Chapter V: Introduction (5)

Thus chattered the grub of a Dragon fly as he darted about with his companions in and out among the plants at the bottom of a beautiful pond in the centre of a wood.

“Who cares what the Frog does?” answered one who overheard the Grub’s question, “what is it to us?”

“Look out for food for yourself and let other people’s business alone,” cried another. “But I should like to know,” said the grub. “I can see all of you when you pass by me among the plants in the water here, and when I don’t see you any longer I wonder where you have gone. I followed the Frog just now as he went upwards, and all at once he went to the side of the water, then he began to disappear and presently he was gone. Did he leave this world? And where did he go?”

“You idle fellow,” cried another. “See what a good bite you have missed with your wonderings about nothing.” So saying he seized an insect which was flitting right in front of the Grub.

Suddenly there was a heavy splash in the water and a large yellow Frog swam down to the bottom among the grubs.

“Ask the Frog himself,” suggested a minnow as he darted by overhead.

Such a chance of satisfying himself was not to be lost, and after taking two or three turns round the roots of a water-lily, the grub screwed up his courage and, approaching the Frog, asked, “Is it permitted to a very unhappy creature to speak?”

The Frog turned his gold edged eyes upon him in surprise and answered, “Very unhappy creatures had better be silent. I never talk but when I’m happy.”

“But I shall be happy if I may talk,” said the Grub.

“Talk away then,” said the Frog.

“But it is something I want to ask you.”

“Ask away,” exclaimed the Frog.

“What is there beyond the world?” inquired the Grub in a very quiet way.

“What world do you mean—this pond?” asked the Frog, rolling his goggle eyes round and round.

“I mean the place we live in whatever you may choose to call it. I call it the world,” said the Grub.

“Do you, sharp little fellow? Then what is the place you don’t live in?”

“That’s just what I want you to tell me,” replied the little Grub.

“Oh, indeed, little one. I shall tell you, then. It is dry land.”

“Can one swim about there?” inquired the Grub.

“I should think not,” chuckled the Frog.

“Dry land is not water. That is just what it is _not_. Dry land is something like the sludge at the bottom of this pond, only it is not wet because there’s no water.”

“Really! What is there then?”

“That’s the difficulty,” exclaimed Froggy.

“There is something, of course, they call it air, but how to explain it I don’t know. Now just take my advice and ask no more silly questions. I tell you the thing is not worth your troubling yourself about. But I admire your spirit,” continued the Frog. “I will make you an offer. If you choose to take a seat on my back I will carry you up to dry land and you can judge for yourself what is there and how you like it.”

“I accept with gratitude, honoured Frog,” said the little Grub.

“Drop yourself down on my back, then, and cling to me as well as you can. Come now, hold fast.”

The little Grub obeyed and the Frog, swimming gently upwards, soon reached the bulrushes by the water’s side.

“Hold fast,” repeated the Frog, and then, raising his head out of the pond, he clambered up the bank and got upon the grass.

“Now, then, here we are,” exclaimed the Frog. “What do you think of dry land?”

But no one answered.

“Hallow! Gone? That’s just what I was afraid of. He has floated off my back, stupid fellow. But perhaps he has made his way to the water’s edge here after all, and then I can help him out. I’ll wait about and see.”

And away went Froggy with a leap along the grass by the edge of the pond glancing every now and then among the bulrushes to see if he could spy his little friend, the dragon fly grub.

But what had become of the little grub? He had really clung to the Frog’s back with all his might; but the moment the mask of his face began to issue from the water, a shock seemed to strike his frame and he reeled from his resting place back into the pond panting and struggling for life.

“Terrible,” he cried as soon as he came to himself. “The Frog has deceived me. He cannot go there, at any rate.” And with these words, the little Grub moved away to his old companions to talk over with them what he had done and where he had been.

“It was terrible, terrible. But the sun is beginning to set and I must take a turn around the pond in search of food.” And away went the little dragon fly grub for a ramble among the water plants.

On his return who should he see sitting calmly on a stone at the bottom of the pond but his friend the yellow Frog.

“You here!” cried the startled Grub. “You never left this world at all then. How you deceived me, Frog!”

“Clumsy fellow,” replied the Frog. “Why did you not sit fast as I told you?”

The little Grub soon told his story while the Frog sat staring at him in silence out of his great goggle eyes.

“And now,” said the Grub, “since there is nothing beyond this world, all your stories of going there must be mere inventions. As I have no wish to be fooled by any more of your tales, I will bid you a very good evening.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said the Frog, “until you have heard my story.”

“As you wish,” answered the Grub.

Then the Frog told him how he had lingered by the edge of the pond in hope of seeing the little Grub again, how he had hopped about in the grass, how he had peeped among the bulrushes.

“And at last,” he continued, “though I did not see you yourself, I saw a sight which has more interest for you than for any other creature that lives,” and then the Frog stopped speaking.

“What was it?” asked the inquisitive little Grub.

“Up the polished green stalk of one of those bulrushes I saw a little dragon-fly grub slowly and gradually climb till he had left the water behind him. As I continued to look, I noticed that a rent seemed to come in your friend’s body. I cannot tell you in what way the thing happened, but after many struggles, there came from it one of those beautiful creatures who float through the air and dazzle the eyes of all who catch glimpses of them as they pass—a glorious Dragon-fly!

“As if just waking from a dream he lifted his wings out of the covering. Though shrivelled and damp at first they stretched and expanded in the sunshine till they glistened as if with fire. I saw the beautiful creature at last poise himself for a second or two in the air before he took flight. I saw the four gauzy wings flash back the sunshine that was poured on them. I heard the clash with which they struck the air and I saw his body give out rays of glittering blue and green as he darted along and away over the water in circles that seemed to know no end. Then I plunged below to find you out and tell you the good news.”

“It’s a wonderful story,” said the little Grub.

“A wonderful story, indeed,” repeated the Frog.

“And you really think, then, that the glorious creature you saw was once a—”

“Silence,” cried the Frog. “All your questions have been answered. It is getting dark here in your world. I must return to my grassy home on dry land. Go to rest, little fellow, and awake in hopes.”

The Frog swam close to the bank and clambered up its side while the little Grub returned to his companions to wait and hope.

THE CICADA’S STORY[11]

AGNES MCCLELLAN DAULTON

Once upon a time a grasshopper introduced me to Mr. Periodical Cicada. He was a very pleasant fellow and not a bit stuck up, although the poets have written of him, and almost every one knows him by the name of seventeen year locust, though he really is not a locust at all. I was pleased to meet him, and asked him if he would mind telling me what he did all those seventeen years, and he replied:

“Not at all, now that they are over it is very pleasant to talk about them.” Then he began his story. “Seventeen years ago this June, in an old orchard, my mother tucked away in the green twigs of a mossy apple tree hundreds of little cradles. I was sleeping in one and in the others were my brothers and sisters. While my mother was at work our father sat on a twig close by and sang the merriest lullaby that babies ever listened to.

“Several weeks later we little ones crept out of our cradles and dropped lightly to the ground beneath the tree; then each of us dug a little burrow and hid ourselves away in the warm, moist soil near sappy rootlets that gave us our food.

“We were very tiny at first, but little by little we grew, always making our cells bigger to fit, so that we were as snug and cosy as babies could be, only it was very dark and lonely.

“The rootlets would tell us when it was spring, of how the pink and white blossoms were holding up perfumed cups to the blue sky; of the tree musical with the humming of the bees that came for honey; then of summer, when birds nested and sang among the green boughs; later of autumn, of apples mellow and ripe, globes of red and gold, that fell with a muffled thud in the long, green grass; and at last of the winter, and of the fleecy snow that clothed the old tree in soft white. They whispered of heat, of cold, of sunshine and rain, of freezing winds and balmy breezes, but we baby Cicadas neither understood nor cared, and there tucked away in our gloomy cells we lived seventeen long years.

“But one May day, in the sweetest of apple blossoming time, all we little Cicadas made up our minds to go out into the world and seek our fortunes. Then every one of us began digging and carrying up to the surface tiny pellets of soft clay.

“My, but we did work hard, and by the time the big sun had hidden his round face in the west each of us had built a funny little chimney six inches high.”

“Oh, how lovely!” I cried; “and please, Mr. Periodical Cicada, what were they for?”

But the Cicada only shook his head at me gravely, as much as to say that it was a Cicada family secret.

“When the chimneys were done,” he went on, “we all scrambled up and began hunting a safe place to rest. I soon found a fine twig where I held on for dear life. I wasn’t very pretty, being dressed in a brown coat, and besides, I had gotten very muddy building my chimney. Now while I was hanging there hoping to dry off—click—and goodness me! if my little brown jacket hadn’t split down my back from collar to waistband. I felt very bad, for even if it was a muddy, ugly brown coat, it was all I had, and I had no idea where to get another in the big, cold world I had just come into. But when I stepped out of my coat to see if I could mend it, my stockings and shoes came off with it and there I hung, if you will believe me, dressed in the prettiest cream-coloured suit you ever saw. I never was more surprised in my life.

“Just then, I happened to catch a glimpse of one of my sisters, and she also was in cream, and there was a brother; yes, there was the whole family, and every one of us in a lovely suit of cream-colour. But, oh, when we got a good look at each other we laughed till we almost fell from our perches, for each of us had pink eyes and heavy, fierce eyebrows, and queer humps on the sides of our necks. Such a ridiculous looking lot of youngsters you never saw. Beside us hung our old, muddy clothes, coat, shoes, stockings, and all. If you look in the orchard you can often find these old clothes long after the Cicadas have flown away.”

“Oh, Mr. Cicada, how I should love to have seen you!” I exclaimed. “I shall look for little brown coats as soon as I get home.”

“This was only the beginning,” went on Periodical. “The most wonderful things were to come; for slowly, slowly those humps on our necks began to swell, and after a time they opened out into two lovely, gauzy wings, veined with pearl colour. When the great round moon came gliding up over the orchard and shed down upon us her gentle, silvery light, there we hung like some strange, beautiful flowers. The apple blossoms thought we were flowers and whispered to us some of the prettiest honey and pollen secrets; they were so provoked when we flew away and they found out their mistake—but they need not fear for we will never tell; no, indeed, never!

“When morning came we found our beauty had been very fleeting, for our lovely cream-coloured suits had changed to greenish-brown, and our wings, though still transparent, were dull of colour. The males among us were drummers. Deep within my body, I carried two drums, each being covered by a plate that you can easily see on the outside. Now, I don’t need drumsticks, for my drums are air instruments, and by twitching my muscles I can snap my drumheads faster and faster, making the gayest sort of a roll-call. Listen to this: _Whirr-r-r-r-r!_”

EDITH AND THE BEES

HELEN KELLER

One beautiful morning last June, a sweet little girl thought she would go out into the garden and pick some flowers for one of her playmates, who was sick and obliged to stay shut up in the house this fragrant summer morning. “Tommy shall have the most beautiful flowers in the garden,” thought Edith, as she took her little basket and pruning scissors, and ran out into the garden. She looked like a lovely fairy or a sunbeam, flitting about the rose-bushes. I think she was the most exquisite rose in all the garden herself. Her heart was full of thoughts of Tommy, while she worked away busily. “I wish I knew something that would please Tommy more than anything else!” she said to herself. “I would love to make him happy,” and she sat down on the edge of a beautiful fountain to think.

While she sat there thinking, two dear little birds began to take their bath in the lovely, sparkling water that rippled and danced in the sunshine. They would plunge into the water and come out dripping, perch on the side of the fountain for a moment, and plunge in again. Then they would shake the bright drops from their feathers, and fly away singing sweeter than ever. Edith thought the little birds enjoyed their bath as much as her baby brother did his.

When they had flown away to a distant tree, Edith noticed a beautiful pink rosebud, more beautiful than any she had yet seen. “Oh, how lovely you are!” she cried; and, running to the bush where it was, she bent down the branch, that she might examine it more closely, when out of the heart of the rose came a small insect and stung her pretty cheek. The little girl began to weep loudly, and ran to her father who was working in another part of the yard. “Why, my little girl!” said he, “a bee has stung you.” He drew out the sting, and bathed her swollen cheek in cool water, at the same time telling her many interesting things about the wonderful little bees.

“Do not cry any more, my child,” said her father, “and I will take you to see a kind gentleman who keeps many hives of bees.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Edith, brushing away her tears. “I will run and get ready now.”

The bee-master, as everybody called the old man who kept the bees, was very glad to show his little pets, and to tell Edith all he knew about them. He led her to a hive, made wholly of glass, so that she might watch the bees at their work.

“There are three kinds of bees in every hive,” said the gentleman. “That large bee in the middle is the queen bee. She is the most important bee in the hive. She has a sting, but seldom makes use of it. Those busy bees are the worker bees. It was probably a worker that stung you this morning, my little girl,” said the bee-master.

Edith thought she did not like the worker bee as well as the others; but when she heard what industrious little workers they are, and how they take all the care of the young bees, build the cells of wax, and bring in the honey, she felt much more affection for them.

“What do the bees do in winter when there are no flowers from which to gather honey?” inquired Edith.

“They sleep during the long, cold winter days, and awaken when the warm spring returns,” replied her kind instructor.

“Now,” said Edith’s father, “we had better go, or you will not get to see Tommy to-day.”

Then the little girl thanked her new friend for telling her so much about his interesting pets, and promised to come and see him as often as she could.

“Oh, father!” cried Edith, as they walked homeward, “I am almost glad that the naughty little bee stung me this morning, for now I shall have something interesting to tell Tommy.”

THE LITTLE TADPOLE[12]

KATHARINE PYLE

The brook flows down past the field, around the hill, and through the wood.

There are all sorts of things in the brook: water cress and snails, and little darting fishes, eelgrass and crawfish, and under a stone where the water is cool and deep a little brown lizard used to live.

The lizard was a busy little thing, always anxious about something or other. She told the crawfish when to shed their shells; she showed the snails where to find dead leaves; and she attended to every one else’s business as well as her own.

One day when she was crawling up the stream, she saw a tadpole lying in a sunny shallow, with its nose almost out of the water.

“That tadpole oughtn’t to lie there in the sun,” said the lizard to herself. “It’s too warm. I think I’ll tell him.” So she crawled up to where the tadpole was lying.

As she came nearer she heard the tadpole whispering softly to himself. “Oh, how beautiful! how beautiful!” he was saying.

“What is so beautiful?” asked the lizard curiously, looking about her.

“That singing!” cried the tadpole. “Don’t you hear it?”

And now that the lizard listened, she did indeed hear a perfect chorus of birds singing their morning songs in wood and field and thicket.

“Yes, it’s pretty enough,” said the lizard. “But you oughtn’t to be lying here in the hot sun. You’ll make yourself sick.”

The tadpole only wriggled impatiently, and then lay still, listening. But presently he turned his little dull eyes on the lizard. “I suppose you have often seen birds coming down to the stream to bathe,” he said. “Do you think I look anything like one?”

“Like a bird!” cried the lizard. “No, you don’t.”

“Well, I don’t see why not,” said the tadpole. “To be sure, I haven’t any legs, but I have a tail.”

“Yes,” said the lizard, “but birds have beaks and feathers and wings as well, and you haven’t anything but a body and a tail.”

“That is true,” said the tadpole, and he sighed heavily.

As the lizard had said, it was warm up in the shallow where the tadpole lay; but she was curious now as to why the tadpole should want to look like a bird, so she settled herself down more comfortably and went on talking.

“Now, I should like to know,” she said, “why you want to look like a bird.”

At first the tadpole made no answer; he seemed to be either shy or dull, but when the lizard asked him again, he said: “I don’t know.”

Then he was silent again; and the lizard was about to go away when the tadpole suddenly went on: “It’s because there seems to be something inside of me that must sing, and I’ve tried and tried, until all the fishes and even the snails laugh at me, and I can’t make a sound. I think if I only had legs, and could hop about like a bird, I could do it.”

“But I don’t see why you should want to sing,” said the lizard. “I never did.”

Still, the tadpole seemed so grieved about it that she felt sorry for him, and stayed there in the shallow talking to him for quite a long time; and the next morning she went to see him again.

This was the beginning of a friendship between the two; and though the lizard could not understand why the tadpole should wish to sing, she never made fun of him, but tried to think of some plan by which he might learn to do it.

Once she suggested that if he were only up on the shore he might be able to do something about it. So he wriggled himself up half out of the water; but almost immediately he grew so sick that the lizard had to pull him back again by his tail, feeling terribly frightened, all the while, lest it should break.

It was the very next morning that the lizard found the tadpole in a state of wild excitement. “Oh, Lizard, Lizard!” he cried, shaking all over from his nose to his tail. “Just look at me! I’m getting legs.”

It was true. There they were, still very small and weak, but really legs. The lizard and the tadpole had been too busy talking over how to make them grow to notice that they were already budding. They were still more excited when, soon afterwards, they saw near the front part of the tadpole’s body two more little buds; and the lizard was sure these would prove to be wings.

It was a terrible blow to them when they found these were not wings at all, but more legs. “Now it’s all over,” cried the tadpole, in despair. “It was bad enough not to have wings; but now that I’m getting legs this way, there’s no knowing where it’ll end.”

The lizard, too, was almost hopeless, until suddenly she remembered a crawfish she had known who had lost one of his legs in a fight, and it had hardly hurt him at all. She said perhaps she could pull the tadpole’s front legs off the same way.

He was quite willing for her to try, but at the first twitch she gave he cried out, “Ouch! that hurts!” so the lizard had to stop.

She still thought, however, that something could have been done about it if the tadpole had not been such a coward and had let her pull harder.

But worse was to follow.

One morning, before the lizard was up, the tadpole came wriggling over to the door of her house.

“Lizard, Lizard, come out here,” he cried. Then, as soon as she came out, he begged her to get a piece of eelgrass and measure his tail.

“I’ve been afraid it was shrinking for some time,” he said, “and now I’m almost sure of it. I have such strange feelings, too. Sometimes I feel as though I must have air, and I get up on a stone so that I’m almost out of the water, and only then am I comfortable.”

Hastily the lizard got the eelgrass and measured. Then they sat staring at each other in dismay. The tail was almost gone!

Still, the lizard would not give up all hope.

That same crawfish that had lost a leg lived farther down the stream, and he was very old and wise. She would get him to come and look at the tadpole and give his advice.

So the kindly little lizard bustled away, and soon she came back, to where the tadpole was lying, and the crawfish came with her, twiddling his feelers, and staring both ways with his goggle eyes.

“Sick tadpole!” he cried. “This is no tadpole!” Then, coming closer, the crawfish went on: “Why are you lying here? Why aren’t you over in the swamp singing with all the rest of them? Don’t you know you are a frog?”

“A frog!” cried the lizard.

But the young tadpole frog leaped clear out of the brook with a joyous cry.

“A frog!” he shouted. “Why, that’s the best of all! If that’s true I must say good-bye, little Lizard. Hey for the wide green swamp and the loud frog chorus under the light of the moon! Good-bye, little friend, good-bye! I shall never forget what you have done for me.”

So the frog went away to join his brothers.

The little lizard felt quite lonely for a while after the frog had gone; but she comforted herself by thinking how happy he must be.

Often in the twilight, or when the moon was bright, she listened to the chorus of frogs as they sang over in the swamp, and wondered if the one who sang so much louder and deeper than the rest was the little frog who had tried so hard to be a bird.

“After all,” she said to herself, “there are more ways of singing than one.”

MISTER HOP-TOAD

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad! Glad to see you out!
Bin a month o’ Sundays since I seen you hereabout.
Kind o’ bin a-layin’ in, from the frost and snow?
Glad to see you out ag’in, it’s been so long ago.

BUZ AND HUM

MAURICE NOËL

The time came when Buz and Hum, two young bees, were allowed to try their wings.

“Follow me,” said a friendly older bee; “I can spare time to fly a little way; and when I stop, you stop, too.”

“All right,” cried Buz, trembling with excitement.

Hum said nothing, but her wings began to move, almost in spite of herself.

Away went the bee, as straight as a line from the mouth of the hive, and away flew Buz and Hum after her; but at first starting they both found it a little difficult to keep quite straight, and Buz knocked against the board to begin with, and nearly stopped herself, as she had not learned how to rise.

The older bee did not go far, and lit on the branch of a peach tree which was growing against a wall near by. Buz came after her in a great hurry, but missed the branch and gave herself a bang against the wall. Hum saw this, and managed to stop herself in time; but she did not judge her distance very well either; and got on the peach tree in a scrambling sort of way.

“Very good,” said their friend, as they all three stood together; “you will soon be able to take care of yourself now; but just let me see you back to the hive.”

So off they flew again, and lighted on the board in a very creditable manner.

“Now,” said the bee, “I shall leave you; but before I go let me advise you, as a friend, not to quit the garden to-day; there are plenty of flowers, and plenty of opportunities for you to meet with ‘Experience,’ without flying over any of the four walls.”

“Who is Experience?” asked Buz and Hum together.

“Oh! somebody to whom you are going to be introduced, who will teach you more in a day than you could learn from me in a week. Good-bye.”

So saying, she disappeared into the hive.

“Isn’t it too delightful?” exclaimed Buz to Hum. “Flying! why it’s even more fun that I thought!”

“It is,” said Hum; “but I should like to get some honey at once.”

“Of course,” replied Buz, “only I should like to fly a long way to get it.”

“I want to fill a cell quickly,” said Hum.

“Oh, yes, to be sure! What a delightful thing it will be to put one’s proboscis down into every flower and see what’s there! Do you know,” added Buz, putting out her proboscis, “I feel as if I could suck honey tremendously; don’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Hum. “I long to be at it; let’s be off at once.”

So away they went and lit on a bed of flowers. Hum spent the day between the hive and that bed, and was quite, quite happy; but Buz, though she, too, liked collecting the honey, wanted to have more excitement in getting it; and every now and then, as she passed to and from the hive, a lovely field of clover, not far off, sent forth such a delicious smell, as the breeze swept over it, that she was strongly tempted to disregard the advice she had been given, and to hurry off to it.

At last she could stand it no longer; and, rising high into the air, she sailed over the wall and went out into the world beyond.

And so she reached the field of clover, and, flying quite low over the flowers, was astonished to see how many bees were busy among them—bumble-bees without end, and plenty of honey-bees, too; in fact, the air was filled with the pleasant murmur that they made.

“To be sure,” said Buz to herself, “this is the place for me! Poor, dear old Hum! I hope she is enjoying herself as much as I am. I don’t mean to be idle either, so here goes for some honey.”

Buz was very diligent, indeed, and soon collected as much honey as she could carry. But by the time she had done this she found herself close to the farther end of the clover field, and while resting for a moment, before starting to carry her load to the hive, she noticed a little pond in the corner. Feeling thirsty after her hard work, she flew off to take a few sips; but just as she reached the pond and was in the act of descending, a light gust of wind caught her and turned her half over, and before she could recover herself she was plunged far out into the water!

Poor Buz! She was a brave little bee, but this was a terrible accident; and after a few wild struggles she almost gave herself up. The water was so cold, and she felt herself so helpless in it; and then the accident had happened so suddenly, and taken her so utterly by surprise, that it is no wonder she lost courage. Only for a moment though; just as she was giving up in despair the hard and seemingly useless work of paddling and struggling with all her poor little legs at once, she saw that a bit of stick was floating near her, and with renewed energy she attempted to get to it. Alas! It was all she could do to keep her head above water; as for moving along through it, that seemed impossible, and she was tempted to give up once more. It was very hard though; there was the stick, not more than a foot away from her. If she could only reach it! At any rate, she was determined it should not be her fault if she was unsuccessful; so she battled away harder than ever, though her strength began to fail and she was becoming numbed with the cold. Just as she made this last effort another gust of wind swept over the pond, and Buz saw that the stick began to move through the water, and to come nearer and nearer to her. The fact was that a small twig sticking up from it acted as a sail, though Buz did not know this. And now the stick was quite close, almost within reach; in another moment she would be on it. Ah! but a moment seems a long time when one is at the last gasp, as poor Buz was.

Would she be drowned after all? No! Just as she was sinking she touched the stick with one little claw, and held on as only drowning people can; and then she got another claw safely lodged, and was able to rest for a moment. Oh! the relief of _that_, after such a long ceaseless struggle!

But even then it was very hard to get up on the stick, very hard indeed. However, Buz managed it at last, and dragged herself quite out of the cold water.

By this time the breeze was blowing steadily over the pond, and the stick would soon reach the bank; but Buz felt very miserable and cold, and her wings clung tightly to her, and she looked dreadfully forlorn.

The pond, too, was overshadowed by trees so there were no sunbeams to warm her. “Ah,” thought she, “if I can manage to drag myself up into the sunshine and rest and be well warmed, I shall soon be better.”

Well, the bank was safely reached at last! but Buz, all through her life, never forgot what a business it was climbing up the side. The long grasses yielded to her weight, and bent almost straight down, as if on purpose to make it as up-hill work for her as possible. And even when she reached the top it took her a weary while to get across the patch of dark shadow and out into the glad sunlight beyond; but she managed to arrive there at last, and crawling on the top of a stone which had been well warmed by the sun’s rays, she rested for a long time.

At last she recovered sufficiently to make her way, by a succession of short flights, back to the hive. After the first of these flights she felt so dreadfully weak that she almost doubted being able to accomplish the journey, and began to despond.

“If I ever do get home,” she said to herself, “I will tell Hum all about it, and how right she was to take advice.”

Now, whether it was the exercise that did her good, or that the sun’s rays became hotter that afternoon, cannot be known, but this is certain, that Buz felt better after every flight. When she reached the end of the clover field, she sipped a little honey, cleaned herself with her feet, stretched her wings, and, with the sun glistening brightly on her, looked quite fine again. Her last flight brought her to the top of the kitchen-garden wall. After resting here, she opened her wings and flew gaily to the hive, which she entered just as if nothing had happened.

THE STORY WITHOUT AN END

TRANSLATED BY SARAH AUSTIN FROM THE GERMAN OF A. CAROVE

IN THE GREEN MEADOW

There was once a child who lived in a little hut, and in the hut there was nothing but a little bed, and a looking-glass which hung in a dark corner. Now the child cared nothing at all about the looking-glass, but as soon as the first sunbeam glided softly through the casement and kissed his sweet eyelids, and the finch and the linnet waked him merrily with their morning songs, he arose and went out into the green meadow. And he begged flour of the primrose, and sugar of the violet, and butter of the buttercup; he shook dew-drops from the cowslip into the cup of a harebell; spread out a large lime-leaf, set his little breakfast upon it, and feasted daintily. Sometimes he invited a humming bee, oftener a gay butterfly, to partake of his feast; but his favourite guest was the blue dragon-fly. The bee murmured a good deal, in a solemn tone, about his riches; but the child thought that if _he_ were a bee, heaps of treasure would not make him gay and happy; and that it must be much more delightful and glorious to float about in the free and fresh breezes of spring, and to hum joyously in the web of the sunbeams, than, with heavy feet and heavy heart, to stow the silver wax and the golden honey into cells.

To this the butterfly assented and he told how, once on a time, he too had been greedy and sordid; how he had thought of nothing but eating, and had never once turned his eyes upwards to the blue heavens. At length, however, a complete change had come over him and instead of crawling spiritless about the dirty earth, half dreaming, he all at once awaked as out of a deep sleep. And now he could rise into the air and it was his greatest joy sometimes to play with the light, and to reflect the heavens in the bright eyes of his wings, sometimes to listen to the soft language of the flowers, and catch their secrets. Such talk delighted the child, and his breakfast was the sweeter to him and the sunshine on leaf and flower seemed to him more bright and cheering.

But when the bee had flown off to beg from flower to flower, and the butterfly had fluttered away to his playfellows, the dragon-fly still remained poised on a blade of grass. Her slender and burnished body, more brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue sky, glistened in the sunbeam and her net-like wings laughed at the flowers because _they_ could not fly, but must stand still and abide the wind and the rain. The dragon-fly sipped a little of the child’s clear dew-drops and blue-violet honey, and then whispered her winged words. And the child made an end of his repast, closed his dark blue eyes, bent down his beautiful head, and listened to the sweet prattle.

Then the dragon-fly told much of the merry life in the green wood,—how sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows under the broad leaves of the oak and the beech trees or hunt-the-hare along the surface of the still waters or sometimes quietly watched the sunbeams, as they flew busily from moss to flower and from flower to bush, and shed life and warmth over all. But at night, she said, the moonbeams glided softly around the wood, and dropped dew into the mouths of all the thirsty plants; and when the dawn pelted the slumberers with the soft roses of heaven, some of the half-drunken flowers looked up and smiled, but most of them could not so much as raise their heads for a long, long time.

Such stories did the dragon-fly tell and as the child sat motionless, with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little hand, she thought he had fallen asleep, so poised her double wings and flew into the rustling wood.

THE STORY OF A DROP OF WATER

But the child was only sunk into a dream of delight, and was wishing _he_ were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear more and more, and forever. But at last, as all was still, he opened his eyes and looked around for his dear guest, but she was flown far away; so he could not bear to sit there any longer alone, and he rose and went to the gurgling brook. It gushed and rolled so merrily, and tumbled so wildly along as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels into the river, just as if the great massy rock out of which it sprang were close behind it, and could only be escaped by a break-neck leap.

Then the child began to talk to the little waves, and asked them whence they came. They would not stay to give him an answer, but danced away, one over another, till at last, that the sweet child might not be grieved, a drop of water stopped behind a piece of rock. From her the child heard strange histories; but he could not understand them all, for she told him about her former life, about the depths of the mountain.

“A long while ago,” said the drop of water, “I lived with my countless sisters in the great ocean, in peace and unity. We had all sorts of pastimes; sometimes we mounted up high into the air, and peeped at the stars; then we sank plump down deep below, and watched how the coral-builders work till they are tired, that they may reach the light of day at last. But I was conceited, and thought myself much better than my sisters. And so one day, when the sun rose out of the sea, I clung fast to one of his hot beams, and thought that now I should reach the stars, and become one of them. But I had not ascended far, when the sunbeam shook me off, and, in spite of all I could say or do, let me fall into a dark cloud. And soon a flash of fire darted through the cloud, and now I thought I must surely die; but the whole cloud laid itself down softly upon the top of a mountain, and so I escaped. Now I thought I should remain hidden, when all on a sudden, I slipped over a round pebble, fell from one stone to another, down into the depths of the mountain, till at last it was pitch dark, and I could neither see nor hear anything. Then I found, indeed, that ‘pride goeth before a fall,’ resigned myself to my fate, and, as I had already laid aside all my unhappy pride in the cloud, my portion was now the salt of humility; and after undergoing many purifications from the hidden virtues of metals and minerals, I was at length permitted to come up once more into the free cheerful air and now will I run back to my sisters, and there wait patiently till I am called to something better.”

But hardly had she done when the root of a forget-me-not caught the drop of water by her hair, and sucked her in, that she might become a floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue star on the green firmament of earth.

LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT

There was once a little plant that grew by a shady brook. It had many companions even in this quiet spot. The great branches of the old tree stretched over it, and the beautiful flowers were friendly; but it did not seem happy. The flowers often thought they heard it sigh as its head drooped almost to the ground.

“How I wish I might have flowers like the other plants,” it said to itself, “blue ones, the colour of the beautiful sky. There is so much blue, surely some could be spared for the earth. Then the children would not always need to look up to see the sky.” But it kept its secret close to its heart and only bent its head a little lower.

“What makes you droop so, little plant?” asked one of the flowers. “Your leaves are quite down again. Surely the sun is not too warm here.”

“Tell us,” said the others, “perhaps we can be of some help to you. We want to see you look up again at the sky as you used to do.”

“It would be of no use to tell you,” answered the little plant. “I have often whispered my secret to the old tree as its branches swayed near me, but it has all been of no use,” and its head bent lower and lower.

“Perhaps,” said the flowers to each other, “perhaps our Angel can be of some help. Let us speak to her.”

And when evening came, and the Angel closed the flowers as she kissed them good-night, she heard one whisper, “Something makes our little friend very sad. She will not tell us. See if she will tell you her secret.” They saw the Angel stoop down and whisper something to the little plant and go away.

* * * * *

“See how our little companion has raised its head this morning,” said the grasses.

“An Angel visited her last night,” one answered.

By and by a day came when the little plant was covered with many tiny blossoms. The other flowers rejoiced to see them. “We’ve guessed your secret. What beautiful flower children—blue, like the sky. It makes the sky seem very near.”

“That is my secret,” answered the little plant. “When I told it to the Angel I said, ‘My flowers must be just the colour of the sky.’ And she whispered, ‘Then always look up, for your flowers will be like that which you love most.’ Then she went away.”

The Forget-me-not was happy. She never drooped her head again, and the Angel always kissed her good-night as she passed by.

FOUR-LEAF CLOVER[13]

ELLA HIGGINSON

I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow.

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
And one is for love, you know,
And God put another one in for luck,
If you search you will find where they grow.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow.

But you must have hope, and you must have faith,
You must love and be strong, and so
If you work, if you wait, you will find the place
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow.

JOLLY LITTLE TARS

AGNES MCCLELLAN DAULTON

“Tur-r-r-r-t, tre-t-t,” trilled a tree-toad who was perched one June day, on a log at the water’s edge. “This is a perfect day for us Water-folk. Surely there never was such blue in the sky, such green in the grass, nor such dimpling cloud shadows skipping about everywhere. It is the very day to sit down and dream.”

“We think it just the day for a race,” cried a whirligig beetle who was whizzing past. “Come on, Whirligigs! let us see who will win this time.” And away they went with a dash, flash, and spin, a long curve here, a quick turn there, faster and faster.

“My, my!” said the tree-toad, half closing his eyes. “It seems to me every day is the day for a race with those Whirligigs. I never saw one of them meditating in my life. It makes me dizzy and gives me a headache to watch them spinning. It is a wonder they don’t dash themselves to pieces.”

“Not they,” yawned a little snapping-turtle, who had been drowsing on a stone near by. “If you look close at a Whirligig, you will see that he is nearly as well protected as I am in my strong shell. How you exist with that soft body of yours is more than I can understand. You are a peaceable sort of fellow, but your best friend must admit that you are very ugly.”

“No such thing,” sputtered the tree-toad, leaning far out to look at his reflection in the water. “I’m nothing of the sort. My mother says that I was the handsomest polliwog in the family. You are forced to wear one dress always, and that a dull old shell, while I change the colour of my clothes to suit the occasion, as all well-bred persons should. This morning I am wearing a full suit of grey-brown; that is because it matches so perfectly this lichen-covered log upon which I am seated. When I go swimming, my bathing suit is ashen grey, with green trimmings. If I were to visit the swamp maples I should don plain brown, and if I should take a hop in the grass I should wear a beautiful dress suit of green. I am Mr. Hyla Versicolour, I’d have you know. See how rough and warty my back is; that is a sign of good family among toads. Watch me puff out my throat like a great white bubble as I whistle my tur-r-r-r-t, tre-t-t! Besides having a winning voice and power to change my colour I can breathe through my skin. I have a remarkable foot, also. Look at this delicate webbing, and these cunning little disks at the ends of my toes. I can climb as well as swim, Mr. Snapper. See me dart out my tongue; it is fastened in front and free at the back, so that I may catch a fly in a flash.

“Ugly fellow, indeed!” Mr. Hyla puffed out his throat as far as he could. “Fiddlesticks!” snapped the turtle, slipping into the pool with a splash. “You are a worse boaster than a water-boatman. Talk to yourself, please,” and away he swam.

“That Snapper always was a disagreeable fellow,” mused Hyla, with his eyes half shut. “There come those Whirligigs back. I wonder which one beat.”

“Pooh, how could a Whirligig beat?” scornfully asked a water-strider who had overheard the tree-toad. “They swim in circles, the foolish things.”

“That’s all you know about Whirligig racing,” cried the largest whirligig, who was swimming near. “We _all_ win every race. But of course you can’t expect a common water-strider with only one pair of eyes to understand that.”

“One pair of eyes!” exclaimed Hyla. “Why, have you more eyes than the rest of us, Mr. Whirligig?”

“Certainly,” replied the beetle, proudly. “We are not given to boasting, but, since you ask, I will say that we Whirligigs have many remarkable traits. Our family name is Gyrinidæ.”

“Who cares for that?” shouted the angry water-strider, skating toward the whirligig with all his might. “Get out of the road, you beetle, or I will skate you down! Ugh, what a horrid perfume you use! How dare you, sir!” gasped the strider, as the whirligig swam away, leaving the poor strider gasping and sputtering on the other side of the pool.

“Keep your distance, then,” called the whirligig after him.

“He won’t bother me for a time,” laughed the beetle to the tree-toad. “You see I have the power to give off a milky fluid from my joints, and common water-folk object to the odour, but it is my only way to get on with these skaters.”

“But do you really mean,” asked the Hyla, “that you have more eyes than the rest of us?”

“I certainly do,” replied the beetle with dignity. “We Whirligigs have a second pair of eyes under our chins, which enable us to see to the bottom of the pool as we swim about, and most convenient we find them.”

“Wonderful! wonderful!” The Hyla could scarcely express his amazement. “I suppose that is the reason you never hurt yourselves in such rapid swimming?”

“Not at all,” said the whirligig. “Examine this handsome, glittering blueblack uniform I wear. It is really a coat of mail to protect not only our bodies but also our gauzy wings, for we fly as well as swim.”

“I shouldn’t think you could hop very well,” remarked the tree-toad; “your legs look like oars.”

“Who wants to hop if he can swim and fly?” retorted the whirligig, with scorn. “I am sure I don’t.”

“Come, come,” cried the other whirligigs, who were swimming by. “Don’t spend the day talking when there is racing to be done.”

“Well, good-bye, Mr. Tree-toad. There comes that skater again so I will be gone,” and off whisked the beetle.

“Now that was interesting,” said the Hyla to himself. “I really ought to know something more of my neighbours. There comes a Water-Spider[14] for a bubble. Now I must ask her what she does with it.

“Good-morning, Mistress Spider. What are you going to do with that silver bubble, may I ask?”

“Good-morning,” replied Mrs. Spider, as she snatched a bubble of air and held it with her hind legs. “I haven’t time to explain up here, Mr. Tree-Toad, but if you will call at my home I will be glad to tell you.”

“I shall be most happy,” replied the Hyla, slipping into the water in a jiffy, and in a second later he was resting on the bottom of the pool, just under Mrs. Water Spider’s glittering balloon.

“That certainly is very beautiful, Mrs. Spider. Would you mind explaining how it is done?” said he.