Chapter III: Introduction (3)

But you know that summer ends and the autumn days come. The green cup of the acorn turned to a brown cup, and it was well that it grew stiffer and harder, for the cold winds began to blow.

The leaves turned from green to golden brown, and some of them were whisked away by the rough wind. The little acorn began to grow uneasy.

“Isn’t life all summer?” it said.

“No,” whispered the mother oak, “the cold days come and the leaves must go and the acorns too. I must soon lose my babies.”

“Oh! I could never leave this kind bough,” said the frightened acorn. “I should be lost and forgotten if I were to fall.”

So it tried to cling all the closer to its bough; but at last it was alone there. The leaves were blown away, and some of them had made a blanket for the brown acorns lying on the ground.

One night the tree whispered this message to the lonely acorn: “This tree is only your home for a time. This is not your true life. Your brown shell is only the cover for a living plant, which can never be set free until the hard shell drops away, and that can never happen until you are buried in the ground and wait for the spring to call you into life. So let go, little acorn, and fall to the ground, and some day you will wake to a new and glorious life.”

The acorn listened and believed, for was not the tree its sheltering mother? So it bade her farewell, and, loosing its hold, dropped to the ground.

Then, indeed, it seemed as if the acorn were lost. That night a high wind blew and covered it deep under a heap of oak leaves. The next day a cold rain washed the leaves closer together, and trickling streams from the hillside swept some earth over them. The acorn was buried. “But I shall wake again,” it said, and so it fell asleep. It might have been cold; but the frost fairies wove a soft, white snow blanket to cover it, and so it was kept warm.

If you had walked through the woods that winter, you would have said the acorn was gone, but then you could not have seen the life slumbering within the brown cover. But spring came and called to all the sleeping things underground to waken and come forth. The acorn heard and tried to move, but the brown shell held it fast. Some raindrops trickled through the ground to moisten the shell, and one day the pushing life within was set free. The brown shell was of no more use and was lost in the ground, but the young plant was to live. It heard voices calling it upward. It must arise. “A new and glorious life,” the mother oak had said.

“I must arise,” the acorn said, and up the living plant came, up to the world of sunshine and beauty. It looked around. There was the same green moss in the woods, the same singing brook.

“And I shall live and grow,” it said.

“Yes,” called the mother oak, “you are now an oak tree. This is your real life.”

And the tiny oak tree was glad and tried to stretch higher towards the sun.

THE STORY OF TWO LITTLE SEEDS

GEORGE MACDONALD

Long, long ago, two seeds lay beside each other in the earth, waiting. It was cold, and rather wearisome and, to beguile the time, the one found means to speak to the other.

“What are you going to be?” said the one.

“I don’t know,” answered the other.

“For me,” rejoined the first, “I mean to be a rose. There is nothing like a splendid rose. Everybody will love me then.”

“It’s all right,” whispered the second; and that was all he could say; for somehow when he had said that, he felt as if all the words in the world were used up. So they were silent again for a day or two.

“Oh, dear!” cried the first, “I have had some water. I never knew till it was inside me. I’m growing! I’m growing! Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!” repeated the other, and lay still; and waited more than ever.

The first grew and grew, pushing itself straight up, till at last it felt that it was in the open air, for it could breathe. And what a delicious breath that was! It was rather cold, but so refreshing. The flower could see nothing, for it was not quite a flower yet, only a plant; and they never see till their eyes come, that is, till they open their blossoms,—then they are flowers quite. So it grew and grew, and kept its head up very steadily, meaning to see the sky the first thing, and leave the earth quite behind as well as beneath it. But somehow or other, though why it could not tell, it felt very much inclined to cry. At length it opened its eye. It was morning, and the sky _was_ over its head but, alas! itself was no rose,—only a tiny white flower. It felt more inclined to hang down its head and to cry but it still resisted, and tried hard to open its eye wide, and to hold its head upright, and to look full at the sky.

“I will be a star of Bethlehem, at least!” said the flower to itself.

But its head felt very heavy and a cold wind rushed over it, and bowed it down towards the earth. And the flower saw that the time of the singing of birds was not come, that the snow covered the whole land, and that there was not a single flower in sight but itself. And it half-closed its leaves. But that instant it remembered what the other flower used to say; and it said to itself, “It’s all right; I will be what I can.” And thereon it yielded to the wind, dropped its head to the earth, and looked no more on the sky, but on the snow. And straightway the wind stopped, and the cold died away, and the snow sparkled like pearls, and diamonds; and the flower knew that it was the holding of its head up that had hurt it so; for that its body came of the snow, and that its name was Snow-drop. And so it said once more, “It’s all right!” and waited in perfect peace. All the rest it needed was to hang its head after its nature.

HOW THE FLOWERS CAME[5]

JAY T. STOCKING

Ever so many centuries ago the world was bare and grey as the street. The Earth King grew very tired of it, and covered the earth with a beautiful carpet of green. We call it grass. For years and years there was nothing but green, until the Earth King grew as tired of the green as he had grown of the grey. He decided that he must have more colours. So one day he took his royal retinue and journeyed to a hillside where he knew there grew the very finest grasses in all the kingdom. At a blast of the King’s bugler the grasses assembled, and the King addressed them in simple words: “My faithful grasses. It is many years since I placed you here. You have been faithful. You have kept true green. It now pleases me to announce to you that I am about to reward a certain number of you and make you to be lords and ladies of the field. To-morrow I shall come hither at this same hour. You are to assemble before me, and the fairest of your number and the most pleasing I will honour with great and lasting honour. Farewell.”

Then what a whispering and putting of heads together there was among the grasses, as the breeze crept up the hillside. They arose next morning before the sun, that they might wash their ribbons in the gleaming pearls of dew. What prinking and preening! What rustling of ruffles and sashes! What burnishing of armour and spears! At length the King’s bugle rang out that called them to the grand assembly. Full of excitement, they stood before the King, each hoping that he might be chosen for one of the great honours.

The King greeted them as on the previous day, and told them again of the high honour that he was about to bestow. “But,” said he, “in this Court of Judgment I must have willing servants to assist me. First, I must have a keeper of the gate so that no outsider may enter. Which one of this host will be keeper of the gate?”

Not a man-grass stirred in his tracks, for each feared that if he became a servant of the King, he would lose his chance to be made a lord.

“Which one?” asked the King again; “which one will volunteer to keep the gate for me?”

At this moment a sturdy grass was seen coming down the hillside. He was not handsome, but he was strong, his shoulders were broad, and his chest was deep, and he was armed to the teeth. Spear points stuck from every pocket, arrows filled his belt, and in each hand he carried a lance sharp as lightning. “Let these wait for their honours,” thought he, as he said, “_I_ will serve the King.”

“So be it,” said the King; “take your station at the gate. And now,” continued the King, “I must have a herald to announce my awards and my commands. Who will be my herald?”

Again there was silence among the man-grasses, till at last one of them was seen to advance. He was short and round and smiling, as happy a grass as grew on the hill. He came before the King as fast as his short legs could carry him. “So it please the King, I’ll be his royal herald.”

“So be it,” replied the King. “Stand here at my feet.”

“Two torch-bearers I need,” said the King; “two torch-bearers, tall and comely, to hold the lights on high. Who will serve the King as torch-bearers?”

And now there was silence and stiffness among the lady-grasses, as each, fearing to lose her chance to be made a lady, waited for the others. At length two slender maidens advanced with glowing faces and hesitant step. They were not as beautiful, it must be said, as some of their sisters. Their ribbons were few and some of them frayed. They scarcely knew whether the King would accept them, but they meekly offered themselves. “We, O King, will be your torch-bearers.”

The King looked pleased enough as he replied, “So be it, indeed. Stand here on either hand.”

“And now,” continued the King, “I must have an incense bearer, to swing my censer over the meadows. Who will be my incense bearer?”

For a moment there was silence again among the lady-grasses, but only a moment, for out stepped one of the daintiest of them all. She tripped quickly and quietly down the hill to the King, saying modestly as she approached, “I will be your incense bearer.”

“Let it be so,” said the King. “Await my commands.”

“Yet one more willing servant,” said the King; “one more. Who will ring the chimes? Man or maid, who among all these loyal subjects will ring the chimes?”

Scarcely had the King’s words left his lips, when one of the noblest grasses of all, her broad green ribbons rustling as she moved, left the crowded ranks of the ladies and eagerly advanced before the King. “If it please Your Majesty, I will ring the chimes.”

Then the King looked around satisfied upon his eager and expectant audience, and spoke a few brief words to them. He had come, he said, fearing that the task was almost too great even for a king—to choose among so many and so beautiful subjects. But they had chosen for themselves, and he had now only to award the honours.

“Keeper of the gate,” he commanded, “stand before the King!”

The keeper of the gate came awkwardly forward, pricking all who brushed against him as he passed.

“Because you have been willing to serve the King,” said the monarch, “I reward you with distinguished honour.” Then, taking from the hand of a page a great velvet cap of purplish red, he placed it upon the head of the Gate-Keeper, saying as he did so, “I dub you: My Lord, the Thistle.”

“Let the King’s herald stand forth!”

The little round happy herald obeyed and knelt before the King. The King took a great golden coronet from the hand of a page and placed it upon his head, saying as he did so, “Because of your readiness to serve your King, I create you a noble of the field, and dub you: My Lord, the Dandelion. And I give you this trumpet on which to blow.”

“Let the torch-bearers stand forth!”

Then the two shy maidens from either side of the King bowed before him. On the head of each the King placed a shining crown, one all gold, and one gold rimmed with white, that they might not be confused, and he said to them, “Because of your generous deed I dub you: Lady Buttercup and Lady Daisy.”

“My incense bearer!”

The dainty maiden courtesied at his feet and, blushing, bowed her head.

The King beckoned to a page, who brought him a tiny hood of most becoming blue. This the King placed upon her head, saying the while: “The King is grateful for your service. I dub you: Lady Violet.”

“The ringer of the royal chimes, let her appear.”

The beautiful grass with the broad, shining ribbons stood proudly before him, and bowed her head in salute. The King took a silver bell and gave it to her, saying as he did so, “This shall be the sign of your royal office. I dub you: Lady Lily-of-the-Field.”

The King then charged his new-made lords and ladies that they should be faithful to their offices and never cease, year by year, to beautify the earth. Then the assembly was dissolved, but not until the whole host of grasses on the hillside had applauded what the King had done. They were disappointed and grieved, it is true, but they were not too jealous to know that the bravest and truest and most beautiful had been crowned with honour due.

THE LEGEND OF TRAILING ARBUTUS

The bleak wind swept across the great lakes and piled snow-drifts all around a wigwam which stood at the edge of a pine forest. An Indian pulled aside a curtain of wolf-skin and stood listening in the doorway of his rude house. His dark eyes were fixed on the richly-tinted western sky. Long hair white as the frost fell about his bent shoulders and framed a thin dark face deeply lined with wrinkles.

“I thought I heard footsteps,” he muttered in a weak voice. He drew a deerskin mantle close about his shoulders, turned from the doorway and sat down on a mat of beaver fur which lay before a few dying embers. A shiver ran through his gaunt figure. He stirred the smouldering ashes and threw some dried sticks into the small flame.

“How weak and weary I am to-night,” he thought. “What has become of the hunter’s game? I could find none in the forest to-day.” His head drooped forward and he fell asleep.

At sunrise he was aroused by a flood of light in the wigwam. He looked up and saw standing in the doorway a beautiful maiden, clad in a robe of sweet-grass and ferns. Her moccasins were made of velvet mosses, and the fairest blossoms were entwined in her long dark hair. She carried an armful of budding twigs.

“Who art thou?” cried the old man.

“I am the Spring Manito,” she answered, merrily.

“Then thou wilt perish here,” said the old man, “for alas! I have no cheer to offer thee!”

“Art thou the great Winter Manito?” asked the maiden.

“I am the great Winter Manito! Thou hast no doubt heard of my power. At my command the North Wind rushes madly through the forest and the giant trees bow before him as he twists and tears their branches.”

“Cruel Manito,” sighed the maiden, but the old man did not hear her.

“I cover the pine-trees with sleet and drive the birds southward. With my sceptre of ice I silence the brooks and rivers. My breath turns the dew into frost. I shake my locks and a face-cloth of snow covers the withered leaves and blossoms. Mighty is the Winter Manito!”

“Mighty is the Winter Manito,” repeated the Maiden, sadly. “But my power is greater than his!”

“What meanest thou?” asked the old man quickly.

“At my call the soft breezes from the South caress the trees and heal the wounds the Winter Manito has made. My warm breath turns the frost into dew; my golden wand melts the frozen streams and their waters flow again toward the sea. I shake my tresses and the gentle rain falls; then the velvet buds burst forth and the birds hasten back to build their nests and to sing in the leafy branches. Where I walk in the fields and meadows the grass and blossoms spring forth to greet me. The children of the red men rejoice in the beauty which I bring to gladden the earth. The Winter Manito is mighty but his is the power of cruelty; the Spring Manito is strong, and hers is the strength of kindness. The Winter Manito’s sceptre is the biting frost; his rule brings pain and death; the Spring Manito bears the golden wand of sunshine and her hand-maidens bring joy and life.”

As she spoke the maiden noticed that the old man grew weaker and weaker until he finally sank down on the floor of his lodge. A flood of sunshine filled the wigwam. The Winter Manito grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared. Then the old man’s tent faded away and left the maiden standing under a tree. The sunshine had melted the snowdrifts, and a warm breeze was blowing.

The maiden stooped down and brushed away the dried leaves which had lain all winter under the snow. Then she enamelled the brown earth about her feet with star-like blossoms, pink and white, and shining green leaves.

“My precious Arbutus,” she whispered, bending low, “thou art born to bring joy to the children of the red men and thou shalt trail after me through the pine-forest and over the distant hilltops.”

She moved quickly through the woods and across the meadows. “Spring has come,” whispered the trees and flowers. “Spring has come,” sang the birds. Wherever she stepped the lovely Arbutus trailed after her on its delicate rosy vine and scented the air with sweetest fragrance.

THE FAIRY FLOWER[6]

HENRY WARD BEECHER

Once there was a little girl whose name was Clara. She had a very kind heart; but she was an only child and had been petted so much that she was becoming very selfish. Too late the mother lamented that she had indulged her child, and strove to repair the mischief by trying to make Clara think of other people’s happiness, not solely of her own.

On some days, no one could be more charming than Clara. She was gentle and obliging. She sang all day long, and made every one who came near her happy. Then everybody admired her, and her mother and aunt were sure that she was cured of her pettish disposition. But the very next day all her charming ways were changed. She wore a moody face. She was no longer courteous, and every one who came near her felt the chill of her manner.

One summer’s night, Clara went to her room. The moon was at its full, and was shining through the window so brightly that she needed no other light. Clara sat at the window feeling very unhappy. She was thinking over her conduct through the day, and was trying to imagine how it could be that on some days she was happy and on others so wretched.

As she mused, she laid her head back on the easy chair. No sooner had she shut her eyes than a strange thing happened. A feeble old man, carrying a basket, came into the room. In his basket, which he seemed hardly able to bear, were a handful of flowers and two great stones.

“My daughter,” said the old man, “will you help me for I am too old to carry this load; please lighten it.” Clara looked at him, pouting, and exclaimed, “Go away!”

“But I am weak and suffering,” he said; “will you not lighten my load?” At last Clara took the flowers out of his basket. They were very beautiful and she laid them in her lap.

“My daughter,” said the old man, “you have not lightened my basket; you have taken only the pleasant things out of it, and have left the heavy stones. Please lift one of them out of the basket.”

“Go away!” exclaimed Clara angrily. “I will not touch those dirty stones!”

No sooner had she said this than the old man began to change before her and to become so bright and white that he looked like a column of crystal. He took one of the stones and cast it out of the window, and it flew and flew, and fell on the eastern side of a grove where the sun shone first every morning.

Then the crystal old man took the flowers out of Clara’s lap. They were wet with dew, and he shook them over her head and exclaimed, “Change into a flower! Go and stand by the stone till your shadow shall be marked upon it.”

In a second, Clara was growing by the side of the wide, flat stone, and the moon cast upon it her shadow,—the shadow of a beautiful flower with a long and slender stem. All night she was very wretched. In the morning, she could not help looking at herself in a brook which came close up to the stone; then she recognised the beautiful flower and knew that her name was now Columbine.

All day her shadow fell upon the stone, but when the sun went away, the shadow, too, went away. At night her faint shadow lay upon the stone but when the moon went away, her shadow, also, went away. And the stone lay still all day and all night, and did not care for the flower nor feel its shadow.

Clara longed to be a little girl again. She asked the stone to tell her how, but the hard stone would not answer. She asked the brook, but the brook whispered, “Ask the Bobolink!” She asked the Bobolink, but he merely alighted upon the flower and teetered up and down. She could not learn from the Bobolink how to make her shadow stay upon the stone.

Then she asked a spider and he spun a web from her bright blossoms, fastened it to the stone, bent her over, and tied her up, till she feared she could never get loose. But all his nice films did her no good; her shadow would not stay upon the stone.

She asked the wind to help her. The wind swept away the spider’s web, and blew so hard that the flower lay its whole length upon the stone; but when the wind left her and she rose up, there was no shadow marked upon the stone.

“What is beauty worth,” thought Clara, “if it grows by the side of a stone that does not feel it, nor care for it?”

She asked the dew to help her. And the dew said, “How can I help you! I live contentedly in darkness, I put on my beauty only to please others. I let the sun come through my drops, though I know it will consume me.”

“I wish I were dew,” said Clara, “for then, I, too, could do some good. Now my beauty does no good, and I am wasting it every day upon a stone.” When Clara breathed this kind wish, there were glad flutters and whispers all around.

The next day a beautiful child came that way. She was gathering ferns, and mosses, and flowers. Whenever she saw a tuft of moss, she would ask, “Please, dear moss, may I take you?” And when she saw a beautiful branch with scarlet leaves, she would ask, “Dear bush, may I take these leaves?”

When she saw the beautiful columbine growing by the side of a stone, she asked, “Oh, sweet Columbine, may I pluck you?” And the fairy flower said, gently, “I must not go till my shadow is fastened upon the stone.”

Then the girl took from her case a pencil and in a moment traced the shadow of the columbine upon the stone. When she had done this, she reached out her hand, took the stem low down, and broke it off.

At that moment Clara sprang up from her chair by the window, and there stood her mother saying, “My dear daughter, you should not fall asleep by an open window, not even in summer. How damp you are! Come, hasten to bed.”

It was many days before Clara could persuade herself that she had only dreamed. It was months before she told the dream to her mother. And when she told it, her mother said:

“Ah, Clara, would that all little girls might dream, if only it made them as good as your dream has made you.”

THE SNOWDROP

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

A deep snow covered the ground for it was winter time. The air was cold and the sharp wind blew, but in one tiny house all was snug and warm. There under earth and snow in its bulb lay a little flower.

One day when the rain fell, little drops trickled through the snow coverlet down into the earth and told the flower bulb about the light above. And presently a sunbeam, pointed and slender, pierced its way through the ground and tapped on the little bulb.

“Come in,” said the flower.

“I cannot,” said the sunbeam. “I am not strong enough to lift the latch. I shall be stronger when spring comes.”

“When will it be spring?” asked the flower.

Soon many other little sunbeams tapped on the door of the brown house and the flower asked each of them,

“When will it be spring?”

But the ground was covered with snow and every night there was ice on the water. Spring seemed so far away that the little flower sighed and said impatiently:

“How long it is! How long it is! I feel quite cribbed and cramped. I _must_ stretch out a little. I _must_ rise up; lift the latch and look out. Then I shall say merrily to the spring, ‘Good morning!’”

Now the walls of the flower’s house had been softened by the rain, warmed by the earth and snow and tapped upon by the sunbeams. So when the flower within pushed and pushed against the walls they gently gave way. Then up from under the earth shot the flower with a pale green bud on its tender stalk and long slender leaves that curled around it for a screen. The glittering snow was very cold but easier to push through than the solid brown earth.

“Welcome, welcome!” sang the evening sunbeam. “Welcome, sweet little blossom.”

The flower lifted its head above the snow into the world of light; the sunbeams cheered it with kisses until it unfolded itself white as the snow and decked with green stripes.

“Thou art a little too early,” said the wind and the weather. “We still hold sway. It is entirely too cold for thee.”

“Beautiful flower,” sang the sunbeams, “how lovely thou art in thy white purity. Thou art the herald of Spring,—our first flower. Thy fair white bell shall ring the glad tidings of Spring over towns and fields. The snow shall melt, the bitter wind shall be driven away. Now earth shall send forth all her lovely blossoms and thou shalt have beautiful fellowship. Welcome!”

The words of the sunbeams gave deep delight to the flower. It bowed its head in gladness and humility. The weather was cold enough to freeze it to pieces—such a delicate little flower—but it was stronger than any one knew. It was strong in its glad faith in the spring and the message of the sunbeams. And so with patient hope it stood in its white dress in the white snow, bowing its head when the snow flakes fell and courageously lifting it again when the sunbeams scattered the clouds.

“A snowdrop,” shouted the children who came running into the garden. “There it stands so pretty, so beautiful—the first, the only one. It is spring’s messenger.

“Spring’s messenger,” echoed from the keen morning air.

WHAT THE DANDELION TOLD

CLARA MAETZEL

Mother Earth and the little flower fairies had been very busy indeed getting ready for their great Spring opening. For weeks and weeks they had been preparing all the little flower children so that they would be ready to respond to the call of the robin and to the caresses of the sun and the soft west wind.

First of all, Snowdrop had been made ready because she was one of the very first to venture out into the world. And she and her many little sisters, very prim and neat in their white starched frocks, sat quite near the door. Sometimes Snowdrop would not wait for the robin and the sun to call her, but she would slip out quietly at the first warm shower. Nearby sat a whole row of happy Crocuses, gay and pretty in their bell-shaped dresses of white and purple and gold. Violets, nestling in their soft green coats, were there, and “Daffy-down-dilly dressed in a green petticoat and a new gown” was quite ready to “come to town.” Then there was dainty Spring Beauty and the proud and flaming Tulip and all the other dear, early flowers that make the world so beautiful after ice and snow are gone.

Yes,—every one was very busy and very happy,—every one,—except one poor, forlorn, little flower that sat, or rather lay, all alone in one corner. He did not look spick and span like the others, but his green coat hung about him quite wilted and soiled and his golden head drooped. He seemed very unhappy indeed.

“Come, come, Dandelion,—do tell us what has happened; you look quite crushed,” exclaimed one of the fairies, stopping long enough in her task of mixing colours to notice the dejected little flower.

“Yes, Dandelion, do tell us,” cried Crocus who was all ready to push his little flower face out into the open air and who was waiting for the first opportunity to do so.

“Dandelion will tell us what has happened,” softly whispered Violet as she came closer to what was left of poor Dandelion.

“Well,—since all of you seem so interested I will tell you what happened. It certainly took all the conceit out of me,—I still feel weak and pale. You know that we Dandelions are bold and venturesome folks and some of us make our appearance in warm and sunny places long before any of the rest of you have the courage to come out. Indeed it has long been a matter of pride with us to have some person find us even before Snowdrop makes her appearance.”

Snowdrop looked hurt at this, but said nothing and Dandelion continued:

“And so it happened that several of us slipped out and sprouted quietly and happily in Farmer Brown’s front yard. It was such a nice place,—the sun shone brightly and coaxed us to put our best blossoms—they were so large and yellow that I am sure they must have looked almost as fine as Chrysanthemum.”

Several of the flowers cast startled looks into the dark corner where the Chrysanthemum brothers and sisters were sleeping. But their slumbers were so sound, since they would not wake until autumn, that they did not hear Dandelion’s boastful remark.

“We made a beautiful spot of yellow on the lawn,” continued Dandelion. “Well, yesterday Farmer and Mrs. Brown were out in the garden and they saw us.

“‘Oh, see the dandelions! How early they are this year. I shall have to call the children.’”

“With that Mrs. Brown went into the house to call her little boy and girl who came out and greeted us joyfully.

“‘Let me see, Jack, if you like butter,’ said Ruth, as she held one of my blossoms under her brother’s chin. It surely looked quite yellow by reflection and of course this was a sure sign that he liked butter.

“‘Come, Ruth, let’s see if we can get enough stems to make a chain for you,’ cried Jack, and they found enough of my hollow stems to make a chain to go around Ruth’s little white throat.

“By this time I felt we were doing much to make the children happy and I lifted my head proudly and whispered to my companions that surely we were useful as well as beautiful. Just then Mrs. Brown called the children into the house and we were left alone in the garden.

“But not for long—Alas! Farmer Brown who had gone away while the children were with us now returned with a strange, sharp and shining tool in his hand. He came straight to where we were growing so happily and said:

“‘Now we’ll see whether this new weeding knife won’t kill these pesky dandelions. Every year they spread more and more so that by and by there’ll not be any grass. Perhaps by starting in early to weed them out we can get rid of the pests!’ With that he dug the instrument deep into the ground and pulled up all my lovely little brothers and sisters. I alone remained, but even I was badly bruised as you can see, and I have come back to tell you how cruelly I have been treated. Wasn’t it an unkind thing? I had always thought that people loved us,—for we make the fields and meadows glow with the sun’s own colour.” And poor Dandelion drooped his golden head and was as sad as it is possible for a golden headed flower to be.

All the other flower children had looked very solemn and sympathetic during Dandelion’s story and when he had finished, they crowded about him.

“It’s just a shame,” murmured Crocus; “I hope no one will treat me so rudely.”

“Yes indeed,” whispered Snowdrop, “it would certainly be a painful misfortune to have one’s roots cut to pieces by a patent weeder,” and she shuddered so violently that her stiff little petticoats fairly shook.

But Mother Earth and the fairies only smiled and said nothing, for they knew quite well that it would take many, many farmers and more weeders than they could ever hope to buy to get rid of Dandelion and his numerous brothers and sisters.

And the little fairy who was Dandelion’s particular friend laid her tiny hand on his tousled golden head as she whispered, “Never mind, Dandelion dear, you are the children’s friend and companion and good old Mother Earth will never let you perish. She sends forth more of your kind than any other; she has made you so sturdy and strong that you can thrive almost anywhere—and I truly think that she loves you best.”

We may shut our eyes
But we can’t help knowing
That skies are blue,
And the grass is growing.

_James Russell Lowell._

A GREAT FAMILY

AGNES MACLELLAN DAULTON

It was a lovely day in May, and the Dandelion family that lived near the big gate were lifting their pretty golden heads to greet the sun. Here and there a grandfather or grandmother Dandelion stood crowned with silver, and, let us whisper it softly, one or two were quite bald, for a playful little breeze had sent their hair a-sailing, and he chuckled at his joke, the naughty breeze.

Now one grandmother stood upon a little knoll, and so was much taller than the rest. Indeed, she was the chief grandmother of the family, and much respected for her wisdom. And she was very handsome and stately, holding her graceful silver head high above the others.

“A story, a story,” coaxed her grandchildren, turning their eager faces toward her. Some of them were tiny buds, but they all begged for a story.

“No, children, no,” she replied, in a sweet, grandmotherly tone. “Really, my dears, you have had far more stories than are good for you, and I must not let you grow up uneducated. I think we will have a short lesson in family history.”

The little Dandelions sighed.

“Now,” she went on, “how many of you know why we are called Dandelions?”

And—will you believe it?—not one stupid little Dandelion could answer!

“That is just what I expected,” said grandmother, sternly, eyeing them over her glasses. “My, my! this is very sad!”

Then one little Dandelion, prompted by his mother, said he supposed it had something to do with dandies, while another bright little thing lisped out that she guessed it was because they were as fierce as lions.

“No, no!” and grandmother shook her head so briskly a silver hair went flying.

“Look at your leaves,” she said kindly, “and observe the edges. Learn to notice, florets; learn to notice.”

“The edges are pointed like sharp teeth, please, grandmother,” half whispered one bashful little fellow.

“Exactly,” said grandmother, proceeding learnedly; “our name is from the Latin, _dens leonis_, meaning lion’s tooth, but our botanical name is Taraxacum.”

“Oh, my!” sighed the little buds, for they didn’t understand a word of it.

“Our roots have healing properties, and they are employed in making medicine, while our leaves are used in the spring for food; so we are useful as well as ornamental.” And the grandmother beamed with pride.

“But, children, you must also know that we belong to the great and noble family of _Compositæ_.”

“Oh, dear!” gasped the little Dandelions.

“Now you know composite means made up of many parts; that is, each blossom is made up of many little florets. Study each other’s heads and you will understand my meaning. Now in this great family of _Compositæ_ there are many, many flowers besides the Dandelions. In fact, my children, we have over nine thousand relatives. Sunflowers, marigolds, asters, goldenrod, boneset, tansy, lettuce, and the daisy—all these belong to our family. Not only are we many, but we have the famous and the great among us—the thistle, royal flower of Scotland; the cornflower of Germany; the chrysanthemum, the emblem of brave little Japan—all these are composite flowers, our royal relatives.”

The Dandelion family wildly applauded, and grandmother graciously bowed her acknowledgment.

“But, my children,” she went on, “I would not have you forget we have also black sheep in the family—Spanish needles, ragweed, bitterweed, and beggar ticks; these, too, we must own, even though we bow our heads in shame. But so it is in all great families.”

Just at this moment the gardener came whirring along with the lawn mower, and alas and alack, not a single Dandelion was left to tell the tale!

But the little winged seeds from grandmother’s silver crown sailed away, carrying wisdom, I doubt not, to many another Dandelion family.

THE BIRTH OF THE VIOLET

A LEGEND

The raindrops were kept busy one morning in the garden of the fairies. There were many flowers to be washed clean of the dust that had dulled their beautiful colours, and the green of the trees must be made bright once more; and to leave without a gambol with the little waves of the brook was not to be thought of. So the raindrops fell early in the morning, but in the afternoon the sky became clear and there was promise in the beautiful rainbow that the raindrops’ work was done, for that day at least.

“Isn’t our garden beautiful after a shower?” said one fairy to another sitting beside her.

“Yes, the dust covers the colours of the flowers almost as soon as we have painted them. But see the gold of those daffodils! I like the reds and blues of the other flowers, too. They seem brighter than ever to-day. Sometimes I sit all day and look at them.”

“Oh! we have a rainbow this afternoon. It always looks to me like a great garden of flowers stretched in bands across the sky. I like to think that its yellow and red and blue are made up of flowers like these in our garden here.”

“Do you see that colour next to the green? I love it; it is so dark and deep. Many times I have wished we might have a flower on earth just like it.”

“Surely you, Fairy Artist, would have no trouble to make a colour like that; at least, it would do no harm for you to try.”

The fairy artist sat with her eyes turned toward the rainbow until it had faded from sight, and long after the sun had sunk to rest, she sat alone under the trees, thinking.

One morning she called all the fairies to her. “Dear fairies,” she said, “I am going to try to make a colour like that dark one in the rainbow. It may take me a long, long while, but one cannot give the children a greater joy than to add a new colour to the flowers on earth.”

No one knew better than she that a great task lay before her. Many days and weeks she tried. Sometimes the mixture was lighter than the colour in the rainbow, and sometimes it seemed too dark—never quite what she wished it to be.

Once, as she stood before the large bowl, mixing and stirring patiently—she stopped, and the fairies in the garden heard a shout of joy: “I have it! the beautiful colour! the beautiful colour!”

They hurried to the place where she always stood with her bowl and brush.

“See, it is the colour, indeed,” they said; but, as they looked into the bowl, the beautiful colour began to fade, and soon it was not at all like the colour she had longed for.

“Ah, I see,” said the artist fairy, sadly, “it is of no use to mix together these paints that I have been using. We must gather my material from all the colours of earth. My dear fairies, you must all help.” Many were sent far and wide to bring from the earth clays of every colour they could find. The artist fairy worked on faithfully and patiently.

One day when she had worked harder and longer than usual, she heard one say, “Surely, Artist Fairy, you do not mean to work all the evening? See, the sun is ready to sink.”

“Just a little longer; I feel sure that the colour will come before sunset. Look, does it not begin even now to change?”

The fairies looked into the bowl and all exclaimed at once, “The colour at last! It is indeed the deep colour of the rainbow!”

“Let us carry the bowl to the top of the bank and at moonlight we will rejoice over the new joy that has come to us.”

It was a small bank that overlooked a little brook. Flowers had never grown there and sometimes the fairies felt sad when they looked upon that bare spot in their garden. Perhaps the great tree that spread out its branches took more than its share of the sunshine, but the fairies loved this bank. Moonbeams always seemed to lie so still there. “It’s just the place for our moonlight revel!” said one.

All the creatures of the fairies’ garden came to the rejoicing. The night was glorious. The moon sent down her silvery beams earlier than usual, although the fireflies insisted that there was no need of her shining so brightly, and that she might throw all her beams to the waves in the brook, for they looked so beautiful with a silver covering. Not a grasshopper went to bed, and the frog made the music for the dance, at which the cricket felt sad, for she knew her voice could not be heard above his. The flowers sang their sweetest songs about the new colour that was to come among them. It was not late when the fairies joined hands and danced around the bowl. Perhaps this moonlight revel would have lasted many hours longer, but as the fairies were finishing the dance, one of them touched the precious bowl and alas! the next moment they saw the beautiful colour flow in tiny dark streams down the hillside. For a little while it glistened beneath the rays of the moon, and then it sank into the dark earth. The fairies stood and watched it, helpless.

“It is all lost. It is all gone in a moment,” said the Artist Fairy, as she turned for comfort to the rest.

“No, no, my dear Fairy. What you have once done you can do again.”

“I do not remember how it was made. No, I cannot get it again. It is gone forever.”

“Do not say that, I beg of you. Have you not heard it said that ‘nothing is lost’?”

* * * * *

Once more the raindrops visited the garden, and the fairies worked all day long and all night long before everything was done.

“It is so refreshing when the garden has been washed clean again of its dust.”

“See,” cried one. “See our bank this morning.”

“It is covered with a carpet of purple! Come, let us look closer,” called another.

“It is the colour! It is the colour!” said the Artist Fairy, as she hastened toward the bank. “Nothing is lost,” she added, softly as she looked closer. For purple violets had been born that morning while the raindrops fell.

God does not send us strange flowers every year.
When the spring winds blow o’er the pleasant places,
The same dear things lift up the same fair faces.
The violet is here!

It all comes back; the odour, grace and hue;
Each sweet relation of its life repeated.
No blank is left, no looking-for is cheated:
It is the thing we knew.

A LYRIC OF JOY

BLISS CARMAN

Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune,
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea;
A host in the sunshine, a snowdrift in June,
The people God sends us to set our hearts free.

The bob-o-links rallied them up from the dell,
The orioles whistled them out of the wood;
And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well,”
And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good.”

AMONG THE TREE-TOPS

ROBIN’S CAROL[7]

This is the carol the Robin throws
Over the edge of the valley;
Listen how boldly it flows,
Sally on sally:

Tirra-lirra,
Early morn,
New born!
Day is near,
Clear, clear.
Down the river
All a-quiver,
Fish are breaking;
Time for waking.
Tup, tup, tup!
Do you know?
All clear—
Wake up!

_Henry van Dyke._

HOW THE BIRDS CAME

AN INDIAN LEGEND

“Many years ago,” says the old Indian Grandmother, “the Great Spirit visited the earth. As he walked over valley and hill he said, ‘It is all beautiful and good. But the Great Spirit loves the trees best. See how they make the hills and valleys radiant with their green. Earth would be fairer still,’ said the Great Spirit, ‘if there were trees everywhere. I would have great forests cover the mountain sides. I would see trees as far as my eye can reach across the land. I would have a tree spring up wherever my foot touches the earth!’ And it was as the Great Spirit wished. As he wandered up and down the mountains and valleys and across the plains, little trees sprang up in his footsteps, until the whole earth, like the hills and valleys, was radiant in green. ‘The Great Spirit loves the little trees best,’ he said, when he looked upon them. ‘Little trees, I will watch over you and guard you. I will send gentle rains that you may have water to drink. I will send my warm sun to shine upon you. And you must grow and grow and grow.’ All summer long the Great Spirit cared for them, and when the first summer had passed and the winter came, the little trees had grown until they spread their branches far and wide.

“But one autumn day a great change came over the radiant green. All the leaves on the trees turned to beautiful colours—red, yellow, brown, gold. ‘They are beautiful, beautiful,’ said the Great Spirit. ‘My trees have never been so beautiful before.’

“As he spoke a gentle wind stirred the branches and the Great Spirit saw the leaves drop from the trees, flutter through the air and fall to the ground.

“‘See,’ he exclaimed, ‘the leaves of my trees fall to the earth where they will wither and die. This shall not be. Behold, my leaves, I am the Great Spirit. I will give you breath and strength. You shall not die—you shall live forever.’

“He breathed softly upon the coloured leaves. In a moment hundreds of leaves moved, then fluttered, then flew away—a flock, of beautiful birds. The red-brown oak leaves became robins; all the yellow and gold leaves became yellow birds. The red-maple leaves flew away beautiful red birds, while the withered brown leaves scattered around, sprang up sparrows and larks.”

The Indian Grandmother says that is how we got our first birds, and that is why the birds love the trees and always live among them.

HOW THE BIRDS LEARNED TO BUILD NESTS[8]

JAMES BALDWIN

There is an old story which says that the magpie was the first bird to build a nest.

One day all the birds came to her and said, “Mrs. Magpie, won’t you teach us how to make pretty nests like your own?”

“Oh, yes,” said the magpie, kindly. “I will show you just how it is done.” Then she told them to sit around her, and she would build a nest while they were looking on. She said, “You have only to notice what I do.”

She brought some mud from the side of the brook and made it into a kind of round cake. The birds sat very still, and watched her until the cake was finished. Then the thrush cried out, “Oh, I see how the nest is built! You first make a cake of mud and then pat it down in the middle.” And she flew away to try for herself; and no thrush has learned anything about nest-building since.

The magpie next took some twigs, and laid them round the cake of mud. “Say no more!” cried the blackbird. “I understand it all.” Away he flew to the green thickets by the river; and that is how blackbirds build their nests to this very day.

Then the magpie put a thin layer of mud on the twigs, and smoothed it a little with her beak. “Oh, that is all that I need to know,” said the wise owl. “Who—who—who would have thought it so simple a thing?” He flew to the top of a great oak tree, where he sat for a long time, looking at the moon and saying, “Who—who—who!”

Then the magpie took some long, slender twigs, and twined them round the outside. “That is just the thing!” cried the song sparrow, and off he went. And song sparrows still make their nests by twining twigs.

After this, the magpie took some feathers and fine moss, and lined the nest until it was a very comfortable place indeed.

“That suits me!” said the starling, and off he flew. And everybody knows that starlings have built well-lined nests ever since.

The magpie kept on working and working. But every bird, when he had learned a little about nest-building, flew away without waiting to the end of the lesson. At last no one was left but the turtledove. It had paid no attention to what the magpie was doing, and so had not learned anything at all.

It sat on a branch above the magpie’s nest, and kept saying over and over again, “Take two, two, two, two!” But it was looking far away toward the blue mountains in the west, and its thoughts were all with its dear mate whom a cruel hawk had lately snatched away.

“Take two, two, two, two,” mourned the dove. The magpie heard this just as she was twining a slender twig around the top of her nest. So, without looking up, she said, “One will be enough.”

But the dove kept on saying, “Take two, two, two, two.” This made the magpie angry, and she said, “Don’t I tell you that one will be enough?”

“Take two, two, two, two!” still cried the turtledove. At last the magpie looked up and saw that no bird was near her but the silly dove.

“I’ll never give another lesson in nest building!” she cried. And she flew away and left the dove alone in the tree.

It was no use, after that, for any bird to ask the magpie how to make a nest; and, from that day to this, no bird has learned anything new about its trade.