, and fired a stick of wood at me. Guess I'll pay him off when I get a chance."

Fumbling in his pocket to show the bright dime, he found the torn page, and remembered the thirst for information which had seized him in the morning.

"Look here, tell me about this, will you? What are these chaps up to? The ink has spoilt all but the picture and this bit of reading. I want to know what it means. Take it to 'em, Sanch."

The dog caught the leaf as it fluttered to the ground, and carrying it carefully in his mouth, deposited it at the feet of the little girls, seating himself before them with an air of deep interest. Bab and Betty picked it up and read it aloud in unison, while Ben leaned from his perch to listen and learn.

"'When day dawned land was visible. A pleasant land it was. There were gay flowers, and tall trees with leaves and fruit such as they had never seen before. On the shore were unclad, copper-colored men, gazing with wonder at the Spanish ships. They took them for great birds, the white sails for their wings, and the Spaniards for superior beings brought down from heaven on their backs.'"

"Why, that's Columbus finding San Salvador. Don't you know about _him_?" demanded Bab, as if she were one of the "superior beings," and intimately acquainted with the immortal Christopher.

"No, I don't. Who was he anyway? I s'pose that's him paddlin' ahead; but which of the Injuns is Sam Salvindoor?" asked Ben, rather ashamed of his ignorance, but bent on finding out now he had begun.

"My gracious! twelve years old and not know your Quackenbos," laughed Bab, much amused, but rather glad to find that she could teach the "whirligig boy" something, for she considered him a remarkable creature.

"I don't care a bit for your quackin' boss, whoever he is. Tell about this fine feller with the ships; I like _him_," persisted Ben.

So Bab, with frequent interruptions and hints from Betty, told the wonderful tale in a simple way, which made it easy to understand, for she liked history, and had a lively tongue of her own.

"I'd like to read some more. Would my ten cents buy a book?" asked Ben, anxious to learn a little since Bab laughed at him.

"No, indeed! I'll lend you mine when I'm not using it, and tell you all about it," promised Bab, forgetting that she did not know "all about it" herself yet.

"I don't have any time only evenings, and then may be you'll want it," begun Ben, in whom the inky page had roused a strong curiosity.

"I do get my history in the evening, but you could have it mornings, before school."

"I shall have to go off early, so there wont be any chance. Yes, there will,--I'll tell you how to do it: Let me read while I drive up the cows. Squire likes 'em to eat slow along the road, so's to keep the grass short and save mowin'. Pat said so, and I could do history instead of loafin' round!" cried Ben, full of this bright idea.

"How will I get my book back in time to recite?" asked Bab, prudently.

"Oh, I'll leave it on the window-sill, or put it inside the door as I go back. I'll be real careful, and just as soon as I earn enough, I'll buy you a new one and take the old one. Will you?"

"Yes; but I'll tell you a nicer way to do. Don't put the book on the window, 'cause teacher will see you; or inside the door, 'cause some one may steal it. You put it in my cubby-house, right at the corner of the wall nearest the big maple. You'll find a cunning place between the roots that stick up under the flat stone. That's my closet, and I keep things there. It's the best cubby of all, and we take turns to have it."

"I'll find it, and that'll be a first-rate place," said Ben, much gratified.

"I could put my reading-book in sometimes, if you'd like it. There's lots of pretty stories in it and pictures," proposed Betty, rather timidly, for she wanted to share the benevolent project, but had little to offer, not being as good a scholar as bright Bab.

"I'd like a 'rithmetic better. I read tip-top, but I aint much on 'rithmetic; so, if you can spare yours, I might take a look at it. Now I'm going to earn wages, I ought to know about addin' 'em up, and so on," said Ben, with the air of a Vanderbilt oppressed with the care of millions.

"I'll teach you that. Betty doesn't know much about sums. But she spells splendidly, and is always at the head of her class. Teacher is real proud of her, 'cause she never misses, and spells hard, fussy words, like _chi-rog-ra-phy_ and _bron-chi-tis_ as easy as anything."

Bab quite beamed with sisterly pride, and Betty smoothed down her apron with modest satisfaction, for Bab seldom praised her, and she liked it very much.

"I never went to school, so that's the reason I aint smart. I can write, though, better'n some of the boys up at school. I saw lots of names on the shed door. See here now," and scrambling down, Ben pulled out a cherished bit of chalk and flourished off ten letters of the alphabet, one on each of the dark stone slabs that paved the walk.

"Those are beautiful! I can't make such curly ones. Who taught you to do it?" asked Bab, as she and Betty walked up and down admiring them.

"Horse blankets," answered Ben, soberly.

"What!" cried both girls, stopping to stare.

"Our horses all had their names on their blankets, and I used to copy 'em. The wagons had signs, and I learned to read that way after father taught me my letters off the red and yellow posters. First word I knew was lion, 'cause I was always goin' to see old Jubal in his cage. Father was real proud when I read it right off. I can draw one, too."

Ben proceeded to depict an animal intended to represent his lost friend; but Jubal would not have recognized his portrait, since it looked much more like Sancho than the king of the forest. The children admired it immensely, however, and Ben gave them a lesson in natural history which was so interesting that it kept them busy and happy till bedtime; for the boy described what he had seen in such lively language, and illustrated in such a droll way, it was no wonder they were charmed.

(_To be continued._)

MUSIC ON ALL FOURS.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

A Pussy-cat and a Black-and-Tan
Were shut in a room together,
And, after a season of quiet, began
To talk of the change in the weather,
And new spring fashions, and after that
They had a sort of musical chat.

Said Puss: "To me it is quite absurd--
But tastes and opinions vary;
And some have declared that no beast or bird
Can sing like the small canary,--
Who, if it be true as I've heard it told,
Is really worth more than its weight in gold!"

Said the Black-and-Tan, with a pensive smile:
"I've wanted to call attention
To this bit of scandal for quite a while,
And, if not amiss, to mention
That my daily allowance of bark and w(h)ine
Has greatly improved this voice of mine."

"It has," said Puss, with a comic grin;
"The words of truth you have spoken;
A name for ourselves we must strive to win
At once, now the ice is broken;
For one or two doses of catnip tea
Have had a wondrous effect on me!

"'Twas only the other night I strayed
Where a silvery moonbeam slanted,
And gave such a beautiful serenade
You'd have thought the place enchanted.
It roused the neighborhood to a pitch
Of praise, or envy--I can't tell which."

Said the Black-and-Tan, "Why shouldn't we try
To sing a duet together?"
Said the Puss, "I see no reason why
We can't; and we'll show them whether
To birds and bipeds alone belong
The gift of singing a pleasing song!"

They sang--and they sang; but oh, my dears!
If you had been anywhere near them,
You'd have shut your eyes and stopped your ears,
And wished that you couldn't hear them.
'Twas a brilliant effort, upon my word,
And nearly killed the canary-bird.

The Pussy-cat and the Black-and-Tan
With the music were so delighted,
They will give a concert as soon as they can,
And perhaps we may be invited.
"Bow-wow!" "Miaow!" I'm sorry, you know,
I've another engagement--and cannot go!

A LETTER TO AMERICAN BOYS.

BY GEORGE MACDONALD.

My dear Cousins: Shall I really be talking to you as I sit here in my study with the river Thames now flowing, now ebbing, past my window? I am uttering no word, I am only writing; and you are not listening, not reading, for it will be a long time ere what I am now thinking shall reach you over the millions of waves that swell and sink between us. And yet I shall in very truth be talking to you.

In like manner, with divine differences, God began to talk to us ages before we were born: I will not say before we began to be, for, in a sense, that very moment God thought of us we began to exist, for what God thinks of, _is_. We have been lying for ages in his heart without knowing it. But now we have begun to know it. We are here, with a great beginning, and before us an end so great that there is no end to it. But we must take heed, for, else, the very greatness will turn to confusion and terror.

Shall I explain what made me begin my letter to you just this way?--I was sitting in my room, as I am now, thinking what I should say to you. And as I sat thinking after something worth saying and fit to say, my room spoke to me,--that is, out of its condition and appearance came a thought into my mind. And that you may understand how it came, and how it was what it was, I will first show you what my room at this moment is like. For the thought had nothing to do with the sun outside, or the shining river, or the white-sailed boats, neither with the high wind that is tossing the rosy hawthorn-bloom before my windows, or with the magnolia trained up the wall and looking in at one of them: it had to do only with the inside of the room.

It is a rather long room. The greater part has its walls filled with books, and I am sitting at one end quite surrounded by them. But when I lift my eyes, I look to the other end, and into the heart of a stage for acting upon, filling all the width and a third part of the length of the room. It is surrounded with curtains, but those in front of it are withdrawn, and there the space of it lies before me, a bare, empty hollow of green and blue and red, which to-morrow evening will be filled with group after group of moving, talking, shining, acting men and women, boys and girls. It looked to me like a human heart, waiting to be filled with the scenes of its own story,--with this difference, that the heart itself will determine of what sort those groups shall be. Then there grew up in my mind the following little parable, which, to those who do not care to understand it, will be dark,--but to those who desire to know its meaning, may give light:

There was once a wise man to whom was granted the power to send forth his thoughts in shapes that other people could see. And, as he walked abroad in the world, he came upon some whom his wisdom might serve. One day, having, in a street of the city where he dwelt, rescued from danger a boy about ten years of age, he went with him to his mother, and begged that he might take him to his house for a week. When they heard his name, the parents willingly let their son go with him. And he taught him many things, and the boy loved and trusted him.

When the boy was asleep in bed, the wise man would go to his room at midnight, and lay his ear to his ear, and hearken to his dreams. Then he would stand and spread out his arms over him and look up. And the boy would smile, and his sleep was the deeper.

Once, just an hour after the sage had thus visited him, the boy woke, and found himself alone in the middle of the night. He could not get to sleep again, and grew so restless that he rose and went down the stair. The moon shone in at every western window, and his way was "now in glimmer and now in gloom." On the first landing he saw a door wide open, which he had never seen open till now. It was the door of the wizard's room. Within, all was bright with moonlight, and the boy first peeped, then stepped in, and peered timidly about him.

The farther end of the room was hidden by a curtain stretched quite across it, and, curious to see what was behind, he approached it. But ere he reached it, the curtain slowly divided in the midst and, drawn back to each side, revealed a place with just light enough in it from the moonshine to show that it was a dungeon. In the middle of it, upon the floor, sat a prisoner, with fetters to his feet, and manacles to his hands; an iron collar was round his neck, and a chain from the collar had its last link in an iron staple deep fixed in the stone floor. His head was sunk on his bosom, and he sat abject and despairing.

"What a wicked man he must be!" thought the boy, and was turning to run away in terror, when the man lifted his head, and his look caught and held him. For he saw a pale, worn, fierce countenance, which, somehow, through all the added years, and all the dirt that defiled it, he recognized as his own. For a moment the prisoner gazed at him mournfully; then a wild passion of rage and despair seized him; he dragged and tore at his chains, raved and shrieked, and dashed himself on the ground like one mad with imprisonment. For a time he lay exhausted, then half rose and sat as before, gazing helplessly upon the ground.

By and by a spider came creeping along the bar of his fetters. He put out his hand, and, with the manacle on his wrist, crushed it, and smiled. Instantly through the gloom came a strong, clear, yet strangely sweet voice--and the very sweetness had in it something that made the boy think of fire. And the voice said:

"So! in the midst of misery, thou takest delight in destruction! Is it not well thou art chained? If thou wast free, thou wouldst in time destroy the world. Tame thy wild beast, or sit there till I tame him."

The prisoner peered and stared through the dusk, but could see no one; he fell into another fit of furious raving, but not a hair-breadth would one link of chain yield to his wildest endeavor.

"Oh, my mother!" he cried, as he sank again into the grave of exhaustion.

"Thy mother is gone from thee," said the voice, "outworn by thine evil ways. Thou didst choose to have thyself and not thy mother, and there thou hast thyself, and she is gone. I only am left to care for thee--not with kisses and sweet words, but with a dungeon. Unawares to thyself thou hast forged thine own chains, and riveted them upon thy limbs. Not Hercules could free thee or himself from such imprisonment."

The man burst out weeping, and cried with sobs:

"What then am I to do, for the burden of them is intolerable?"

"What I will tell thee," said the voice; "for so shall thy chains fall from thee."

"I will do it," said the man.

"Thy prison is foul," said the voice.

"It is," answered the prisoner.

"Cleanse it, then."

"How can I cleanse it when I cannot move?"

"Cannot move! Thy hands were upon thy face a moment gone--and now they are upon the floor! Near one of those hands lies a dead mouse; yonder is an open window. Cast the dead thing out into the furnace of life, that it may speedily make an end thereof."

With sudden obedient resolve the prisoner made the endeavor to reach it. The chain pulled the collar hard, and the manacle wrenched his wrist; but he caught the dead thing by the tail, and with a fierce effort threw it; out of the window it flew and fell--and the air of his dungeon seemed already clearer.

After a silence, came the voice again:

"Behind thee lies a broom," it said; "reach forth and take it, and sweep around thee as far as thy chains will yield thee scope."

The man obeyed, and, as he swept, at every stroke he reached farther. At length,--how it came he could not tell, for his chains hung heavy upon him still,--he found himself sweeping the very foot of the walls.

A moment more, and he stood at the open window, looking out into the world. A dove perched upon the window-sill, and walked inquiringly in; he caught it in his hands, and looked how to close the window, that he might secure its company. Then came the voice:

"Wilt thou, a prisoner, make of thyself a jailer?"

He opened his hands, and the dove darted into the sunlight. There it fluttered and flashed for a moment, like a bird of snow; then re-entered, and flew into his very hands. He stroked and kissed it. The bird went and came, and was his companion.

Still, his chains hung about him, and he sighed and groaned under their weight.

"Set thee down," said the voice, "and polish thine irons."

He obeyed, rubbing link against link busily with his hands. And thus he labored--as it seemed to the boy in the vision--day after day, until at last every portion within his reach, of fetter, and chain, and collar, glittered with brightness.

"Go to the window," then said the voice, "and lay thee down in the sunshine."

He went and lay down, and fell asleep. When he awoke, he began to raise himself heavily; but, lo! the sun had melted all the burnished parts of his bonds, the rest dropped from him, and he sprung to his feet. For very joy of lightness, he ran about the room like a frolicking child. Then said the voice once more:

"Now carve thee out of the wall the figure of a man, as perfect as thou canst think and make it."

"Alas!" said the prisoner to himself, "I know not how to carve or fashion the image of anything."

But as he said it, he turned with a sigh to find among the fragments of his fetters what piece of iron might best serve him for a chisel. To work he set, and many and weary were the hours he wrought, for his attempts appeared to him nothing better than those of a child, and again and ever again as he carved, he had to change his purpose, and cut away what he had carved; for the thing he wrought would not conform itself to the thing he thought, and it seemed he made no progress in the task that was set him. But he did not know that it was because his thought was not good enough to give strength and skill to his hand,--that it seemed too good for his hand to follow.

One night he wrought hard by the glimmer of his wretched lamp, until, overwearied, he fell fast asleep, and slept like one dead. When he awoke, lo! a man of light, lovely and grand, who stood where he had been so wearily carving the unresponsive stone! He rose and drew nigh. Behold, it was an opening in the wall, through which his freedom shone! The man of light was the door into the universe. And he darted through the wall.

As he vanished from his sight, the boy felt the wind of the morning lave his forehead; but with the prisoner vanished the vision; he was alone, with the moon shining through the windows. Too solemn to be afraid, he crept back to his bed, and fell fast asleep.

In the morning, he knew there had come to him what he now took for a strange dream, but he remembered little of it, and thought less about it, and the same day the wizard took him home.

His mother was out when he arrived, and he had not been in five minutes before it began to rain. It was holiday-time, and there were no lessons, and the school-room looked dismal as a new street. He had not a single companion, and the rain came down with slow persistence. He tried to read, but could not find any enjoyment in it. His thoughts grew more and more gloomy, until at last his very soul was disquieted within him. When his mother came home and sought him in the school-room, she found him lying on the floor, sullen and unkind. Although he knew her step as she entered, he never looked up; and when she spoke to him, he answered like one aggrieved.

"I am sorry you are unhappy," said his mother, sweetly. "I did not know you were to be home to-day. Come with me to my room."

He answered his mother insolently:

"I don't want to go with you. I only want to be left alone."

His mother turned away, and, without another word, left the room.

The cat came in, went up to him purring, and rubbed herself against him. He gave her such a blow that she flew out again, in angry fright, with her back high above her head. And the rain rained faster, and the wind began to blow, and the misery settled down upon his soul like lead. At last he wept with his face on the floor, quite overmastered by the most contemptible of all passions--self-pity.

Again the voice of his mother came to him. The wizard had in the meantime come to see her, and had just left her.

"Get up, my boy," she said, in a more commanding tone than he had ever heard from her before.

With her words the vision returned upon him, clear, and plain, and strong. He started in terror, almost expecting to hear the chains rattle about him.

"Get up, and make the room tidy. See how you have thrown the books about!" said his mother.

He dared not disobey her. He sprung to his feet, and as he reduced the little chaos around him to order, first calmness descended, and then shame arose. As he fulfilled her word, his mother stood and looked on. The moment he had finished, he ran to her, threw his arms about her neck, burst into honest, worthy tears, and cried:

"Mother!"

Then, after a while, he sobbed out:

"I am sorry I was so cross and rude to my mother."

She kissed him, and put her arms around him, and with his mind's eye he saw the flap of the white dove's wing. She took him by the hand and led him to the window. The sun was shining, and a grand rainbow stood against the black curtain of the receding cataract.

"Come, my child," she said; "we will go out together."

It was long years ere the boy understood _all_ the meanings of the vision. I doubt if he understands them all yet. But he will one day. And I can say no more for the wisest of the readers, or for the writer himself, of this parable.

The Father of all the boys on earth and in heaven be with the boys of America! and when they grow up, may they and the men of England understand, and love, and help each other! Amen! Your friend,

GEORGE MACDONALD.

ANNIE AND THE BALLS.

(_A Story for the Kindergarten Children._)

BY H. E. H.

Little Annie had been quite ill, and her mamma thought best to keep her at home from the Kindergarten; but she was now almost well again, and had been promised she should return to her little companions in two more days. Two days seems a long time to a little girl, and Annie seemed so sadly to miss all the pretty amusements of the Kindergarten, that mamma tried to think what she could do to interest her. At last a very bright thought came into her head, and she ran into the hall and whispered it to papa, who was just putting on his hat and coat to go out.

He came back very soon, and brought Annie a box with the Kindergarten colored balls in it.

"Oh!" she cried, "now I can play Kindergarten with my dolls, for they are really growing up quite ignorant, especially Arabella Louisa, who asked me, only yesterday, to cut her apple into three halves."

All the little stools in the house were soon collected and brought to the nursery, where they were placed in true Kindergarten fashion, and the dolls seated on them with heels together and toes turned out. Rosie was there with her beautiful golden curls, her bright blue eyes, and arms and hands which would move quite as Alice could move her own. Then there were four younger children, and even old Peggy--the rag-baby--was made to sit up very stiff and straight with the aid of a little string, and the lesson began.

Annie took out the yellow ball and asked the babies to point out something in the room the same color. Rosie managed, with a little help from her teacher, to raise her kid arm and point with her dainty finger to the canary-bird.

"Point to something round like the ball," said little Annie, and Arabella Louisa made herself very cross-eyed looking down at her gold beads, but was too bashful to speak. Next Annie brought out the purple ball and laid it down. Then the red and green ones came out, and, lastly, the orange and blue. Now the teacher began to look very dull, even duller than her scholars; her eyelids began to droop, and she spoke very slowly, and said: "Children,--can--you--count--the--balls?" but not hearing any answer, she looked up and found they had all disappeared, and that she was no longer in the nursery. Before her was a beautiful green field dotted all over with buttercups and daisies. After she had stepped around carefully on the soft grass and smelt the flowers, she heard some one call her name, and, looking up, she saw a beautiful castle standing quite alone by itself in the air, while a little fairy in a yellow, gauzy dress beckoned her to come up.

"Oh!" thought Annie, "how I should like to go and make her a pretty courtesy, but I have no wings and cannot fly!"

The kind fairy seeing the sad look on the little girl's face, cried out: "Wait a minute till we get our fairy pipe."

Annie could but wonder of what use a pipe would be, but she had been taught to be patient and wait until things were explained to her; so she stood very quiet, and soon saw the fairy in yellow come floating down to the earth. Behind her came another little creature all in red, and still behind her a third in a beautiful blue dress. Between them they carried a long pipe, much like the one Roger, the gardener, smoked; and when they were in front of the little girl they began to blow through it very hard, and Annie soon found herself inside a a large soap-bubble, and felt that she was gently floating upward in her fairy balloon. When she reached the castle she touched the thin wall with her fingers and it melted away, and left her standing in Fairy Land!

Her three companions--the fairy in yellow, the one in red, and the one in blue--crowded around her, and cried "Welcome!" three times. Then they made a place for three more, who tried to smile and say "Welcome!" also, but could only look very sad and wipe a tiny tear from their little eyes.

Now, Annie was a kind little girl, and she asked them in her gentlest voice what made them sad, and they all replied: "Oh, we want some dresses so badly; these are only our little skirts made out of cobwebs."

"What color do you want?" said Annie.

"Well," said the first, "_I_ want one of green, like the beautiful grass and the leaves of the trees."

"Ah!" sighed Annie, "if I could _only_ remember how our teacher told us to make green, but I am afraid I have forgotten."

Away ran one of the fairies, and soon came back with a little white cap, which she placed upon Annie's head, saying: "This is our thinking-cap", and as soon as it touched the child's brown curls, she cried: "I've thought! If you mix yellow and blue together it will make green; but how can we do it?"

"Oh, _we_ know!" all the six cried together, and they brought a lily filled with dew, and the fairy with the yellow dress and the one with the blue dress dipped their little skirts in it, and they stirred the dew around with a tiny wand, and took out a lovely green robe, which was put on the fairy who had chosen that color, and she began to smile very sweetly.

Now, the next one stepped up, and said: "_I_ want a dress of purple like the beautiful sweet violets which grow in our little gardens."

As Annie still had the thinking-cap on, she quickly told them that red and blue must be mixed together, and another lily was brought and the red and blue dresses dipped in it; and after some stirring, out came a beautiful purple frock, and the fairy who had chosen this smiled even more sweetly than the other one.

Now, Annie turned to the last one and asked her what color she wanted, and she replied: "_I_ want a dress of orange."

"I do not need the cap this time," said Annie, "for I remember that red and yellow will make orange."

So a third lily was brought by the fairies, and when the red and yellow dresses were dipped in it, out came one of an orange color, and the fairy who put this on really laughed aloud. Then taking hold of hands, all the little things began to dance gayly around Annie, who was quite tired from her long journey, and had asked permission to lie on the soft bed of moss.

She noticed that wherever the red fairy went the green one followed close behind. The blue fairy and the one with the orange dress kept close together with their arms around each other, and the yellow and purple fairies kissed, and seemed to say such very pretty things of each other that Annie thought they must be the _complementary_ colors that she had heard her mother talk about. Just now it grew quite dark, and as Annie looked up at the clouds she felt a rain-drop on her cheek, and looking at her companions she saw that every drop clung to their clothing, and looked like beautiful diamonds and pearls. The shower lasted only a little while, and then the sun came out, and the fairies all called out: "Good-by, kind Lady Annie, we are wanted now away up in the sky!" and they floated up one above the other, and stretched themselves out quite long, and arched their bodies very gracefully; and as Annie turned her face away from where the sun was setting, she saw in the opposite direction a beautiful rainbow, and she knew why the fairies had been called away.

"Annie! Annie!!"

"Why, that is my name," thought the little girl; and she gave a jump and opened her eyes, and can you believe me, she was back in the nursery, the balls were lying on the floor just as she had left them, and the dolls were all staring at her with their round glass eyes.

A MODERN WILLIAM TELL.

"HERE, GRANDPA, LET'S PLAY WILLIAM TELL. I'LL BE MR. TELL, AND YOU MAY PLAY YOU'RE MY SON, AND STAND OVER THERE BY THE MIRROR WHILE I SHOOT THIS APPLE OFF YOUR HEAD."]

THE KING AND THE THREE TRAVELERS.

BY ARLO BATES.

Three travelers, who had been found asleep in the royal park, were once brought before King Jollimon. In answer to inquiries, they said that they were story-tellers, who earned their living by relating those tales and legends of which the inhabitants of Jolliland are so extravagantly fond.

"If that be so," said the king, "and if you can tell stories worth hearing, you are indeed welcome. The court story-teller has just been banished for presuming to tell the same story twice, and his place is unfilled. It would be a right royal idea to have three story-tellers instead of one."

So the three travelers, after having been refreshed with food and drink, were bidden to seat themselves at the august feet of King Jollimon, that they might prove their power to please the royal fancy by strange and unheard tales.

They were all old and withered; and the first had a crooked back, the second a crooked nose, and the third a crooked mouth. He of the crooked back began, and told the tale of

THE RAVEN MAIDEN.

There once lived a young and accomplished prince called Orca. His father was king over all the country and the neighboring provinces, and Orca was his only heir.

The prince was a daring hunter, and went often to the royal forests, sometimes in company with the lords of the court, but oftener alone. For it so happened that the gamekeeper had a young daughter, Sipelie, who was as fair as the morning, and as modest as she was fair; and the prince, having seen her, of course fell over head and ears in love with her, forgetting all differences of wealth and station. As for Sipelie, having no mother to tell her better, although she took good care to wait a modest while before showing it, she gave away her whole heart to him. Nor was this so much to be wondered at, for Orca was every inch a prince, and a fine, manly fellow beside. And so I warrant there was billing and cooing enough at the gamekeeper's lodge, for when the prince came the gamekeeper kept discreetly in the background, and Sipelie had no brothers or sisters to be in the way.

But the course of true love is never without its rapids, and it was not long before Orca's visits to Sipelie began to be talked about among the nobles. So at last the news came to the ears of the Lady Ildea, the prime minister's daughter, who hoped to win Prince Orca herself. The Lady Ildea's temper was certainly none of the best, nor was her beauty at all to be compared with that of the gamekeeper's daughter. She had long laid siege to the heart of the prince, and she was now convinced that it was only on account of the peasant maiden that she made so little progress.

The Lady Ildea was not unskilled in magic, and by consultation with divers not very respectable spirits, she found means to transform the beautiful Sipelie into a raven. Thus it happened that when the prince went as usual to visit his beloved, he found the cottage empty, and no living thing in sight but a raven, which croaked dolorously from a neighboring tree. When the gamekeeper appeared, in answer to Prince Orca's eager questions, he could only say that his daughter was missing. Together, the two men searched the whole night for the lost maiden; but neither then, nor in any after search, could a trace of Sipelie be discovered.

It is needless to speak of the gamekeeper's grief, or the prince's despair. Both refused to be comforted, and the unhappy prince became so pale and thin that it was pitiful to see.

In all his grief and anguish, the Lady Ildea showed a deep sympathy, encouraging him to tell her all his woes, and if she could not comfort him, she at least wept for him, and that was something.

And so it went on until the prince was taken violently ill. The wise men gathered about his bed, and at last concluded, after many long and tedious days of consultation, that his sickness was caused by an evil influence, which they ascribed to a raven that had been noticed fluttering continually about the palace windows. They farther announced that the prince could only be cured by the juice of certain wild herbs, which were exceedingly rare, and which only grew in wild and dangerous places in the mountains. Messengers were dispatched throughout the whole country in search of the precious herbs, but the third day a bundle of the plants was found on the ledge of the prince's window. No one knew whence they came, nor did any one notice that the raven sat on a distant tree, and watched until the herbs were taken in, but then flew silently away, to return no more.

The prince now rapidly recovered, and was soon able to go again into the open air. The lady Ildea had been most attentive throughout his illness, and on the first day on which he went to the hunt, she rode by his side. She was outwardly calm enough, but inwardly she was not at all at ease. Only one day remained of the duration of the magic spell which ensnared Sipelie, and Prince Orca had not yet forgotten the peasant maiden, or bound himself to Ildea. As they followed the hounds through the pleasant forest, the sharp eyes of the lady espied a raven fluttering along from branch to branch, always keeping near the prince.

She pointed it out to her companion, saying, "Do you see the bird of ill omen? It is the same which brought you illness. Now is your time to destroy it."

Prince Orca raised his bow, but lowered it again, for something within stayed his hand, and he said: "Let the poor blackamoor live. I have been too near death myself to feel like harming it."

"If you do not care for yourself," said Lady Ildea, "others do. It might bring you harm again." And with unerring aim she sent an arrow flying through the air. The raven fell, uttering a last mournful cry. But Lady Ildea was not satisfied. Hastily dismounting, she ran through the grass to where the bird lay, and found the body of the maiden Sipelie, pierced to the heart, and covered with blood. Horror-struck, she turned away, but at that instant she trod upon an adder, which suddenly darted its fangs into her foot, inflicting a mortal wound.

* * * * *

"And served her right," quoth King Jollimon, as the crooked-backed man ended. "The prince is left to bury the dead, I suppose. Well, I've heard worse tales, I'm sorry to say; but I generally hear better ones. What have you to tell?" he added, nodding to the man with the crooked nose.

"Mine is a fable, and very instructive," said he; "And the moral----"

"Moral me no morals," interrupted King Jollimon. "Tell your fable, if you please; but I'll draw my own moral as mild as I please."

Thus admonished, he of the crooked nose told the tale of

THE WISE CAT.

A certain cat set out to seek his fortune, and traveled through the whole world. At last he came to a country where a cat had never been seen before. The inhabitants were at first frightened by the strange monster, but having observed Puss killing the mice with which the country was overrun, they plucked up courage, and approaching him, requested that he should follow them before the king. Puss complied willingly enough, and the end of the matter was that he was installed rat-catcher to the king, and a large salary bestowed upon him. The faithfulness with which Puss discharged his duties raised him high in the royal regard, and a circumstance soon occurred which advanced him still further. The king took his naps by an open window, and had a plate of cherries placed beside him that he might eat them when he awoke. A crow from the neighboring forest constantly stole the fruit, nor had all the efforts of the king's servants succeeded in destroying the bird. The cat, however, concealed himself in the window-hangings, and pounced upon the unlucky marauder, and broke his neck. The king was full of gratitude, and ordered that Puss's salary be increased. Soon after, a bear came and ravaged the king's flocks. His majesty commanded Puss to kill him. "I can only do what I am able," pleaded the cat; but the king insisted. While Puss was coming, Bruin attacked the store of a swarm of bees, and was stung to death. "You have done as I knew you would, my dear cat," said the king, and would listen to no explanations. The cat received the Order of the Royal Shoe-string.

Next an elephant came and ravaged the crops. The king sent the cat to attack him. "Alas! I can only do what I am able," again pleaded the cat, but there was no moving the king. While the cat was coming, the elephant fell into a pit and was killed.

"You have done as I knew you would," said the king once more; and the cat received the Order of the Royal Penknife, and the care of the Royal Shoe-brush.

A great army marched to subdue the kingdom. The king gave himself no uneasiness. "Have we not the cat here?" he asked. "My dear, go and put these troublesome fellows to flight."

"Alas! your majesty," said the unfortunate cat, "I can but do as I am able, and luck will turn at last;" but the king was stubborn as ever. And while the cat was coming, a band of the enemy fell upon him and destroyed him; and they overthrew all the kingdom. The king was taken prisoner and compelled to feed cats all his life. "That ungrateful cat!" he continually exclaimed.

* * * * *

"And do you call that a fable?" asked King Jollimon. "I should have let you tell the moral, that there might have been some good to it. Come, you fellow," he said to the crooked-mouthed man, "speak quickly. I long to hear another tale, that I may forget this."

And this tale was that of

HANS AND PETER.

Hans and Peter met one fine morning on the way to market. Hans was large and stout; the world always went easily with him; he troubled himself as little as possible about the cares of life, and seemed to grow plumper every day.

Peter, on the other hand, was thin and slim. He was continually worrying himself about some trifle, and his face grew more and more care-worn every day.

"Good morrow, friend Peter," said plump Hans, in a hearty tone of cheer.

"Good-day, neighbor!" answered Peter, solemnly.

"Why are you so downcast?" asked Hans.

"Downcast! Have you no troubles," retorted Peter, "that you cannot understand why people look downcast?"

"I?" said jovial Hans. "I've only one trouble in the world, and that does not trouble me. My wife complains because I have become so stout."

"Happy man!" exclaimed Peter. "My friends complain because I am so thin."

"My friends say it makes me move too slowly," said Hans.

"My wife upbraids me," returned Peter, "because I move so very quickly."

"Suppose we change bodies!" said they both in a breath. And they changed.

Again, in a few months, Hans and Peter met one fine morning; and Hans was again large and stout, while Peter had become thin and slim.

"What have you done to my body?" asked Hans.

"What have you done to my body?" asked Peter.

"I was puzzled at first," said Hans, "to know whether I was Hans or Peter; but it soon came right."

"At first," returned Peter, "I knew not whether I was Peter or Hans, but as you say, it soon came right."

"Then the difference," remarked Hans, "is not _my_ body."

"Nor _my_ body," put in Peter.

"But," said they both, "ourselves!"

* * * * *

"Worse and worse," said King Jollimon, at the conclusion of the remarkable legend. "If there were four of you, I shudder to think what a bad story the fourth one would tell!"

"It is because we did not know your majesty's taste," said the man with the crooked back. "If you would hear us once more, we should please you better."

"I have heard enough," said the king; but upon second thought he consented that they should try again.

And first the crooked-backed man told the tale of

THE EGG-SHELL.

A boy once met a magician, who gave him an egg-shell, telling him to place it in his mouth, but on no account to break it. The boy was as foolish as boys usually are, so he instantly obeyed him, without at all stopping to think what the consequences might be. Immediately his head swelled up like an enormous balloon, so that the wind nearly blew him away. He managed to catch hold of a post and save himself from this fate, and a crowd began to gather around his head. His body was quite out of sight underneath, and only the huge head was to be seen.

As everybody stood staring at the wonderful sight, a fly lit on the boy's cheek. He could not reach it himself, for his arms would not reach a tenth part of the way to his chin; so he asked one of the bystanders to kill the troublesome insect. The boy's voice was so smothered by the egg-shell that it was long before he could make himself understood; but at last the man got an idea of what was wanted, and aimed a severe blow at the fly. The insect flew away unharmed, but the boy started so suddenly that he bit the egg-shell in two, and his head collapsed to its natural size. So there was a little boy in the middle of the place, holding on by a post, and a crowd of people looking at him from a distance.

"What a disappointment!" said the boy's mother. "He was fast becoming remarkable! But then, what a sum his hats would have cost! After all, it is best as it is."

"And besides," added a neighbor, "how could you have got at him to punish him?"

"To be sure!" answered the mother.

* * * * *

"This is better than the first, because it is shorter," said the king; and the man with a crooked nose began the story of

THE CROOKED-NOSED PHILOSOPHER.

"There was once a man," he said, "with a nose so long that it reached half way round his head, and thus the point was continually behind him. This not unnaturally caused him a great deal of trouble, but in the end was the means of his good fortune, as you shall hear. For once, as he sat reading, he felt something on the end of his nose, and turning round his head he saw a fly sitting on the point of it."

"Saw a fly on the point!" interrupted King Jollimon. "What do you take me for, that you thus try to impose such stories on me? Can a man see what is behind him?"

"Certainly, if he turns round," answered the traveler, quite unmoved.

"If he turns round!" repeated the king, in a rage, "can one see the back of his head? I have turned round, but I never could see my back."

"That is because your majesty always looks away from it," replied the other. "If you would turn round and look toward the back of your head, you would undoubtedly see it."

"Do you presume to dispute with me?" screamed his majesty, getting very red in the face. He felt sure he was right, but he could not answer the traveler's argument. "Do you presume to dispute with me?" he repeated. "Get out of my sight, and if one of you three vagabonds, with your trumpery stories, is found in all the kingdom of Jolliland by sunset to-morrow, I'll have every man of you beheaded three times over. A man see his back, indeed!"

And thus it happened that the tale of "The Crooked-Nosed Philosopher" was never concluded, which was the greater pity, since, if the end was like the beginning, it must have been a very marvelous tale.

SOMETHING IN THE OLD CLOTHES LINE.

BY PAUL FORT.

When I look at pictures of people of old times, I often think what a curious thing it is that the only apparent difference between them and the people of the present day is to be seen in their clothes.