Chapter V

“What art thou writing, my brother?” asked Julie from among her pillows one day; “something for the journals?”

“Oui, cherie.”

“Oh, dear Julien, take care! do not say that the Emperor of America is not a good Emperor!”

“Fear not, mon enfant: we are in a free country where one says what one pleases.”

Julien brought a basin which had been heating on the stove.

“Here is something for thee, little one.”

“Wilt thou not have of it also, brother? Let us dine together. I never see thee eat.”

“The beef tea is not for strong men: it is for the little invalids.”

“Ah, but thou art not strong! I remember when thy cheeks were like the rose. Now thou art so pale and thin! and I saw thy hand tremble while thou wast writing. Oh, my brother, if thou shouldst be sick, I fear I could not be to thee the good angel thou art to me. Come, take of this a little: it is excellent.”

“I have already dined, cherie.”

“When?”

“While thou wast sleeping.”

“I bet thy dinner was not so good as mine! n’est ce pas?”

No, truly it was not. It was of stale bread, as wee a morsel as ever kept body and soul together. But the little one must never know.

“Tell me, Julie, who is oncle le capitaine?”

“Oh, that is the monsieur charming who gave me a ride in his ship. He promised to find thee for me. But who hast thou heard to speak of him?”

“A little fairy. And so he gave thee the ride?”

“Yes, Julien, was he not good? He would not take the cross—thou rememberest?—our poor mamma’s beautiful cross. It was yesterday, was it not, that I was telling thee how she gave it to me? Madame locked it in the drawer. I wonder if she would not let thee have it if thou wert to ask her? for thou art a man, and thou canst speak English, and she will comprehend. Oh, dear Julien, what is the matter? what have I said? art thou angry with me?”

“No, not with thee, my poor dear little angel! but with those people there—the brutes!”

“Comment! who has told thee of them, my brother?”

“A little fairy.”

“Who is that little fairy that tells thee so much? what is she called?”

“She is called Julie.”

“Comment! what dost thou say? I am she! But how could I tell thee, since thou wilt scarcely allow me to speak a single word, dear monsieur le docteur?”

“My poor little Julie has had bad dreams and talked in her sleep. There, now, thou art weary. Close thy pretty eyes and rest thee. Already, I fear, I have let thee talk too long.”

“But it is so good to be with one who comprehends, and can speak with me our own beautiful language!”

“Poor little sister! when thou art stronger, we will do nothing but talk for a whole day.”

While the child lay sleeping, there came a rap at the outer door. Julien hoped he was going to have a patient. But no, a tall, stout gentleman strode into the office. His face was ruddy, his eyes twinkled merrily. He didn’t look as if he were in any need of medicine.

“I came to ask after the little Julie,” he said. “She came over in my ship,” he explained. “Possibly she has made mention of—”

“Ah! is it ‘oncle le capitaine’?”

“The same,” answered the gentleman, smiling.

“Then let me thank you for your kindness to my little sister!” cried the young man, grasping his hand. “I know not how to express my gratitude.”

“Bah! where is she?”

“In the next room. She sleeps. She is just recovering from a fever—of the brain.”

“Indeed! Strange that woman should not have spoken of it! Has she been very sick?”

“It has been a struggle for life.”

“Ah-h-h, those Lanes! the rascals! Why, sir, I left the child in charge of people I thought I could trust—people I had befriended. Why, that man, Lane, was head and ears in debt! but for me, he and his would be in want and misery to-day! What do they do, the moment I am out of sight, but send her to an orphan asylum! Sent her off! off West! that was all they could tell me at the asylum. Gone West! Nothing definite. No record, no trace. I’ve had a search, I can tell you. Hunted, advertised, from place to place. Yesterday I came here. It was by this cross I found her. I saw it in a shop window and identified it at once with one little Julie had shown me on shipboard. You recognize it?”

“I do, indeed. It is an heir-loom. It has been handed down through I know not how many generations.”

“I made inquiries in the shop, and was directed to a lady who they said was its owner. She proved to be the person who took the child from the asylum. She seemed strangely embarrassed and disinclined to speak about the matter.”

“With good reason! mon Dieu! my blood boils as I think of it. It was the cruelty and overtask that caused my little one’s illness.”

“I suspected something of the kind. Listen to the condition upon which that person acquainted me with your whereabouts—that I ‘shouldn’t mention the matter to any one in town!’ And there’s something wrong about this cross. She said she was afraid the child might lose it, and so had put it under lock and key for safe keeping, and had afterwards lent it to the jeweler as a curiosity. But he was wonderfully inquisitive, and undertook to pump me when I went back after it. What do you think he had labeled it? As one of the jewels of your ex-Empress!”

“C’en est trop![7] these Yankees!” exclaimed Julien; then coloring to the roots of his hair he stammered:

“Pardon, monsieur!”

“No offense,” said the captain, smiling. “I am, then, so genuine a Yankee?”

“I do not say it,” the other slowly answered.

The captain laughed aloud.

Julien opened the inner door.

“Didst thou call, sister?”

“Oui, mon frere. Tell me who is with thee? But I know it—I! It is oncle le capitaine! I heard him laugh!”

“Bonjour, bonjour, mademoiselle l’Empress! how is your Majesty’s health to-day?” cried a voice over Julien’s shoulder. “See, little pale one, I come to bring thee thy cross.”

“Oh, the cross of mamma! the cross of mamma!” exclaimed Julie, seizing it and covering it with kisses, while silent tears crept down her wan cheeks.

Julien turned away to the window, and the captain sat down by the couch and shaded his eyes with his hand.

“But, mon oncle,” said Julie after awhile, “tell me, did you have a good voyage? Did the great waves come and tip the ship right over on its side and almost spill you out? You were gone so long I feared you were drowned. Oh, mon oncle, do not go away again upon the terrible sea; but stay with us, my brother and me.”

“Ah, my little Julie, thy poor old uncle is, upon land, like a fish out of water.”

Julie must not yet hear, the captain thought, the story of that great gale off the coast of the Carolinas, in which his good ship had nearly been wrecked. It would better suit the little convalescent to be told of those islands where he had been; those sunny islands where it is always summer, where oranges and bananas and the rarest and most beautiful flowers grow wild.

While the two were talking, Julien once more took up his pen.

“With monsieur’s permission. An article for the _Morning Post_. It must be ready within the next two hours.”

“Ah!—a treatise on health, doubtless.”

“A treatise on Louis Napoleon—ce scelerat!”

“My friend, take the advice of your sister’s venerable uncle; let that poor wretch alone. He’s about played out. At all events, you are out of his reach. Stick to your profession. Writing is fool’s business. ‘A jack at all trades is good at none.’”

“But monsieur knows one must find some way to kill time.”

“Ah? Pill-peddling is not a lively business nowadays, I take it.”

“Monsieur, I have set up shop in three cities, and in each have waited three months for a patient.”

“Whew! is _that_ so? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Why be in haste to tell of it, monsieur? It is nothing to boast of, surely!”

“Why? Because I can help you. I am going to help you. I intended to when I came here, if I found you were in need of it.”

“I have not said I was in need. I ask no one for help. What I ask for is—work!”

“Young man, you are altogether too proud! You should take lessons of Young America! Young America isn’t afraid of the jingling of coin. Young America doesn’t spurn a good offer. Young America would jump at the chance. But as for work, why, work will come to you if you only wait for it long enough. ‘Patient waiters are no losers.’”

“Wait, wait, wait! mon Dieu! and the child there!”

“Yes, we must think of her! Come, my dear fellow, you’ve had a hard row to hoe. No use denying!”

Julien was silent for a few moments; then he said:

“I will confess, monsieur, that I have seen times when I have wished myself well back in France. There, at least, one could fight for one’s country.”

“Is it worth fighting for? Poor France!—a republic, a kingdom, an empire, a bedlam, by fits! ruled yesterday by an idiot, to-day by a lynx, to-morrow by a pack of bloodhounds! Better off where you are, young man; better off where you are.”

Julien had arisen, and stood glaring at the captain.

“Monsieur forgets he is speaking of the land of my birth!”

“And of the land of his birth, as well,” was the quiet reply.

“Quoi! what do I understand monsieur to say?”

“Have you never heard your mother speak of her brother Jean?”

“Often.”

“I am he.”

“But no! He entered a monastery. He was a monk.”

“Still again, I am he. At your age I grew weary of the cloister. Disguised as a sailor I escaped to the United States; and disguised as a sailor I have knocked about the world ever since. My own country is the one I avoid most of all. I suppose I never should have known aught of Marguerite’s children if the little Julie had not come to me just as she did. Indeed, although she told me her name, I never suspected who she might be until she showed me her poor mother’s cross. In the cloister one is buried from the world. I did not know whom my sister married. He, too, is dead, the child told me. I mean your father.”

“General Leblanc, of the Italian campaign—you have never heard of him? It was there that he lost his life.”

“Poor Marguerite! She was coming to you, it seems, and fell ill upon the way.”

“I first learned it from Julie. I had received no tidings for months. Our home was in the region which has fallen into the enemy’s clutches. Mails, of course, were stopped. What other reason for the silence? Mon Dieu! the agony of suspense! I should have returned immediately when the republic was declared, if I could have seen my way—”

“And you two might have sought each other till your locks were gray—and probably would never have met.”

“Mon oncle, please tell to me also those strange, sad things you have been telling my brother now for a long time in that dreadful English, till suddenly, at this moment, he looks frightened.”

Julien went over to the little questioner and kissed her wondering eyes.

“Thy uncle, sister—dear angel!—has been telling me that he is also _my_ uncle.”

[7] That’s too much!

THE VOICES.

“Come now, my children,” said Dame Nature once, in the morning of the world, “let me hear your voices, that I may judge which of all is the most musical.”

Up from the dewy grass sprang a meadow-lark with a burst of melody that thrilled the listening air; then loud, and sweet, and clear, was heard the warbling of a nightingale; the mountain brook, swinging its censer among the rocks, began to chant—in lower, deeper tones; meanwhile, that wanderer, the wind, passing, with nimble fingers touched the keys of the forest-organ, and the towering pines and sturdy oaks and yews quivered and throbbed as he played accompaniment; then caroled in chorus countless millions of birds—even the tiny insects took to humming as they rioted among the golden rays, and the wild beasts and every living creature, encouraged, lifted their voices in trial; from the cloud-mass, above the far-off horizon, came the thunder’s rumble; the river, leaping the cliff, roared in rivalry; quick followed the heavy voices of the great billows as they came surging upon the beach. Oh, grand and mighty music did they all make together in that glad morning of the world. The sunlit heavens leaned over, breathless, to hear it, the purple valleys, lifting, fondled it as they climbed, the speechless hills caught it up, and in envy hurled it back again, note by note, till the whole earth was wild with sound and deafening reverberation, and “Cease, cease, my children!” Dame Nature cried aloud, “lest I render you voiceless, every one, and there be no more music forever.”

But failing to make herself heard, she unrolled the great cloud that lay coiled above the horizon, and drew it like a veil across the sky. Immediately there was silence—silence unbroken for a moment’s space, when “Ha, ha, ha!” giggled the mountain brook, unable to restrain its mirth; “Ha, ha, ha!” repeated a bright-winged forest bird; “Ha, ha, ha!” flew swiftly back from the hills.

“Hush, irreverent ones!” spake Dame Nature in anger; “listen, while I pass sentence upon you! Thou, mountain brook, who hast dared to break silence by thine ill-timed laughter, laugh on, forever and forever: thy song is taken from thee, and thou shalt have thy fill of merriment! From thee, too, bird of the brilliant plumage, is taken the power of song: henceforth thou shalt find voice only to mimic the folly of others. And you, ye hills, will I fetter and bind, that ye no more astonish the world with your envious wrath.

“As for you, my obedient children, ye are all musical, each in his own way; and now will I assign to you places in my choir. Thou, wandering wind, shalt be my organist; and ye larks and nightingales, who are my pride and joy, and all ye merry little birds, the melody is yours; and ye surging billows, and muttering clouds, and roaring cataracts, to you the base belongs.

“Sing on, now, my children; sing on, and practice well, that ye may know your parts when, by and by, I call upon you for a grand and glorious anthem that shall fill the world with wonder.”

And alway since then they have been diligently practicing, till now, when Dame Nature calls for _Te Deum_ at the day-dawn, or for a vesper hymn at eventide, marvelous is the melody of gleesome and gay-hearted little birds; marvelous is the skill of the musician wind, as he sweeps the forest-organ’s answering keys; marvelous are the voices of cloud and cataract, and marvelous the voices of the sea.

But there are birds of rainbow-tinted plumage, wonderful to behold, whose harsh, discordant tones serve only to mock and mimic; the mountain brook wearies ofttimes of laughter, querulous, complains to the rocks, grieving for its lost song; and faint and rare are the echoes heard among the speechless hills.

MOONSHINE.

Moonshine crept down, one clear, unclouded night, to look about the world and see what was going on. In her hand she carried a silver lamp, by whose white rays all objects could be seen as plainly as at noontide; and wherever she went, the shadows, ashamed of their blackness, stole guiltily away and tried to hide themselves. Her path led through a forest and down a mountain side, where wild beasts roamed for prey; but now the timid deer browsed securely among the underbrush, and the hungry bear trudged supperless off to his den, the stealthy panther kept useless watch from the branches overhead, the rattlesnake slid back into its hole and left the tree-toads chirping cheerily, the sly fox found the rabbits too wide awake for him; for was not Moonshine abroad with her silver lamp, proclaiming to all harmless creatures: Here is your enemy, and there is your enemy?

On she passed till she came to a pioneer’s log cabin, standing alone in the wide wilderness. Listening, she heard the sound of a voice singing:

“Lullaby, lullaby, baby,
Lullaby, by, by,
While all the little stars twinkle,
Twinkle up in the sky.

“Lullaby, lullaby, baby,
Lullaby, by, by;
Thy father has gone a journey,
And there’s only thou and I,
To rock, rock, to and fro,
And to watch, watch for the savage foe,
To sleep, sleep,
And to keep, keep
Watch for the savage foe,
While all the little stars twinkle,
Twinkle up in the sky.”

“Ah,” said Moonshine, “the mother and her babe are alone and unguarded in that rude dwelling. Even as she sings her voice trembles with fear. I will set my lamp in the window and pause awhile to keep her company.”

Instantly a soft radiance flooded the room within, and the mother, looking up, beheld the gentle face peeping through the window. “Oh, Moonshine,” she cried, with tears of joy, “how glad am I that you have come! Stay with me a little, for I am lonesome; and tell me, pray, if there be any savages lurking about.”

Not far off a band of red men, their faces bedaubed with paint, and their hair decked out with plumes, were gliding noiselessly through the dense woods, thinking to steal upon the cabin unawares and destroy it and its inmates. But as soon as they saw the silver lamp upon the window-sill, they turned away, saying: “Moonshine is there! She would give warning of our approach.”

Moonshine, seeing that the dreaded enemy had turned aside, passed on and left the mother and her child sleeping peacefully. As swift she glided through valley and over hill, and across river and lake and village-dotted plain, the rays of her glittering lamp reached far and wide through the darkness, making the trees and gardens and rippling corn-fields glad, pointing the shortest route to a weary boatman, revealing to a belated traveler the robbers who stealthily pursued, looking in upon three rosy children who slumbered cosily in one couch together—stooping to kiss their shining curls and happy faces, and to whisper something pleasant in their ears. Nor did she pause when she came to the great sea, but glided on over the foaming billows. A white-sailed ship the winds were driving towards an unknown reef. Quickly she set her silver lamp upon the perilous rock. Far over the angry waters shone the beacon light, and the mariners, seeing danger ahead, shifted their sails and changed the vessel’s course.

The wanderer reached, at length, a distant coast, and, holding her lamp aloft, passed on from town to town. A student sat at midnight, wakeful among his books. Moonshine glanced over his shoulder at the closely-printed page, and the light of her silver lamp so put to shame his miserable taper that he extinguished it, and began to write some verses in her praise.

At last, Moonshine peered down into a deep, dark dungeon, and saw a hapless human creature bound with chains. Pale and wan he was, from long years of imprisonment. For hours she remained to speak to him comforting words.

In the morning the pioneer came to his home on the mountain side, and told how he had been rescued by Moonshine from highwaymen who pursued him as he journeyed. “Ah, bless her,” said the wife; “for she also watched over us, and guarded us while we slept.” The three rosy children awakened smiling, and told one another their dreams; they had all dreamed of fairy-land. The storm-tossed ship sailed into port, and the grateful mariners declared that, but for Moonshine, they would have gone to the bottom of the sea. The student went about with such a beaming countenance that people questioned, Was he moonstruck? A jailer, descending into a deep, dark dungeon, found the fettered captive lying silent, with closed eyes; and the sad soul that had gazed out of those eyes—who had set it free? Moonshine?

SUNSHINE.

“_Voila, Jeannette! voila!_”

The little old woman lifts her wrinkled face from the lace-work over which she is bending, and looks where the slender hand just pointed. How did it come there, that sunbeam? So the two question; for never, in all the time they have occupied the low, dim room, with its one window, has a sunbeam shone into it, warm and cheery, like that. Possibly some recent alteration in the high buildings without has made way for the welcome visitor, now that the sun has moved farther around to the north. However it came there, there it is, the mellow ray, deepening in color as the sun sinks lower down, changing from yellow to orange, from orange to rose. The couch must be moved nearer, so that the thin hand may press the wall and feel the warm light as it rests there; then a smile wreathes the wan, weary young face, and its owner goes off dreaming—dreaming with eyes wide open.

Somebody knocks at the door. “Coom,” calls Jeannette. A lad of twelve lifts the latch and enters.

“Is this the place where they mend lace, ma’am?”

“Yes. _C’est moi._”

“Well, they sent a lot in this bundle. They said they wanted it done right away, if you could. It’s a curtain. The kitten tore it, I guess. He’s always scampering up the curtains.”

“Yes.” (Yes is one of the few English words Jeannette is quite sure about, so she seldom adds to it in her replies, when she can avoid doing so.)

“When shall I come after it?”

“Maunday—next—week,” Jeannette slowly answers, and takes the package the lad has brought.

His errand is done; why does he linger? Have the brown eyes, in a rapid glance or two, taken in more than they would if they were not so big and generous? The low ceiling with the laths bared of plaster here and there, the scant furniture, the tumble-down stove, the uneven, uncarpeted floor, the plants in the window—sickly for lack of light—the withered little lace-mender shivering in her shawl for lack of fire, the boy on the couch yonder, clutching at a sunbeam, gazing dreamily into space; he has seen all; he has heard the hollow cough, he winks hard to keep from taking the decided shape of tears something that for an instant dims his bonny eyes.

“Has he been sick a good while?” he whispers.

“Yes,” says Jeannette, and calls, “Ernest!”

Ernest comes out of his dream. The great dark, sorrowful eyes meet the great bright, generous ones. In a twinkling young America, with lusty health and blooming cheeks, is at the bedside of—young France, shall we say?

An hour after Ned hastens home to his sister with the story he has just heard.

“Belle,” he cries, as he bursts into the parlor, “you know where you sent me this afternoon—to that French woman’s? Well, they’re poor as can be. And he’s sick, too. And no doctor, no medicine, no nothing! Wish I was as rich as Crœsus!”

“He? Who’s he?”

“Why, Ernest. His father was an artist, you see; and they came to this country, and his pictures wouldn’t sell, and he couldn’t get work, and he got discouraged and drowned himself. Then, after awhile, his mother died, and Jeannette—she’s a servant who came with them—she stays with him and takes care of him. He’s got the consumption and coughs awfully. _I_ know what’s done it! Starving! and freezing! Guess what he was doing! Warming his hands in the sunshine!”

“Well, did she say when she would have the window curtain finished?”

Where shall one go for sympathy and help? There is no mother. The father is a hundred miles away, engaged as counsel in the settlement of a disputed estate (if anybody knows what all that means). The live-long night Ned lies awake, thinking the matter over something after this fashion:

“There’s that house—corner of South and High Street. Rooms to let—noticed the advertisement to-day. Nice rooms. Plenty of light. Just _the_ place!... Wish I was rich as Crœsus!... What did I want to go and throw away my last allowance that way for? Haven’t got a red cent left! Don’t know where it’s all gone to, now! Got a lot of trinkets that aren’t of much use to me, anyhow. Cut my thumb half off with my jack-knife first time I used it; broke all the strings to my violin before I’d had it a week; and made myself about sick trying to smoke cigars.... Wish I was rich as Crœsus!”

When, next morning, Ned meets on the street his elderly friend, the physician, who helped him comfortably through with the measles, mumps and whooping cough, and is greeted with, “Why, young man, there’s a cloud on your face—what’s the trouble?” he answers, “Come and see,” and leads to a dismal quarter of the town, and from one story to another of a dismal tenement, till they reach the chamber where Ernest lies. When they are down in the street again, Ned takes up the old refrain—

“Wish I was rich as Crœsus. We’d get him out of there and cure him up, wouldn’t we?”

“Ah, my boy, if we had the wealth of twenty Crœsuses it’s too late to help him now. The best we can do is to make him as comfortable as possible where he is. Come round to the office with me, and I’ll give you something to ease the cough a little.”

When the medicine is ready Ned rises to go, but hesitates.

“There wasn’t any fire there, Doctor. I’ve used up all my last allowance, and father’s away from home. What’s to be done?”

The Doctor writes down some names and addresses on a slip of paper.

“There. You go to these gentlemen, state the case, and we’ll see what they’ll do for you.... I might give you a recommend.... But no. We’ll try without, first. I fancy that honest face of yours will open the pocket-books quicker than any note from me.”

And Ned sets out on his first begging expedition, which proves so successful that in a few hours the tumble-down stove retires ignominiously to make place for a shining new one, in which the fire need not go out while cold weather lasts; and the evening shadows, creeping back to their favorite haunt, the attic, are amazed and panic-stricken to find it occupied by a rosy troop of hilarious elfs, dancing up and down the wall, with whom they must battle for possession.

Moreover, Ned has enlisted the sympathies of another of his particular friends, Bridget, the cook, who fails not to prepare, daily, delicacies for him to carry to the sick boy—glad of an errand thither, for this new acquaintance is extremely interesting, not in the least like any one Ned has ever met before, so young and yet so accomplished. Why, he can give a hundred hints about playing on that precious violin, he can show sheets of music of his own composing, a portfolio full of sketches, his own work, in pencil and crayon and oil; and, oh! to hear him talk of wonderful Paris, and of famous people whom he has seen and whom his father has known.

Perhaps a month has passed, when, upon an afternoon, Ned, bounding in all aglow from the frosty air without, stops short, seeing the pallid face is not lifted in eager greeting from among the cushions.

“Is he asleep?” he whispers.

“Yes,” sobs Jeanette.

* * * * *

By and by as the lad turns slowly away, she places in his hands the portfolio, saying;

“He tells me eet ees for you.”

* * * * *

Belle, noticing her brother as he enters the house and hurries through the hall on his way to his room, exclaims:

“Why, Ned, you’ve been crying! What’s the matter?”

“Ernest is dead!”

“Who is Ernest?” inquires the father, lately returned, glancing up from his newspaper.

When he has heard Ned’s story he asks to see the sketches. While he is examining them, Belle comes and looks over his shoulder. Suddenly she utters a little scream.

“Why, Ned, you darling! look here!”

They have found, among the rest, a picture which Ned has not seen before. It brings tears to his eyes again, to Belle’s, too; the grim old lawyer’s lips twitch for a moment, and he goes off and has the painting framed in most costly style, and hangs it above the mantel in his study. Perhaps it may serve as reminder of a bit of a sentence, spoken centuries ago, which fortune-favored people, snuggling about the ingleside on boisterous winter nights, are very apt to forget: “The poor ye have always with you.”

You may imagine the faithful Jeannette is not neglected. The sunniest spot in the cemetery is where a marble cross tells you that Ernest is sleeping below. And the picture, what is it? It is a glimpse, in brown and amber tints, of a wretched attic chamber with dilapidated ceiling, and scant, worn-out furniture, and bare, uneven floor. And the only light there comes from the face peeping in through a door which stands ajar—a boyish face, round and merry, with ruddy cheeks, and big, heartful eyes, and brown bits of curls clustering about the broad forehead—a frank, open, cheery, winsome face. Now, away from the light which streams from this face and into the sombre shadows, frightened demons are turning to flee. And one of the demons whose gloomy features are partly visible, and whose hand grasps a dagger, you may guess was meant for Despair. This picture has a name. Ernest painted it underneath, in large letters of scarlet and gold. This is the name—SUNSHINE.

CZAR AND CARPENTER.

“Dear Rudolph, art thou not well?” asks his mother, in that native language which she loves. “For some time past thou hast been so very quiet, and—” there she pauses, not wanting to remind him of how fretful and ill-natured he has been of late.

“Feel well enough!” he answers gruffly, and then is sorry, and wishes he had gone to rest ten minutes ago, as he thought of doing.

A tiny cloud of displeasure flits across the sweet, gentle face, and little Karl, leaning against his mother’s chair, twines an arm about her neck, and smooths her sunny hair, as if to make amends. As for Rudolph’s father, stern words spring to his lips; but suspecting what is the trouble, he withholds them, only glancing up from his book with eyes so full of unutterable sadness that the boy creeps guiltily out of the room, and off to his chamber above.

This is the trouble with Rudolph—he is haunted; haunted by a demon whose name is Discontent. It first appeared to him one evening in a certain elegant mansion on a certain fashionable avenue, whither he had been sent with a message; for his father was to do some repairing there. In the spacious, high-ceiled, oak-paneled library, where he waited to see the master of the house, this little demon stole up to him and whispered:

“Look at it—at all this splendor! these tall mirrors, and huge chandeliers, and rich paintings, and carved cases of books! You never saw the like, did you?”

It followed him through the great hall with its marble floor and high, arched entrance, followed him down the wide steps and out into the street, whispering all the while, pointing back at the smooth front of stone and the plate-glass windows; then, when they reached Rudolph’s home, pointing scornfully at the humble cottage, and the entrance that is neither high nor arched. It followed him in, this demon, into the single apartment that is hall and library and kitchen combined. It sat down beside him in the corner. “Bah!” it muttered in disdain, “this lounge can’t compare with that sofa where you rested just now. But wasn’t it soft, though!” It called his attention to all the objects around, sneering at the curtains because they are not of damask, at the floor because it is uncarpeted, at the wall-paper because it is cheap. It noticed Rudolph’s mother laying the table, and asked, “Do you imagine that ladies who live in fine houses ever get supper themselves? Bah! don’t you believe it!” It noticed Rudolph’s father leaning back in his arm-chair with closed eyes, weary after the day’s labor, and queried, “Do you suppose that gentleman you saw to-night ever gets tired, ever works? No, of course he doesn’t. _He_ never wears work-clothes, shabby and worn like that! He always goes dressed in broadcloth, and his purse is always full, and he carries himself like a prince, and asks no odds of anybody. And did you mind how he looked down at you, as if you were nothing but a worm?—because your father’s only a carpenter! Wonder if he’ll treat _him_ so? Bah! isn’t it wretched to be poor and to have to work!” And when Rudolph took his place at the table, it was—“Bah! do you think gentlemen ever eat anything so common as this?” and he pushed from him the simple food, untasted, and went back to his corner; and there he sat the whole evening, and there he has spent every evening since, his face buried in his hands, the demon whispering in his ear. For it has never left him; no, not for a moment. It has followed him everywhere. In school, day after day it kept up a continual buzzing, hindering him from getting his lessons—he, the one who had always known them so well. It would compare his own garments with those of one and another better clad than he. “And there’s Jesse James—see, he carries a gold watch!” “And isn’t it mean for ’em to call you a ‘Dutchman!’ just because your father and mother came from Germany—though _you_ never lived there in your life—and because you’re poor and only a carpenter’s son. Pity your father couldn’t have been a count, or a baron, or something like that! How everybody would have stared when he rode along in his glittering carriage, and how everybody would have wanted to be friends, and would have asked him to dinner, and all that! And how polite everybody would have been to _you_! You wouldn’t have been a ‘Dutchman’ then; oh, not at all! And if he had been a grand-duke, oh, think of it! How everybody would have gone down to the depot to meet him, and how people would have crowded around to shake hands with him, and what a fuss they would have made over him—as they did one winter when Alexis was here, you know, and you climbed up a lamp-post to get a glimpse of him. Wasn’t he splendid, though! How grand it must be to be the son of a Czar!”

But during the Christmas holidays, now almost over, there has been no school, and Rudolph has had nothing to do but the marketing, and keeping the walk before the house clear of snow, and running here and there about the city on errands for his father—who never has any vacation, the year round. And all these days, oh, how that demon has tantalized him! It would lead him through the market to where lay great heaps of turkeys and geese and ducks, so plump and tempting, ready for the oven. “But _you_ can’t buy any, they cost too much!” It would draw him close up to the bakery windows. “Wouldn’t Karl like one of those delicious cakes, though! But you can’t buy it, it costs too much. Isn’t it too bad to have to count the pennies so?” All the way down the street, of pleasant afternoons, it would keep tormenting, pointing now at the richly-dressed ladies out shopping: “Pity your mother can’t have velvets, and feathers, and furs, like that, and be fashionable!” now exclaiming: “Look! there goes Jesse James. He’s taking his sister out for a sleigh-ride. Aren’t those horses just splendid! and that robe, look at it! it’s a real tiger’s skin! and the bells, oh, how they jingle! By the way, did you hear him telling one of the schoolboys, last week, about the Christmas present he was going to give his cousin Florence?—a set of diamonds! think of it! Here are some, right here in this shop-window. Look at them! see how they shine!... Pity _you_ can’t make somebody a Christmas present!—your cousin Mina, for instance. Pity _you_ can’t take somebody out sleigh-riding. Never had a sleigh-ride yourself, for that matter. Never had a ride any way, except in a street-car. Never had a single chance to drive a horse, even.... What’s the reason some can have everything they want, and others—oh! don’t it make you mad the way things go on in this world?”

Yes, it does make him “mad.” He goes about glum and scowling. (He used to be pleasant enough.) The ripple of his laughter is no longer heard, and he frolics no more with little Karl, who hardly dares approach him, he is so cross. And thus it is that his mother is led to question if he is not well, and thus it is that his father comes to suspect what is the trouble, and to guess the name of the demon that has crept in to disturb their peaceful home, and to vex the bright, ambitious boy he is so proud of. The book he is reading has lost its interest, for hours he scarcely turns a page; and it is a great relief to lay it aside when the consoling little Karl, feeling that something is amiss, climbs sleepily into his arms and lays a velvety cheek against his own.

Meanwhile, there is that wicked demon up-stairs upon the pillow, never ceasing its poisonous whispering, till Rudolph, unable to shake off the tormentor, at last gives way to sobs and tears, thankful that he is alone and in the dark, for he wouldn’t have so much as a ray of daylight catch him crying.

Oh, Rudolph, is there no one to come to you here and drive away that demon, by telling you of all the mighty ones who have risen from humbler stations than yours—aye, climbed, round by round, up the ladder of fortune till they reached the top, admired and applauded by the crowds below—will no one comfort you by telling you of these?

Wait; here comes some one into the room, comes close to the bedside—a stranger. Perhaps he has come for that.... But no; listen to what he says:

“Arise, Rudolph, and accompany me to the palace of the Czar.”

The lad stares in amazement at the speaker—a tall, gaunt personage, wrapped in a black mantle that almost touches the floor, and so conceals the head and face with its ample folds that only the eyes are visible. What black, piercing eyes!—blacker than the mantle. Rudolph stares, and then arises, obedient.

The two travelers are not long in reaching their destination, and Rudolph soon finds himself in the imperial palace, in a great saloon, magnificent beyond comparison with that oak-paneled library he saw some time ago. There is dancing here, and the glittering dresses of the dancers dazzle him, and the music is so delightful it drives him nearly wild. When finally he lifts his dizzy eyes from the whirling throng, he sees, sitting in state at the farther end of the apartment, one who he concludes is the Czar; for all who approach him bow low and speak to him reverently.

“Would Rudolph like to be Czar?” asks the personage in black.

“A-a-ah!” exclaims the other, smiling and clasping his hands.

“Then bide your time.”

They wait behind a heavy curtain till the music ceases, and the dancers are gone, and the lights are extinguished, and the long saloon is dark and empty. Then the muffled stranger leads through a maze of galleries and corridors, unlocks, at length, a door, bids Rudolph enter, and Rudolph obeys. This apartment, also, is magnificent, but not so large as the other. At one side is a downy couch with golden-fringed drapery, and there the great Czar reposes. Upon the wall, near, hangs a sword.

“Take it down,” commands the personage in black; and Rudolph takes it down.

“Raise it,” is the second command, as they stand over the sleeping Czar; and Rudolph raises on high the gleaming sword.

“Strike!” And Rudolph strikes.

“Now return it to its place and follow me.” And Rudolph returns the weapon, dripping, to its place upon the wall, and follows back through the long galleries and corridors, and down the marble stairs, and out and away from the palace, and out and away from the city—away to a cave in the mountains. And the personage in black again commands, “Stay here and bide your time.”

Day after day there come to them, in their hiding-place, rumors, now of the murder of the Czar, now of strife and difference among his subjects over who shall be successor, and, finally, of an invasion by the neighboring monarchs, who, seeing the people at war among themselves, would profit by this opportunity to gain possession of the Empire.

“Now is your time!” says the personage in black to Rudolph, and he leads him into the midst of the battles, and teaches him so well the art of warfare, that from the ranks he soon rises to be Field-Marshal. Then, the personage in black always secretly counseling, Rudolph (always blindly obedient, he knows not why), following closely his instructions, defeats the invading armies in every battle, drives them out of the Empire, pursues them into their own provinces, and returns triumphant; and the people greet him with loud rejoicing, and lead him to the great throne-room, and robe him in the ermine-lined robe, and crown him with the jeweled crown, and shout till the echoes ring—“Hail, Rudolph, the Czar!” and, “Long live Rudolph, the Czar!”

And again there are music and dancing; and it is Rudolph, now, who is seated in state above the glittering throng, and all who approach him bow low and address him reverently—excepting one—a tall, gaunt personage, with muffled face, and piercing eyes, and long, black mantle, who steals up behind him and whispers, “Does Rudolph enjoy being Czar?” And Rudolph, remembering all, neither clasps his hands nor smiles.

At midnight, as Rudolph lies upon the downy couch with its silken folds and golden-fringed drapery, suddenly waking from slumber, he sees one standing over him with lifted sword; and he springs upon the assassin, and seizes his sword, and calls to the attendants, and has him put in irons; and this man makes confession, and reveals to the Czar a plot among the nobles against his life; then Rudolph causes some of those conspirators to be thrown into prison, and some to be beheaded; and, for further safety, the guard in the palace is increased. But not long after, again suddenly waking in the middle of the night, he sees another standing over him with lifted sword; and he springs upon this one also, and seizes his sword, and calls to the attendants, and has him bound with irons; and behold, when the lights are brought, this man is found to be one of the palace guard; and he, too, makes confession, and reveals to the Czar that all in the army are his foes and ready to take his life; then Rudolph sends out and causes some of the Generals and chief conspirators of the army to be imprisoned, and others to be beheaded; and, for further safety, he places his most faithful and trusty servant to watch in his chamber while he sleeps. But a third time, suddenly waking at midnight, he sees this servant standing over him with lifted sword; and him, too, he overpowers, and seizes the murderous weapon; and this man, also, confesses; and from him the Czar learns that all in the palace hate him and have plotted to take his life.

So it comes to pass that Rudolph, the Czar, dares not close his eyes day or night, for there is no one whom he can trust to protect him while he slumbers. And as the weeks and months wear away, he grows so haggard with watching, so weary for lack of sleep, that one morning, ere the sun has risen, and while all is hushed and silent, he casts aside the robe of ermine, and the golden crown and sceptre, and steals away from the palace, and out through the palace garden, and off to the fields beyond; and there, feeling secure, he lies down and closes his eyes, and is just falling into a delicious slumber, when the sound of stealthy footsteps arouses him, and looking up, behold one standing over him with lifted sword; and he springs up to defend himself, but the other turns and flees. Then he goes on till he reaches a wide forest, and thinking, “Surely no one will molest me here,” he lies down with a sigh of relief, and is just losing himself in sleep, when the howling of wolves disturbs him, and he is obliged to hurry onward, to escape being torn in pieces by those ferocious beasts.

When he reaches the plain at the other side of the forest, he perceives, at some distance, a group of huts, and saying, “Surely no one will know me there,” he approaches them and asks for lodging, and is shown to a rude chamber, where, just as he is about to lie down, he spies some object crouching among the shadows, and moving toward it, behold, a peasant armed with a glittering sword. And the wretched Czar departs in haste, saying, “My enemies are my own subjects;” and he pauses not till he is far beyond the boundaries of his own realm. Now at last in a country ruled by another, thinking, “I am surely safe,” he throws himself down by the wayside, faint and footsore; but just as sweet sleep is stealing over him, listen—a rustling, and look—a highwayman standing near with lifted sword; and he wearily moans, and, rising, hastens away.

At length he comes to a great city, and saying, “Surely none will know me or wish to harm me here,” he finds lodgings for the night, and lays himself down to rest, when lo! one approaches softly with lifted sword, and Rudolph, the Czar, recognizes the face of him he saw in the field beyond the palace garden. “Alas, he has followed me hither!” he cries, and hurriedly leaves the city.

And so, wherever he goes, he dares not sleep, either from fear of assassins, or of highwaymen, or of wild beasts. And so he wanders, and ever wanders on. And one day as he drags himself along, seeking a place to rest, he stops to drink from a fountain beside the path, and as he kneels over the smooth, mirror-like waters, he discovers that his locks are very white, and that his garments are thread-bare and torn. Still onward and onward he journeys, sleep the one thing that he longs for.

At last, as he emerges from the shadows of a dark defile between high mountains, he lifts his heavy, drooping eyelids, and beholds, spread out beyond, a valley far lovelier than any he has seen in all his journeyings. Slowly and gently it climbs up and into the purpling distance, with other valleys stepping down between the hills to meet it, and little hamlets nestling at the feet of those hills. And he says, “Surely in so peaceful a valley nothing can disturb me. I will get me to one of those villages and inquire for an inn, and there I will rest—there I will sleep, sleep, sleep.”

But just where the defile opens into the valley he encounters an armed sentinel, who steps forward and asks for his pass.

“I have no pass,” he answers.

“Then thou canst not enter.”

“But I am no common man. I am great, and famous, and much feared.”

“That matters not. Thou hast no pass. I may not let thee enter.”

“But hark you! I am Czar of all the Russias.”

“Whatever or whoever thou art, thou hast no pass; therefore our King knows thee not; I may not let thee enter. Answer me no more.”

And Rudolph, the Czar, complaining bitterly, crawls a little way off and casts himself down among the rocks. While he lies there, peering wistfully into the beautiful valley, wondering at the blueness of the heavens and the softness of the light, listening to the gurgling of waters, and catching glimpses of cataracts flashing down the distant hills, under overhanging branches—while he lies there, one, haughty, and bearing himself like a prince, draws near, and Rudolph remembers to have met him in a spacious, oak-paneled library, long ago, when he, the Czar, was a boy.

No sooner does this one reach the entrance to the valley, than the sentinel appears as before, and demands his pass. The other hands him a paper, which he examines, and pronounces to be worthless. “It bears not our King’s signature, but that of his worst enemy. Begone, impostor!”

“But I am a millionaire! I own ships upon the sea, laden with merchandise, and mines in the earth rich with ore, and acres of land more than I can count!”

“Away! Answer me no more.”

And the rich man turns away in wrath and confusion.

Presently appears another, in workman’s garb, which proves to be only a disguise, for, as he nears the entrance to the valley, on a sudden behold him a warrior clad in armor! And this armor is like nothing that Rudolph, the Czar, has seen. The various pieces of which it is composed are of different hues; the helmet white as snow, and so dazzling that he turns his eyes from it as he would turn them from the burning sun of noonday; the breastplate like gold, only brighter; the sword red like flame; the shield is as if it were of adamant, and the device upon it is an anchor. As the warrior gives his pass to the sentinel, the Czar, unseen, recognizes his own father!

But the sentinel does not look at the pass. “I know thee by thine armor!” he cries, with a smile of welcome, and immediately blows a bugle which he carries, and the sound rings through the valley—sweetly, sweetly! winding among the hills, sending back a thousand echoes on its way. Then the people pour out of the hamlets, and come down in myriads to meet the warrior, strewing the way with flowers and greeting him with music—oh, so marvelous! oh, so thrilling! that the very light moves to and fro in little waves, as if keeping time, and the flashing, gurgling waters join the chorus, and the overhanging branches swing a slow accompaniment.

Among the people who surround the warrior, just one glimpse has Rudolph, the Czar, of her who was once his mother, arrayed in garments the beauty of which is only surpassed by the beauty of her face, and her face surpasses in loveliness all that he ever imagined could be; just one glimpse, too, of another face he has known; then the people close about them and they are lost sight of; and while he reaches out his hands, crying, “Oh, my mother! Oh, my brother! Oh, my father!” the radiant throng moves backward up the valley and into one of those other valleys, and disappears, and the music grows fainter and fainter. As he lies weeping and listening to that faint, far melody, one from the valley, mantled in white and mounted upon a snowy steed, rides into the dark defile, and as he passes by where Rudolph, the Czar, lies, the latter questions:

“Where have they taken the warrior who entered just now?”

“They are leading him to the royal city, to receive from our King’s own hands the unfading crown of laurels which is given to the victors.”

“But I was once well acquainted with this one, and I never knew that he was a warrior, nor did I guess that he wore armor.”

“There are many who wear armor unsuspected, and fight their battles unseen.”

“But how did he procure his pass?”

“Hast thou not heard how our King sends forth spies into all lands to search for those who will make good, loyal subjects, ever willing to obey and carry out his commands? To all such are given passes, signed by the King himself, that when they come hither they may be allowed to enter. All others are excluded, lest, entering, they annoy the peaceful citizens, and stir up strife and discord.”

“But this warrior’s armor was unlike anything I have ever seen. Of what metal is it composed?”

“It is made of several different metals; the helmet of a mixture of two metals, called Truth and Honesty; the breastplate is also of two metals, Patience and Constancy; the sword, of the Hatred of all that is base and evil; and the shield, of the Hope of admission to our land; for this—to gain entrance here—is considered the highest privilege that can be granted to any mortal. But I ride on an errand for the King, and must not delay.”

“One moment more, O bright one! Is there no secret path by which I can gain entrance to this peaceful kingdom? Is this the only way?”

“This is the only way.”

“O bright one, return, I pray thee, to the King, and entreat him in my behalf that he will permit me to enter! for I am weary, oh! I am _so_ weary, and I can find no place where I may rest; and there, too, are all who love or care for me, and all I love or care for.”

But the messenger answers sorrowfully, “Thou hast no pass!” and rides away, and the snow-white mantle and the snow-white steed flit along through the brooding shadows till, in the distance, they are lost from view. And Rudolph, the Czar, straining his eyes to follow them, is suddenly startled by a loud, mocking laugh that rings weirdly up and down the dark defile; and, turning, he sees standing behind him the tall, gaunt personage in black; and the sight of that muffled figure so fills him with terror, that he rises and hastens away as fast as his feeble limbs can carry him.

And now there comes to him remembrance of a place where, when he was a boy, he rested well and slept undisturbed; and onward he journeys by land and sea, pausing not till he reaches his native town and has found the humble cottage where he used to dwell. He creeps softly to the window and peers in. It is all there, just as it used to be—the cupboard in this corner; the chintz-covered lounge in that; the simple brown paper on the wall; the window-curtains of muslin; the clock on the mantel; the clean, white floor; the polished stove; the vapor curling from the spout of the shining tea-kettle—all there, so comfortable, so cosy, so homelike! But the people are strangers. That is not little Karl playing on the floor; that is not the mother knitting in the rocking-chair. And Rudolph, the Czar, weeps again, remembering how the last words he had for them were harsh words, and that he is never to see them more.

At length he knocks at the door and explains to the master of the house—

“I am a feeble old man, in agony of weariness for lack of sleep; for I have traveled far and searched long, but have found no place where I might rest in peace. And I finally bethought me of a low room under a sloping roof, where, in my childhood, I rested well and undisturbed. The roof above is that same sloping roof, and beneath it is that chamber. And I will give to thee, good sir, all the gold in my purse—and there is much gold in it—if I may lodge there for one night only, and sleep once more as I slept when I was a lad.”

And the good man of the house bids him enter and welcome, but refuses the proffered gold. And Rudolph, the Czar, climbs up the narrow stairs to the low room under the sloping roof, and he lies down there, forgetting to look for the lifted sword, and he closes his weary eyes, and a delicious drowsiness steals over him, and there is no fear in his heart, and nothing molests him, and at last he sleeps, sleeps, sleeps.

* * * * *

What sound is that? A ringing of bells. It wakens Rudolph. He gazes about the room. On a stand in the corner a lamp is dimly burning. Some one is sitting here beside the bed. “Oh, go away, good sir, and leave me in peace!” he moans piteously. “Did I not offer thee all the gold in my purse? Why, then, dost thou trouble me? Do no murder, I beseech thee, for I am old and feeble, and I have not slept before in a hundred years.”

“Thou art dreaming, Rudolph. There is nothing to fear.”

“Thou, my father!” and he seizes the two toil-hardened hands, covering them with kisses and with tears. “How camest thou here? I feared I should never behold thy face again! And where are my mother and my brother?”

“The dear mother and our little Karl will see thee in the morning to wish thee a ‘Happy New Year.’”

A Happy New Year! Rudolph puts his hand to his forehead, as if to smooth out some knot there underneath. “Truly, I do not know,” he murmurs, “it all seemed so real. Have I been dreaming, dear father?”

And then the father explains how he heard wailing and shrieking in the night, and came to learn the cause, but, fearing a fever, staid to watch awhile.

“It is hard, dear father, that after thou hast been working all the day thou must needs watch all the night.”

“I would do much more than that for Rudolph, although he is ‘only the son of a carpenter.’”

“Alas, that I talked in my sleep!”

Hark, the bells! once more they clang together—all the bells in the town. So it is, so it is the New Year! They are ringing in the New Year. And these New-Year days—standing like mile-stones all along the highway of Time—who gave them to the world for holidays? Was it not “the carpenter’s son”? Rudolph, trying to smooth out the kink in his brain, finds that thought entangled with it, somehow. After awhile he exclaims, with face aglow:

“It is good that this is the first day of the year! That is the grand time to turn over a new leaf—no, to put on a new suit of armor! For I have learned something from my dream, father; it is this—thou art a Hero. And I mean to be another, just like thee!”

And the father looks down into Rudolph’s eyes, and sees that the demon has departed.

QUEEN MABEL.

“Green, green are the meadows,
And blue, blue is the sky,
And glad, glad is the morning,
And happy and gay am I.
Tirra-la-la, la, la, la!
And happy and gay am I.

“White, white are the daisies
Blossoming everywhere,
And red, red are the roses,
And sweet, sweet is the air!

“And sweet is the burnie’s music,
And the music of bee and bird—
Ha, ha! the sweetest music
That ever and ever you heard!

“Gold, golden the sunbeams,
And bright, bright is the day,
And the bees, and the birds, and Mabel,
Little of care have they!

“Oh! and over the meadows,
Oh! and under the sky,
And all in the dewy morning,
Happy and gay am I!
Tirra-la-la, la, la, la!
Happy and gay am I!”

The queen passed by in her carriage,
And little Mabel’s song,
By a roving zephyr wafted,
She heard as she rode along.
“Ah, child!” she sighed as she listened,
A shadow upon her brow—
“With the birds, and the bees, and the blossoms
How happy and gay art thou!”

Standing knee-deep in clover,
Mabel looked up and saw
The glitter and royal splendor,
And her voice was hushed with awe;
And the light from her sweet eyes faded,
And the song died out of her heart;
“O queen!” she sighed in her envy,
“How happy and grand thou art!”

And the glee was gone from the morning,
The gladness gone from the day,
As through the tangle of clover
She wearily took her way.
“What a wretched place to live in!”
She paused at a cottage door.
“How lowly and plain and humble!
I never noticed before!”
And over her work she muttered,
“Little the queen of the land

With the soot and grime of the kitchen
Needs ever to soil her hand!”
And over her simple sewing,
As the afternoon went by,
Often she fell to musing,
Often she breathed a sigh;
And often she thus would murmur—
“I doubt if ever the queen
Would deign, with her jeweled fingers,
To sew an inch of a seam.”
And wearily on her pillow
At even she laid her head;
“I never shall be a queen,” she sobbed,
“And I wish that I were dead!”

But presently came a message,
Reading—oh, was it true?—
“Arise and come to me, Mabel;
I, the queen, have sent for you.”
Then quick to the royal palace
She rode in the carriage grand,
And they led her through halls of marble
To the queen of all the land;
And the queen arose, and laying
Her crown at Mabel’s feet,
“I go to be free and happy,
And play in the meadows sweet,”
She said, and to all her people—
“Farewell!” and “farewell!” she said;
And the people took up the golden crown
And put it on Mabel’s head.
And oh! it was heavy, heavy!
Heavy, heavy as lead!

To a gilded throne they brought her,
In purple and ermine clad.
“Hail to thee, fair queen Mabel!”
They shouted with voices glad;
And “Hail to thee, fair queen Mabel!”
Rang in her ears all day,
Till, weary, herself she questioned,
“Is it right, is it right to stay?
To drive the cows from the pasture
Is Mabel’s task alone;
And my father at work since morning,
He will soon be coming home.

“He will miss his little Mabel,
For there is no one but me
To toast the bread for his supper
And make him a cup of tea.
But no! am I not a lady?
It is no care of mine
To worry about the supper
And the milking of the kine!”

So she dwelt in the marble palace,
And dined from a golden plate,
And slept in a silken chamber,
And sat in the chair of state.
And whenever she went riding
The people with cheers would greet,
And maidens and little children
With blossoms would strew the street.

And royally thus lived Mabel,
Her only task—to command;
Servants, unnumbered, ready
To move at the wave of her hand;
And alway about her lingered
Gay courtiers, a dazzling throng;
And the blithe hours swiftly flitted
With story, and dance, and song.
But often herself she questioned,
As she sat on the gilded throne,
“How is it with them, I wonder—
How is it with them at home?”

As the palace with mirth and music
Echoed and rang, one night,
The people peered through the windows,
Watching the festive sight:
And a beggar in rags and tatters,
Listening, shook his fist;
“What right have they to be merry
When my little ones starve?” he hissed.
And the people his words repeated:
“What right, to be sure?” they said,
“Flaunting in silks and diamonds
While our little ones cry for bread.”

And ever, as thus they murmured,
Louder their voices grew,
Till, all in a red-hot anger,
To the palace doors they flew.
And the sentinels, at each entrance,
Quickly they put to flight,
And hurried with cries and clamor
Into the halls so bright—
Into the halls of marble,
With clubs and with axes armed,
Till the sound of their shouts and curses
The courtiers hearing, alarmed,
Fled in their silks and diamonds,
Leaving the queen alone.
On rushed the riotous rabble,
Making its way to the throne,
And they who had “Hail Queen Mabel!”
Shouted with loyal will,
Now aloft their cruel weapons
Brandished, intent to kill.

Then she shrieked for help in her terror,
Never a friend came nigh.
So, as the crowd drew nearer,
Sudden she turned to fly;
And casting aside the purple robe
And the heavy golden crown,
Away and away she hastened,
To the meadows she wandered down;
Down to the meadows wandered,
Hastened away and away,
Till the birds and the dewy blossoms
Were roused by the dawning day.

But the world it was sad and silent,
Clouded and gray the morn,
As wearily on she wandered,
Wearily and forlorn.
The burnie it went complaining,
Fretting its way along,
Making no pleasant music,
Singing no pleasant song;
And ever as in the hedges
She came to a sweet wild rose,
At the touch of her queenly fingers
The petals would sadly close.
Once did she call, “Sing, birdies!”
But the little birds were dumb:
“Come to me as you used to!”
But they, fearing, would not come.

“What a cosy place to live in!”
She paused at a cottage door.
“Not a palace half so lovely
Is there the country o’er!”
Within sat a woman knitting—
A woman aged and blind;
And ever she dropped the stitches,
Trying in vain to find.
“Grandmother, let me help thee,”
Mabel held out her hand.
“Nay,” said the gray-haired woman,
“Thou art the queen of the land!”

Just at that moment entered
A workingman—quick she cried
“Father, oh, dost thou know me?”
Sorrowfully he sighed,
“Oh, queen and gracious lady,
Tell me if thou dost know
Aught of our little Mabel,
Who was lost long years ago?
On a sunny summer morning
She strayed from the meadows green.
Tell me if thou hast seen her—
Tell me, oh, gracious queen!”

“Alas, they, too, have forgotten!”
Bowing her head, she wept—
And the weeping queen awakened,
And found she had only slept.
Safe in her low-ceiled chamber,
Flooded with rosy light,
Only the little Mabel,
The Mabel of yesternight!
Then aloud rejoicing sang she
The song of the day gone by
“Glad, glad is the morning,
And happy and gay am I!”

PRINCESS GERDA.