Chapter II: Introduction (2)

So he crept down-stairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant strode up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.

“But where is your little companion?” he said; “the boy I put into the tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

“We don’t know,” answered the children. “He has gone away.”

“You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,” said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he used to say.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful flowers,” he said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

Down-stairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

“Who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”

“Nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of Love.”

“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden; to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”

THE PROMISED PLANT

ANDREA HOFER PROUDFOOT

There was once a promise made to all the people of the world, and every one was waiting and had been waiting long for it to be kept.

No one could remember who had made the promise, but the little children were told that it was made by a great King who knew everything that had ever happened, and all things that would ever be.

And this was the promise:

A wonderful flower was to grow in a certain garden that would bring to the one who owned the garden all the good things in the world.

Every one waited and waited for the flower to come. Years and years they had waited—summer after summer; each new little boy and girl that came into the world was told of the great promise, and among the very first things they did was to go about seeking the flower and asking questions about it.

But no one could tell them anything except to repeat the promise that a beautiful gift-plant would some day grow upon the earth, which only people with loving hearts could see, and they should be greatly blessed.

Every one in the whole world went about looking for this flower; even though they did a great deal of work, and thought of other things, yet they never quite forgot the wonderful promise.

Many of them prepared the soil and made beautiful gardens to receive it. Some sought far and wide for rare seeds and bulbs which they planted and watered, but only such plants grew as every one had seen before, and so they still waited and searched.

Many others wished and wished, and some prayed and prayed, but the precious seed did not come.

The rich men of the land had great parks laid out; the ground was tilled and everything kept ready for the plant to find root. Many gardeners and watchers were hired to stay there and watch for this wondrous flower and guard it—but it did not come.

Yet no one ever doubted the promise, for every one wished very much to have all the good things which were to come with this flower.

Among all these people there was one very kind woman, who did many good deeds. She loved and cared for little children who had no one to help them. One night when she came home from her work what did she see in a little broken flower-pot that stood in her window?

A tiny plant which she had never noticed before! She watered it and it grew and grew, and she learned to love it.

One day while she was looking at the tiny plant she remembered the promise, and said quietly to herself: “Can it be that this is the beautiful flower the whole world is waiting for! I think it is, for it has made me so happy.”

And it was the flower.

She knew the promise had come because it made her so happy.

Every one, far and near, came to see it; and they begged pieces and seeds to plant. And though the good woman gave of her plant, it grew larger and larger, and she became happier and happier.

One day it blossomed wide and beautiful.

The rich men who had made great parks and gardens for the flower would not believe the woman had received the real promised plant. They shook their heads and laughed at it all, and went on seeking after other seeds and plants.

But the people who believed because they saw how happy it made the woman to whom the flower came, brought rich gifts to her and begged for the seed, and they took it home and planted it everywhere, that the whole world might be filled with joy and peace.

BRIER ROSE

KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN AND NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

A long time ago there lived a king and a queen, who said every day, “If only we had a child”; but for a long time they had none.

It fell out once, as the Queen was bathing, that a frog crept out of the water on to the land and said to her: “Your wish shall be fulfilled; before a year has passed you shall bring a daughter into the world.”

The frog’s words came true. The Queen had a little girl who was so beautiful that the King could not contain himself for joy, and prepared a great feast. He invited not only his relations, friends and acquaintances, but the fairies, in order that they might be favourably and kindly disposed toward the child. There were thirteen of them in the kingdom, but as the King had only twelve golden plates for them to eat off, one of the fairies had to stay at home.

The feast was held with all splendour, and when it came to an end the fairies all presented the child with magic gifts. One gave her virtue, another beauty, a third riches, and so on, with everything in the world that she could wish for.

When eleven of the fairies had said their say, the thirteenth suddenly appeared. She wanted to revenge herself for not having been invited. Without greeting any one, or even glancing at the company, she called out in a loud voice, “The Princess shall prick herself with a distaff in her fifteenth year and shall fall dead”; and without another word she turned and left the hall.

Every one was terror-stricken, but the twelfth fairy, whose wish was still unspoken, stepped forward. She could not cancel the curse, but could only soften it, so she said: “It shall not be death, but a deep sleep lasting a hundred years, into which your daughter shall fall.”

The King was so anxious to guard his dear child from the misfortune that he sent out a command that all the distaffs in the whole kingdom should be burned.

All the promises of the fairies came true.

The Princess grew up so beautiful, modest, kind, and clever that every one who saw her could not but love her. Now it happened that on the very day when she was fifteen years old the King and Queen were away from home, and the Princess was left alone in the castle. She wandered about over the whole place, looking at rooms and halls as she pleased, and at last she came to an old tower. She ascended a narrow winding staircase and reached a little door. A rusty key was sticking in the lock, and when she turned it the door flew open. In a little room sat an old woman with a spindle busily spinning her flax.

“Good day, Granny,” said the Princess; “what are you doing?”

“I am spinning,” said the old woman, and nodded her head. “What is the thing that whirls round so merrily?” asked the Princess; and she took the spindle and tried to spin too.

But she had scarcely touched it before the curse was fulfilled, and she pricked her finger with the spindle. The instant she felt the prick she fell upon the bed which was standing near, and lay still in a deep sleep which spread over the whole castle.

The King and Queen, who had just come home and had stepped into the hall, went to sleep, and all their courtiers with them. The horses went to sleep in the stable, the dogs in the yard, the doves on the roof, the flies on the wall; yes, even the fire flickering on the hearth grew still and went to sleep, and the roast meat stopped crackling; and the cook, who was pulling the scullion’s hair because he had made some mistake, let him go and went to sleep. And the wind dropped, and on the trees in front of the castle not a leaf stirred.

But round the castle a hedge of brier roses began to grow up; every year it grew higher, till at last it surrounded the whole castle so that nothing could be seen of it, not even the flags on the roof.

But there was a legend in the land about the lovely sleeping Brier Rose, as the King’s daughter was called, and from time to time princes came and tried to force a way through the hedge into the castle. But they found it impossible, for the thorns, as though they had hands, held them fast, and the princes remained caught in them without being able to free themselves.

After many, many years a prince came again to the country and heard an old man tell of the castle which stood behind the brier hedge, in which a most beautiful maiden called Brier Rose had been asleep for the last hundred years, and with her slept the King, Queen, and all her courtiers. He knew also, from his grandfather, that many princes had already come and sought to pierce through the brier hedge, and had remained caught in it and died a sad death.

Then the young Prince said: “I am not afraid; I am determined to go and look upon the lovely Brier Rose.”

The good old man did all in his power to dissuade him, but the Prince would not listen to his words.

Now, however, the hundred years were just ended, and the day had come when Brier Rose was to wake up again. When the Prince approached the brier hedge it was in blossom, and was covered with beautiful large flowers which made way for him of their own accord and let him pass unharmed, and then closed up again into a hedge behind him.

In the courtyard he saw the horses and dappled hounds lying asleep, on the roof sat the doves with their heads under their wings, and when he went into the house the flies were asleep on the walls, and near the throne lay the King and Queen; in the kitchen was the cook, with his hand raised as though about to strike the scullion, and the maid sat with the black fowl before her which she was about to pluck.

He went on farther, and all was so still that he could hear his own breathing. At last he reached the tower, and opened the door into the little room where Brier Rose was asleep. There she lay, looking so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her; he bent down and gave her a kiss. As he touched her, Brier Rose opened her eyes and looked quite sweetly at him. Then they went down together; and the King and Queen and all the courtiers woke up, and looked at each other with astonished eyes. The horses in the stable stood up and shook themselves, the hounds leaped about and wagged their tails, the doves on the roof lifted their heads from under their wings, looked around and flew into the fields; the flies on the walls began to crawl again, the fire in the kitchen roused itself and blazed up and cooked the food, the meat began to crackle, and the cook boxed the scullion’s ears so soundly that he screamed aloud, while the maid finished plucking the fowl. Then the wedding of the Prince and Brier Rose was celebrated with all splendour, and they lived happily till they died.

PICCIOLA

ADAPTED FROM ST. SAINTINE

Many years ago a good man, who lived in France, was thrown into prison because the King suspected him of having plotted against the government.

Within four grey stone walls, with only one small window through which the little stream of sunshine came, the poor man was kept captive for months and years. He was not allowed to speak to a living soul except his jailer who at best was but a cross old fellow. He had no work to do. There were no books to read, and his only source of amusement during many long tedious hours was drawing pictures with a bit of charcoal on the bare stone walls of his prison cell.

Fortunately, however, the poor captive was permitted to leave his cell for one hour each morning and go up a narrow winding stairway which led him into a small courtyard on all sides of which rose high, strong prison walls. There was no roof overhead. Here the prisoner could breathe the fresh air and feel the warm sun and by looking up he could see a bit of the blue sky above.

Day after day the prison life went on in the same round without any change or hope of change. The bitterness and loneliness of the poor man’s lot grew upon him as months and years passed without a word from his family or friends and without hope of ever seeing one of them again. And by and by a time came when he could no longer even find amusement in sketching upon the walls of his cell, for not one vacant spot was left in all that space where he could draw a picture. He was a very unhappy man indeed, and it is hard to say how it might have ended. But one day a new interest came into his life—an interest which changed the poor fellow from an unhappy bitter man who had come to hate everybody and everything, into one who forgot all wrong and who learned to see only the good and the beautiful in all around him. And this interest came about through the growing up of a tiny stray seed which had been blown into the courtyard by the wind and had taken root between two of the great stones with which the courtyard was paved.

It happened that one day as the prisoner was taking his daily walk his eyes caught sight of the bright green of the little seedling just in time to save it from being crushed beneath his foot. He stopped and looked closer. Then he saw how a little plant had sent down its rootlets into the crevice between the stones and had struggled to push its head up where its green leaves might catch what they could of the scant sunshine. He thought how wonderful it was that the little seed had found courage to take root and struggle for life in the dark and gloomy courtyard of the prison. “Brave little plant,” he said. “You deserve to live. I shall watch over you and guard you, for the wind and the hail are hard enemies.”

Day by day he noticed how bravely it grew higher and higher and unfolded one leaf after another to the dull sunshine. He became more and more interested in the little nursling which in time was like a dear friend and companion to him. He called it Picciola, which means, “little one,” and before many days had passed, it had taken root and grown in his own heart so that there was no longer room for bitterness or memory of any wrongs.

At one time when a great hailstorm sent its cruel hail into the courtyard, the prisoner bent over Picciola to protect it and the driving hailstones fell upon his own head until the storm was over.

“My poor little Picciola,” he said, “I shall not always be here to guard you from harm. Much can happen to my little plant when I am in my cell. I will build a little fence around you, then the wind cannot blow you down nor the hail cut you with sharp stones.”

The cross jailer, too, took an interest in Picciola when he saw how happy the prisoner had become and he was glad to help take care of the little plant. Somehow, the jailer did not seem to be such a cross fellow as before; indeed he seemed to be quite a gentle and kind hearted man.

Now the prisoner was very happy and the days were no longer weary and without interest for Picciola was always waiting for him in the courtyard and he was sure to see something new about the little plant each morning he visited it. And Picciola grew and grew and in time put forth two beautiful blossoms and sent perfume to make glad the heart of her friend.

But one morning alas! when the prisoner went to look at Picciola he found that, in spite of all his care, she had begun to droop and wither. What could be the matter? In a moment he was on the ground examining the little plant to find out what was causing all the trouble. He soon discovered that Picciola had grown so large that there was no longer room enough for it to grow in the crevice between the stones. The sharp edges of the stones cut into the delicate stem and the poor prisoner could see that his little companion would die unless the stones could be lifted.

He was in great distress. He tried with all the strength he had to lift the stones himself; but he could not move them. He begged the jailer to help him.

“I can do nothing for you,” said the jailer. “You must ask the King; he alone has the power to say that the stones should be lifted.”

“But the King is far away,” said the prisoner. “There is but one way to reach him—I must write.”

The poor fellow in despair sent a letter to the King begging him to save the life of his little friend, Picciola. The letter was written on a white handkerchief with a bit of charcoal. He begged the King, not for his own freedom and life, but for the life of Picciola. As soon as the King finished reading the prisoner’s letter he said:

“This man is not really wicked at heart or he could not care so much for a little plant. The stones shall be raised that the little plant may live, and I will pardon this prisoner because of his great love and sacrifice for so helpless a thing as Picciola.” So the prisoner was released and when he left his lonely prison cell he took Picciola with him, for she had been the beginning for him of a new happiness.

ST. FRANCIS, THE LITTLE BEDESMAN OF CHRIST[3]

WILLIAM CANTON

To all living things on earth and air and water St. Francis was most gracious and loving. They were all his little brothers and sisters, and he forgot them not, still less scorned or slighted them, but spoke to them often and blessed them, and in return they showed him great love and sought to be of his fellowship. He bade his companions keep plots of ground for their little sisters the flowers, and to these lovely and speechless creatures he spoke, with no great fear that they would not understand his words. And all this was a marvellous thing in a cruel time, when human life was accounted of slight worth by fierce barons and ruffling marauders.

For the bees he set honey and wine in the winter, lest they should feel the nip of the cold too keenly; and bread for the birds, that they all, but especially “my brother Lark,” should have joy of Christmastide; and when a youth gave St. Francis the turtle-doves he had snared, the Saint had nests made for them, and there they laid their eggs and hatched them, and fed from the hands of the brethren.

Out of affection a fisherman once gave him a great tench, but he put it back into the clear water of the lake, bidding it love God; and the fish played about the boat till St. Francis blessed it and bade it go.

“Why dost thou torment my little brothers the Lambs,” he asked of a shepherd, “carrying them bound thus and hanging from a staff, so that they cry piteously?” And in exchange for the lambs he gave the shepherd his cloak. And at another time seeing amid a flock of goats one white lamb feeding, he was concerned that he had nothing but his brown robe to offer for it; but a merchant came up and paid for it and gave it him, and he took it with him to the city and preached about it so that the hearts of those hearing him were melted.

Fain would I tell of the coneys that took refuge in the folds of his habit, and of the swifts which flew screaming in their glee while he was preaching; but now it is time to speak of the sermon which he preached to a great multitude of birds in a field by the roadside. Down from the trees flew the birds to hear him, and they nestled in the grassy bosom of the field, and listened till he had done. And these were the words he spoke to them:

“Little birds, little sisters mine, much are you holden to God your Creator; and at all times and in every place you ought to praise Him. Freedom He has given you to fly everywhere; and raiment He has given you, double and threefold. More than this, He preserved your kind in the Ark, so that your race might not come to an end. Still more do you owe Him for the element of air, which He has made your portion. Over and above, you sow not, neither do you reap; but God feeds you, and gives you streams and springs for your thirst; the mountains He gives you, and the valleys for your refuge, and the tall trees wherein to build your nests. And because you cannot sew or spin God takes thought to clothe you, you and your little ones. It must be, then, that your Creator loves you much, since He has granted you so many benefits. Be on your guard then against the sin of ingratitude, and strive always to give God praise.”

And when the Saint ceased speaking, the birds made such signs as they might, by spreading their wings and opening their beaks, to show their love and pleasure; and when he had blessed them, they sprang up, and singing songs of unspeakable sweetness, away they streamed in a great cross to the four quarters of heaven.

PROSERPINA AND KING PLUTO

Little Proserpina and Mother Ceres lived in the beautiful valley of Enna where the warm sun shone all the year round. Mother Ceres had plenty of work to do. Each day she made a journey to the meadows, orchards, and fields all over the earth. Indeed it was through her watchful care that the grass grew, and flowers bloomed, that the fruit ripened, and the precious crops of barley, wheat, and rye brought forth a bountiful harvest.

One day at dawn a shining car and a pair of restless winged dragons stood waiting to take Mother Ceres on her daily journey. The dragons were impatient to start, for they knew how much work had to be done each day. Very soon Ceres glided forth and mounted her splendid car. She was clothed in flowing robes of the softest grey and on her head she wore a crown of scarlet poppies and golden wheat.

“Farewell, little daughter,” she called. “I shall come back before the dew falls. Do not venture out of the valley to-day. Farewell!” Off sped the winged dragons with Mother Ceres. Little Proserpina did not mind being left in the valley for she found a good deal of amusement there. Her friends the naiads—beautiful water nymphs—sported about in the cool fountains. Proserpina loved to spend a quiet hour with these gentle maidens. She often played a merry game with Echo, a nymph who lived on a far-off wooded hillside; sometimes she danced in the sunshine with her little playmates.

Mother Ceres’ shining car soon disappeared and little Proserpina ran to some of her companions and said, “Come, come! I hear Pan, the shepherd boy, playing the sweetest music on his reed-pipes! Let us dance in the sunshine! Come!”

In her gayest mood she led the dance to the very edge of a deep wood which bordered the valley. Then the train of little maidens stopped suddenly and listened. Peals of boisterous laughter broke the silence. In the depths of the forest the queerest youths were rollicking about. They had snub noses, hairy ears, and tiny sprouting horns; their hips were covered with shaggy hair and their feet were exactly like a goat’s.

“Hush,” whispered Proserpina, “the madcap satyrs are dancing too. Let us hasten away.”

“We will gather flowers and make garlands,” said one of the maidens.

They slipped quietly away from the noisy wood and ran about in all directions to search for fragrant blossoms,—lilies and violets, hyacinth bells and pinks. The little maidens soon filled their arms with flowers and sat down on a mossy bank to weave garlands.

In her eagerness to find the loveliest blossoms Proserpina had sauntered off a long way from her companions. She could hear the faint echo of their merry voices in the distance.

“Oh, I have wandered out of the valley,” she thought. “I must hasten back with these lovely flowers. What beauties I have found!”

She turned to run toward the bank where her companions were sitting, when she heard a queer rumbling noise. What could it be! It sounded exactly like distant thunder, yet there was not a cloud in the blue sky overhead. There was another rumbling. Was it coming nearer? The earth beneath her feet quivered! Then in breathless fear she saw a great crack in the field! She was too frightened to move or speak. The flowers she had gathered dropped from her trembling hands. Out of the great cavity which seemed to widen every moment Proserpina saw dashing toward her four jet black horses with flashing eyes and quivering nostrils. At their heels whirled a wonderful golden chariot with jewelled wheels. Standing in this splendid car was a dark-browed man whose iron-crown was studded with precious stones of many colours. In one hand he lightly held the reins and guided the fiery steeds; in the other, he held a two-pronged fork.

“King Pluto!” gasped Proserpina. In a twinkling the King of the Underworld leaped from his chariot, seized Proserpina in his arms, mounted his chariot again and sped away over the hills.

Proserpina’s low cry of “Help! help! Mother! Mother Ceres!” was too faint to reach the ears of the merry companions who were very busy with their flowers.

“What has become of Proserpina?” cried one of them when she had finished her garland.

They looked in the direction where but a moment ago Proserpina was gathering flowers, but they could not see her.

“I wonder where she has gone,” said another. “Surely she has not wandered out of the valley!”

“Proserpina! Proserpina!” called the little companions becoming alarmed.

But no answer could come from the captured maiden who was whirling along beyond the distant hills. In vain did the dark-browed King try to calm his captive by declaring that no harm should come to her. In vain did he promise that she should share his throne and his riches.

“I want to go home to Mother Ceres,” sobbed Proserpina.

But King Pluto was deaf to her pleading; he urged his horses to go faster and faster until finally they came to the River Cyane whose waters began to seethe and foam in a very threatening manner. Little Proserpina knew the waters of this river were angry because she was made a captive. Quickly she loosened her girdle and flung it into the raging flood. Now King Pluto was afraid to risk his fiery steeds in the angry stream, so he determined to plunge at once into the depths of his kingdom. With his two-pronged fork he struck a mighty blow on the earth. Instantly a great crevice opened and gave him passage to the Underworld.

Phœbus Apollo had almost finished his day’s journey and was driving his beautiful sun-car down the steep slope of the western sky. Mother Ceres’ winged dragons were hastening to the valley of Enna. Proserpina always bounded forth with a cry of welcome, so when Mother Ceres missed her little daughter’s joyous words she called, “Proserpina! Proserpina!” There was no answer. What could be the matter! Mother Ceres’ heart beat fast! She sought the little maidens of the valley who were her daughter’s playmates and listened in trembling fear to the story they told about Proserpina’s sudden disappearance. Ceres lighted a torch and continued her search all night. At dawn the distracted mother was in despair, for she could find no trace of her lost child. She questioned the Naiads, the Nymphs, Pan, the shepherd boy, and Echo, but not one of them could give her tidings of Proserpina. For a long time the poor mother continued her wanderings from dawn until eventide all the world over.

One day she happened to wander near the River Cyane and there floating near the water’s edge she saw Proserpina’s girdle. Eagerly she grasped it in her hands and stood in breathless silence. A low murmuring sound reached her ears. Did it come from a nearby fountain? Ceres listened very carefully. “Proserpina! King Pluto!” whispered a voice from the cool depths of the clear water. In a moment Mother Ceres knew the truth about her little daughter’s disappearance. She had been captured by the King of the Underworld! Ceres could take no comfort in this knowledge for she knew King Pluto would do all in his power to keep his captive. In despair the poor mother withdrew to a dark cave to nurse her grief.

“Until Proserpina is returned to me no vegetation shall grow on the earth,” vowed Mother Ceres.

The gentle rain no longer refreshed the grass and drooping flowers; the withered leaves dropped from the trees; the fruit became parched and dry, and the precious grain failed to ripen! Alas! Famine spread throughout the land!

“Mother Ceres,” cried the people, “we implore you to give us your aid. Bring back the flowers and the fruit, and the grain. We shall starve without your help.”

“Not until my child is returned to me,” answered Ceres.

Finally Jupiter’s heart was touched by the distress of the people. He sent for Mother Ceres and said, “If your daughter Proserpina has refused to eat any of King Pluto’s pomegranate seeds during her stay in the underworld she shall return to the earth and never again disappear. My swift-footed messenger Mercury shall go at once to Pluto’s palace and state my will in this matter.”

Mercury put on his wonderful cap and winged sandals and sped away to deliver Jupiter’s message. At first King Pluto was angry when he heard that his merry little companion was to be taken from him, but of course he could not disregard Jupiter’s command, so Proserpina was led back into the sunlight.

How happy Mother Ceres was! She could not keep back tears of joy.

“Now the fields shall be covered with verdure; the soft showers shall fall and earth shall bring forth a bountiful harvest!” she declared. “Proserpina, my child, you shall never again leave me. King Pluto cannot demand your return unless you have eaten some of his pomegranate seeds.”

Then little Proserpina looked up into her mother’s face and said, “Mother dear, I must tell you the truth. A little while before Mercury came with his message I ate six of King Pluto’s pomegranate seeds. I was very, very hungry, mother.”

“Alas! Alas!” cried Ceres, feeling alarmed again. She hastened to Jupiter and asked him what could be done. Jupiter looked very serious, and finally decreed that for each pomegranate seed which Proserpina had eaten she should spend one month of each year in King Pluto’s Kingdom.

“Six months of each year my child must spend in that dark underworld! It is dreadful!” declared Ceres.

“Do not grieve, mother,” said Proserpina cheerily. “At first the dark-browed King frightened me very much but I soon found that he is kind and gracious. Let us be happy because I am to spend six months of each year here with you. During my stay with King Pluto you shall take a long rest from your hard work in the fields.”

So it happened that Proserpina spent half of each year in the dark underworld. But every springtime when the warm sun gladdened the earth, Mercury was sent to bring Proserpina back to Mother Ceres. And at the coming of the joyous little maiden the grass leaped forth in the brown fields, flowers gay brightened the meadows and from the tops of the budding trees the birds carolled songs of welcome.

THE WONDER—A PARABLE

FRIEDRICH ADOLPH KRUMMACHER

One day in the springtime, a youth was sitting under the palm trees in the garden of his father, the King. He was deep in thought. There came to him Nathan, the Prophet, saying, “Prince, why musest thou so earnestly under the palm trees?”

The Prince lifted his head and answered, “Nathan, I would see a wonder.”

The Prophet smiled and answered: “The same wish had I also in the days of my youth.”

“And was it fulfilled?” asked the King’s son, hastily.

“A Man of God came to me,” said Nathan, “having a pomegranate seed in his hand. Behold,’ he said, ‘what will come from this seed.’ Then with his finger he made a hole in the earth, planted the seed and covered it. When he withdrew his hands the clods parted one from another and I saw two small leaves coming forth. But scarcely had I beheld them, when they joined together and became a round stem wrapped in bark, and the stem increased before my eyes and grew higher and thicker. Then the Man of God said to me, ‘Give heed!’ And as I looked, I saw many branches spread forth from the stem like great arms. I marvelled but the Man of God motioned me to keep silence. ‘Give heed,’ he said, ‘new creations begin.’

“Then he took water in the hollow of his hand from the rivulet by the wayside, and sprinkled the branches three times, and, lo, the branches were covered with green leaves, so that a cool shade spread over us and sweet odours filled the air.

“‘From whence comes this perfume and this reviving shade?’ cried I.

“‘Dost thou not see,’ said the Man of God, ‘these crimson flowers bursting from among the green leaves and hanging in clusters?’ I was about to speak but a gentle breeze moved the leaves, scattering the flowers among us, as when snow descendeth from the clouds. Scarcely had the falling flowers reached the ground when I saw the ruddy pomegranates hanging between the leaves like the almonds on Aaron’s rod. Then the Man of God left me lost in wonder.”

“What is the name of this Man of God? Is he yet alive?”

“Son of David,” answered the Prophet, “I have spoken to thee of a vision.”

When the Prince heard these words he was grieved in his heart.

“How couldst thou deceive me thus?” he asked.

But the Prophet replied, “I have not deceived thee. Behold in thy father’s garden thou mayest see in reality what I have told thee. Dost not this same wonder happen to the pomegranate trees and all the other trees in the garden?”

“Yes,” answered the Prince, “but you cannot see it, and it comes to pass through a long time.”

“Is it less wonderful because it cometh to pass in silence and unheeded? Learn to know nature and her workings, then wilt thou long no more for a wonder performed by the hand of man.”

NATURE STORIES AND LEGENDS

GREEN THINGS GROWING

Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing,
The faint sweet smell of the green things growing!
I should love to live, whether I smile or grieve,
Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.

Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing,
How they talk to each other, when none of us are knowing.
In the wonderful white by the weird moonlight,
Of the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing.

I love them so—my green things growing,
And I think they love me without any knowing;
For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,
With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.

_Dinah Mulock Craik._

THE STORY OF A LITTLE GRAIN OF WHEAT[4]

MAY BRYON

Once upon a time there was a little grain of Wheat. It was a tiny brown thing, quite hard and dry. It looked like somebody who had wrapped himself up in a cloak and gone to sleep, with his head and feet and all covered up. That was really what had happened. The grain of Wheat was fast asleep.

It lay outside a farm-yard gate, and a little black ant came along and saw it. “Dear me!” said the little black ant, “that will do nicely for my dinner.” He was carrying it off—which was hard work, because it was nearly as big as he was—when another little black ant came along.

“I’ll help you to carry that if you’ll give me half,” said the second ant. “Shan’t!” said the first. Then, I am sorry to say, they fought about it.

While they were biting and kicking, and the grain of Wheat was rolling about between them, a third person came along.

The third person was a little Elf-man. He was looking about for winter lodgings: and he had just found a capital place in a hollow tree at the edge of a field.

“Shocking! shocking!” said he to the two fighting ants. “Do stop, for goodness’ sake!” But they did not take the least notice of him.

Then the little Elf-man thought, “If I take that grain of Wheat away, they won’t have anything left to quarrel about!” And so he did.

* * * * *

The little Elf-man took the grain of Wheat very carefully home to his hollow tree. But when he arrived, it was all dark, because his tame glow-worm, that he kept for a candle, had felt lonely and gone out for a walk. He bumped his head trying to find things in the dark, and dropped the grain of Wheat; and it rolled out of the tree and down into a tiny chink of the earth.

The little Elf-man was dreadfully sorry at losing it, and scolded the glow-worm when it came home. He spent many hours searching for the grain next morning.

“What are you looking for?” said his friend the Dormouse. The Dormouse lived in a hole in the hedge-bank.

“For a grain I’ve lost,” said the Elf.

“There’s a Barley grain under that loose sod,” remarked the Dormouse.

“That’s not it, thank you,” said the Elf-man. And he went on hunting; but he had no success. It was ever so deep down.

A good many days went by, and several things happened,—rain, and wind, and sunshine, and more rain, and snow, and frost, and rain again.

They all came down to where the little grain lay underground; and its nice brown cloak did not remain smooth and dry. It became damp and sodden and dirty. Its appearance was certainly not improved.

Now, if you got all wet and cold while you were asleep, supposing the wind and rain blew in on you, it would wake you up, most likely. So it fell out to the little grain of Wheat.

It woke up one day, inside its wet ragged cloak, and thrust out its small white feet. They were not like your feet, they were more like little roots—but they did very well for the Wheat. Its legs grew longer, week by week, and it grew more and more awake every day.

The more it waked, the less it liked being down there in the dark and cold. It thought, “Really, I can’t stay here all my life! There’s nothing to look at!”

But whenever it wanted to poke its head up and peep out, the wind made it shiver and feel miserable. So it stayed where it was, and tried to be contented. One can always _try_, anyhow.

Meanwhile the little Barley-corn under the loose sod was getting on rather badly. You see, it had not been tucked cosily into the soil like the Wheat. It was like a poor little vagrant with no proper place to sleep in. It grew, but very slowly.

“Hullo! is that you?” said the Dormouse, peeping in one day under the sod; “are you awake?”

“I don’t think I’ve been properly to sleep,” said the Barley-corn.

“Make haste and grow a little faster, and come out of that,” said the Dormouse. “I should be rather fond of you if I thought you were taking trouble to get on.”

“I think if any one were fond of me,” whispered the Barley-corn, “I _should grow_.”

But the Dormouse was not listening.

* * * * *

At last a sunbeam came along the field—several sunbeams, in fact. They were quite bright and warm, and the little Elf-man, who had kept close indoors all the bad weather, opened his door and sat on the threshold basking. Then the sunbeams burrowed right down into the earth, and said: “Hurry up! Is anybody here for out-of-doors?”

You could not have heard them; their voices were not like ours. But the grain of Wheat heard them. At once it threw off the last rags of its tattered old cloak; and it was as clean and white as possible underneath. Then it pushed up its little green head, with a two-horned peaked cap on, and looked out curiously upon the world.

Everything was clear, and warm, and sunny, and perfectly delightful. And there was the little Elf-man sitting on his threshold, in a _one_-horned peaky green cap.

“Well, I never!” said the Elf-man. “Who’s this?”

“My name’s Wheat,” said the little green head.

“Then you’ve changed very much, let me tell you,” said the Elf-man; “you are not a bit like what you were; but ever so much better.”

“I hope I shall go on improving,” said the Wheat politely. And that is just what it actually did.

But the poor Barley-corn was only beginning to push through under the loose sod by the time the Wheat was six inches high. It was thin and stunted, just as you would be if you had no proper food, and nobody to be fond of you.

The Wheat took no notice of it. But the Dormouse came now and then and said, “How slow you are!” The little Elf-man was rather sorry for it, but it did not occur to him to say so.

* * * * *

The little Elf-man came out every day, and talked to the Wheat while it grew. Very soon it was much bigger than he was; but this did not make him conceited.

“Did you have nice dreams while you were down below there?” he asked it.

“I only had one dream,” said the Wheat, “but that went on all the time. I dreamed I was very tall and golden-yellow, and lived along with a crowd of brothers and sisters.”

“Oh, but you didn’t,” said the Elf-man; “I found you all by yourself. You were a poor little lonely brown thing.”

“I can’t help it,” said the Wheat: “that was my dream. And I have it now, sometimes, if I shut my eyes.”

The little Elf-man was greatly puzzled: but the Wheat was now so tall that he did not like to contradict.

As for the little Barley-corn, nobody took the least interest in _his_ dreams. He had very delightful ones, too. But they were the kind that never come true.

The summer went on, and all sorts of friends came and talked to the Wheat—birds, bees, and butterflies. He enjoyed himself more and more. The taller he grew, the better view he had of the rest of the world.

He had very pretty green clothes, which grew bigger as he did. This was a really useful arrangement: he never required to be measured for a new suit.

One day he said to the little Elf-man, “Do your clothes change colour?”

“No,” replied the Elf-man, “I always wear green. Even in the winter I can find some blades of grass to weave together, or a few leaves to stitch up into a coat.”

“You don’t understand me,” said the Wheat. “I mean, do they turn to a different colour while you’re wearing them?”

“Not that I know of,” said the Elf-man.

“Well, mine do,” said the Wheat. “Just look!”

Sure enough, his green clothes were turning yellow, and he was changing colour all over, too. He was very much altered altogether. It was most surprising.

“Goodness me!” said the little Elf-man.

“That’s exactly what I think,” said the Wheat.

* * * * *

About a month after this, the Elf-man was getting his breakfast ready,—an acorn-cup full of dew, and a drop of wild honey,—when he heard a loud, eager voice calling him. It was the Wheat, very much excited.

“I’ve had that dream several times lately,” said the Wheat, rocking to and fro, “and now it has come true!”

“How do you mean?” asked the Elf-man.

“Can’t you see?” said the Wheat. “I’ve turned golden-yellow from head to foot. And I have a whole family of children. They’re not _my_ brothers and sisters, of course, but they’re each other’s,—so it comes to the same thing. Dear, dear, how happy I do feel!” And it rocked more than ever.

“How many are there?” asked the Elf.

“About twenty, I should think,” answered the Wheat, “but I can’t count them without cricking my neck.”

“Well, well!” said the little Elf. “It’s a large family to look after. It reminds me of a little rhyme I once heard, about an old woman who lived in a shoe.”

“The more the merrier,” said the Wheat. “Hush, children! Don’t all talk at once!” But the little grains would not stop talking all at once; and although _you_ could not have heard them—their voices were too tinkly and tiny—it was perfectly deafening to any one who could.

The Elf-man went back into his house and shut the door. Presently he had to put some cotton-willow-wool in his ears. The Wheat tried to sing its children to sleep with lullabies; but it did not know any.

“I shall never have a merry family like that, I’m afraid,” said the Barley-corn to the Dormouse. The Barley-corn had hardly grown two inches since the spring. In fact, he was so little, you would hardly have known he was there.

“Never mind,” said the Dormouse. “You have me to talk to you, haven’t you?”

* * * * *

By and by the Wheat got very tired. Just think, if your mother had more than twenty children, who never stopped talking all day and all night! Anyhow, the Wheat could endure it no longer. So it called to the little Elf-man, and said, “Kindly fetch me the Dormouse. I can see him now, on the bank at the end of the field. He’s beginning to get sleepy, too, so please make haste.”

“What do you want me for?” said the Dormouse, when he was fetched. He and the Elf stood staring up at the tall Wheat. The little grains were quieter now. They had said nearly all they had to say.

“It’s like this,” said the Wheat in weary tones. “I can’t rock these children to sleep up here. It’s too light, and too draughty. They must be put to bed in the earth, as I was. I’m sure it’s the proper place for them.” As the Wheat spoke, all the little grains fell suddenly fast asleep.

“Well, I’m not a nurse,” said the Dormouse, rather grumpily, because he had been disturbed. “And I can’t climb your stalk and fetch them down, either.”

“You must bite my stalk right through,” said the Wheat, “so that we can all lie down together.”

“Oh, that will hurt you dreadfully!” cried the little Elf-man.

“Then it will have to hurt, that’s all,” said the Wheat. “It’s the only thing to do. Be quick!”

The little Elf-man threw his arms round the Wheat’s yellow-stalk, and wept. But the Dormouse, with his sharp little teeth, bit through the stalk, just where it came out of the ground. The Wheat gave one great rock—and one sigh—and SNAP!—down it came. All the little grains tumbled out of their cradles, and rolled into chinks of the soil.

The tall Wheat, as it lay in the earth, said “Thank you!” in a husky voice to the Dormouse, and “Good-bye!” to the little Elf-man. The wind blew it away that night, and nobody ever saw it again.

“Where’s the Barley?” asked the Dormouse next day. But the poor Barley was quite shrivelled up.

The little Elf-man was sad for nearly a week. But when all the little grains woke up the following spring, he had a jollier time than ever.

THE LITTLE ACORN

LUCY WHEELOCK

It was a little acorn that hung on the bough of a tree. It had a tender green cup and a beautifully carved saucer to hold it. The mother oak fed it with sweet sap every day, the birds sang good-night songs above it, and the wind rocked it gently to and fro. The oak leaves made a soft green shade above it, so the sun could not shine too warm on its green cover, and it was as happy as an acorn could be.

There were many other acorns on the tree, and I am sure the mother often whispered loving words to all her babies.

The summer days were so bright and pleasant that the acorn never thought of anything but sunshine and an occasional shower to wash the dust off the leaves.