Chapter VI: Introduction (6)

“Not at all,” said the spider, as she came and sat in the door of her home. “My house, sir, is woven of silk, just as are those of other spiders, but instead of a web I weave this egg-shaped nest with the door at the bottom. Now, although I live under water, I breathe air, and it is necessary for me to fill my house with it. So up to the top I go and catch a bubble of air with the hairs of my abdomen and my two hinder legs. I then bring it down here and hang it in my silken balloon until it is, as you see, a glittering, transparent bell. In the top of my nest I weave a little chamber in which to lay my eggs, and when my babies hatch out they stay in this shining home until they are strong enough to build a nest for themselves.”

“And how many eggs, Mrs. Spider,” asked Hyla, politely, “do you put in the chamber?”

“A hundred is the usual number,” replied Mrs. Spider, “but now you really must excuse me, as I am in need of more air.”

“Goodness gracious,” mused the tree-toad, looking after her as she darted toward the top. “I should think she would feel something like that old woman who lived in a shoe, who had so many children she didn’t know what to do. But what have we here?” and Mr. Hyla leaned forward to watch a wee log hut that was creeping in the queerest way on a water-weed.

“Ugh! What great goggle eyes you have!” piped a tiny voice from the door of the hut. “I should like to know what you are staring at.”

“Well, this is surprising,” gasped the Hyla. “Now, who in the world are you?”

“I am a caddis-worm out for an airing,” said the voice again, as the hut reached the edge of the leaf. “I hope you have no objections.”

“Oh, no; of course not,” stammered the astonished Hyla. “Only I should like to know if all caddis-worms carry their houses about with them?”

“This is my overcoat, I’d have you know,” said the caddis, thrusting out his little black head. “My brother wears one of leaves, my sister wears a sand jacket. But mine is the best fit.”

“May I ask who is your tailor?” asked the tree-toad. “It is certainly a remarkable coat.”

“I am my own tailor,” replied the worm. “A caddis would scorn to have his clothes made for him; but it is very hard work, I can assure you of that.”

“Would you mind telling me about it?” inquired the Hyla. “Your coat is a perfect fit; there isn’t a wrinkle in it.”

“Thank you,” replied the gratified caddis-worm. “You see,” he went on to explain, “we always make our coats out of the material at hand. Now, when I found these stylish sticks I anchored myself to a stone by a bit of silk which I spun from my mouth, for we caddis-worms furnish our own thread. Then by the aid of the same silk I wove this handsome coat, bit by bit, making one section at a time, and then slipping my head through and wriggling it down into place. See, I can put out my head and my first three pairs of feet, and so creep where I will.”

“Most remarkable, most remarkable,” drawled the toad, who didn’t believe a word of it. “And did you say your sister wears a jacket of sand?”

“Oh, yes, that is common enough,” answered the caddis. “I have heard that my grandfather, who wore an overcoat of shells, wove into it some tiny ones, each of which was the home of a little living creature, and the poor things had to pick up a living the best way they could. I have also been told that in captivity some of my family have made remarkable coats of gold dust and crushed glass. After a time I shall draw my head back into my overcoat and weave a silk veil, and so shut myself in and go to sleep. When I wake up I shall no longer be a worm, but a beautiful four-winged fly; my gauzy wings will be delicately fringed and there will be slender antennæ upon my head, and I shall float in the air. Is not that a beautiful future? But here comes a pond-snail, a most interesting fellow. Shall I introduce you?”

“Most happy. I hope you are well,” said Mr. Hyla.

But the snail said he wasn’t feeling very well, as he had eaten a water-weed that didn’t agree with him; still, he was very pleasant and answered all the tree-toad’s questions most kindly.

He said the first he could remember he was a little baby-snail not as big as a pinhead, moving about with hundreds of his brothers in the sand. Yet even then he carried a house on his back, a tiny, perfect shell, into which he could creep when danger threatened.

“Some people say I am very slow,” said the snail, “but they forget I have only one foot and carry my house on my back. Yet I am not complaining, for I have a head in which are my eyes, mouth, feelers, and organs of smell, while my relative, the oyster, having no head, has to wear his eyes, ears, and feelers on his mantle and his mouth near his hinge, poor fellow! Even my own cousin, the land-snail, has her eyes on long feelers, and has to draw them in if danger is near. Then see what a handsome cone-shaped shell I wear; inside there is a kind of spiral staircase, up which I can creep, and I can close my door with a thin film. If I break my shell I patch it with a sticky fluid that hardens and makes my home as good as new. I am an air-breathing creature and go up to the top to set free the bubble of impure air I have breathed and then bring down a bubble of fresh, sweet air. I have a long, ribbon-like tongue covered with teeth, with which I can chew the delicious water-weeds. Really, I consider myself a very lucky creature.”

“It must be a trifle monotonous,” thought the Hyla, as he swam toward the top. “I should want a more stirring life. I wonder what that is!”

What he saw was a small object floating on the top of the water like an odd little boat, only it seemed made of tiny jars with their openings toward the bottom, and out of these jars were darting wee brown wigglers.

“Hello, little chaps! who are you?” called the tree-toad.

“We don’t know, we just got out,” cried the wigglers, “but there is our big brother; ask him.”

The brother was a curious fellow. His body was very slender and of a mottled green colour, and he had large dark eyes. He also wore a huge moustache, which he was always moving about in a curious way, for he used it as a hand for feeding himself. On one side of his tail was a queer little screw he used as a propeller and rudder. He was sailing about at a furious rate, but almost always on his head, with his tail stuck out of the water.

“Allow me to ask what you are doing in that strange position?” inquired the Hyla in his mildest tones.

“Breathing, sir, as I should think you could see,” replied the larva, crossly. “What other way should one breathe?”

“Oh, excuse me,” said the tree-toad, as he slipped up to his old seat on the log. “I didn’t mean any offence.”

“The fact is,” said the larva more pleasantly, “I have to go into my pupa case to-morrow and it makes me cross. It is no fun simply to float about without eating. Still, I shall be able to move about, and that is more than many an insect can do as a pupa, and after all it is only for a few days, and then I shall hatch out into a beautiful mosquito.”

“Well, well,” said the tree-toad, “that will be pleasant. It seems to me I have heard of the mosquito. He is a musician, like myself, is he not?”

“My mother was a fine singer,” replied the larva, proudly. “She had beautiful wings, two plume-like antennæ, and six slender legs; and she always carried about with her a case in which there were five lancets to pierce the skin of men and cattle, and she had also a drop of poison to inject into the wound. My father never did anything but fly about in the sunshine and sip honey; my mother was the talented member of the family. I think I will be going; there come the Giant Water-bugs.”

Mrs. Giant Water-bug was swimming quietly along by her husband, who looked very sulky and cross, and did not even return the Hyla’s greeting.

“My, my,” sighed a water-boatman who was swimming about on his back, “how I do pity Mr. Giant Water-bug! Do not take offence at his not speaking, Hyla; he is simply crushed with his trouble. You see his wife forces him to act as a sort of baby carriage. She fastens her eggs on his back with waterproof glue, although he struggles and struggles to escape her, and he has to carry them about with him everywhere, poor old fellow! Sometimes he is so nearly heartbroken he just hangs to a water-weed and won’t move, no matter who tries to get up a fight with him. It is hard on him, for Giant Water-bugs have gay times. They fly away from the pond in such numbers to dance about those great shining balls that hang over the village that men have changed their names to ‘electric-light’ bugs. But what a time I have been gossiping here! I think I shall go for a swim.”

The tree-toad sat sunning himself on the log, but ever on the outlook for a new acquaintance.

“Faugh!” exclaimed the Hyla at last, “there is one of those horrid things that used to frighten me most out of my wits when I was a timid little polliwog wriggling through the water. She can’t hurt me now, so I will speak to her. Good-morning, my friend! May I ask who you are, and where you are going?”

“I am not quite sure either,” replied the queer-looking creature as it dragged itself painfully up a water-weed. “I was once a larva much feared in this pool. I fed upon the juiciest polliwogs and other delicacies. But a strange change came over me. I couldn’t eat, and I fell half asleep, and to-day I feel that I just _must_ climb out of the water; I cannot tell why. I think another change is going to take place in me. So I can only bid the world good-bye. Perhaps this is death.” And fixing herself firmly to the weed by means of two little hooks on each of her six feet she hung perfectly motionless.

“Bless me,” gasped the tree-toad, after he had watched the creature patiently for a few minutes. “Her eyes are certainly growing brighter, and what is the matter with her back? A crack, as I am a tree-toad!”

Slowly the queer thing drew herself out of her case. She had a soft body now, and damp, closely-folded wings. But the kind sunshine and the gentle breeze came to help, and, little by little, she began to unfurl her wonderful wings,—great filmy wings that shimmered with blue and green, brown and yellow, delicate pink and violet, and she had large eyes that glittered with twenty thousand facets.

“Oh! oh!” cried the Hyla. “How beautiful you are, you great dragon fly!”

But away she flew without a word, zigzagging back and forth across the pool; a living gem, emerald, sapphire, and topaz, knitting the flecked sunshine with loops of light.

“Well, well,” said the tree-toad, “this is the most astonishing thing of all, to think of that ugly larva changing to that beautiful rainbow fly! But the day is going and I really ought to accomplish something before sunset. So I think I shall take a little trip over to that elm and sing for rain,” and off he hopped, leaving the pool sparkling in the sunshine, dappled with cloud-shadows, cool, silent, and sweet with drifting lilies.

MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE

WARREN JUDSON BRIER

Once upon a time, many years ago, a little maple seed, with its two gauzy wings, became lodged among the feathers of a wood pigeon, and was by that swift flying bird carried far away into the pine forest. It fell to the ground, and the rains soon beat it into the earth. It was not sorry to get out of sight, for the Pine Family, into whose domain it had been carried, seemed displeased to see it among them. Anyway, they all looked black and threatening to the little seed.

Years afterward there stood upon the spot where the seed had fallen, a hardy tree which we can make no mistake in calling Mr. Rock Maple. In all that part of the forest Mr. Maple had no relatives. As he grew stronger and stronger, the dislike of the Pines, particularly of the Pine boys, grew likewise stronger. As he pushed his limbs farther in every direction, the Pine boys seemed to look more darkly upon him. They begrudged him the very ground he stood on. The younger Pine boys spread out their arms to try to prevent Rock Maple from getting the light and moisture which he so much needed in that sandy soil. At times they showered great quantities of needles upon him, and at certain seasons of the year they pelted him unmercifully with their cones, sharp rough weapons that played havoc with Mr. Maple’s garments of green, yellow and red.

Old Mr. Pine, who waved his green head in the air nearly a hundred and fifty feet above the earth, did not seem to have very good control over his boys, for though he himself did not often deign to pelt Mr. Maple with the few cones he possessed, he never rebuked the boys for their impoliteness.

One day the Pine boys were unusually rough, made so by the strong wind. They knew Mr. Maple was not to blame, but there was no one else to lay the blame on, so they pelted him with cones until he lost his temper. He was just wondering what he would do to prevent the annoyance, when, looking down, he saw that some little creatures had appeared upon the scene, and were striking right and left at the Pines with a sharp tool, against which needles and cones were of no use whatever.

“How good of those little things to take my part,” said Mr. Maple to himself.

In a very short time hundreds of the Pines were lying prone upon the earth. Some were formed into a house, while others were drawn away to a small stream, rolled into its sluggish waters, and soon disappeared forever from the gaze of Mr. Pine, who grieved for them, and of Mr. Maple, who did not.

“Nobody here now of any consequence,” exclaimed Mr. Pine with a contemptuous look at Mr. Maple. Mr. Maple paid no attention. “If you were not such a dwarf, I’d talk to you sometimes, even if you _don’t_ amount to much,” he finally said with an air of great condescension. “It makes me hoarse to talk down so far.”

For a long time after that Mr. Maple kept silent, wondering why Mr. Pine and himself had been spared.

But great surprises were in store for these two enemies. A family came to live in the log house, and among them was the smallest human being that the trees had ever seen,—a little girl named Camilla. She soon got into the habit of coming out and playing under the two large trees.

One day her father brought home a small box, at sight of which she went into a transport of joy, screaming, “My kit, my darling kit! I never thought to see you again!” The box was soon opened, and she lifted a queer-shaped little instrument from it; then, taking it by its long neck, she drew a small wand across it, and it gave forth a sound that thrilled every fibre of both Pine and Maple through and through.

It is too long a story to tell how both trees came to love Camilla very dearly; how delighted Mr. Pine was when she took some resin which he held out to her; how pleased Camilla looked, how white were her teeth, and how she loved him for the gift; how Mr. Maple had his reward when the passing frost touched him and gave him a beautiful garment, much to the delight of Little Camilla, or how when the long winter was nearly done the little violinist fairly hugged him for the sugar he had yielded her.

A fatal day came at last. Men appeared with sharp axes and heavy wagons and attacked Mr. Maple. They had not cut into him very deeply before one of them exclaimed to the others, “Curly Maple, as I live!”

Mr. Pine laughed, but before night he had met the same fate. The man who felled him remarked to the others, “Well on to ten thousand feet in that old fellow!”

Camilla looked on while the trees were loaded and drawn away, tears filling her blue eyes. “Good-bye, old friends,” she exclaimed.

Away to a noisy place they went. Soon they were cut up into small strips by a monster with very sharp teeth. These strips were carried in different directions, some of the best pieces being loaded upon cars and hurried away to a distant city. From this place they took a long journey in the deep, dark hold of a great ship; again upon the cars, until at last they rested in a dry house.

One day one of the Maple boards and one of the Pine boards were taken out, carefully inspected and then made smooth and even on the outside. Then a skilful workman cut them up into small pieces, and made them into curious shapes. He took great pains not to leave the scratch of knife or chisel upon any of the pieces. He finally glued them all together, and behold, they were of the same shape as Camilla’s kit, but somewhat larger.

The workman explained to an observer, “I use pine for the front, or sounding-board, as it is light and vibrant. The more porous it is the better. Maple is the best wood I can get for the other parts, because it is so dense, vibrates slowly, and holds the vibrations made by the pine for a long time, thus prolonging the sound.”

After the slow process of finishing and varnishing was completed the violin was placed in a dark box, and there it lay for a long time.

Pine and Maple said little to each other. They were not very comfortable nor very happy. The strings that had been stretched over them were very cruel and pressed upon the Pine, which pressed upon the soundpost, and that pressed upon the Maple. Sometimes a string broke, and gave them temporary relief, but soon some one would come and put on another.

After passing through two or three small stores the violin finally came to rest in a large one, in a city distant from the one in which it had been made, and all was quiet for a long time. Still Pine and Maple said but little to each other. Shut up in their dark box they didn’t feel very cheerful.

“A living death, this!” grumbled Pine.

“We must make the best of it,” replied Maple.

One evening a stranger came into the store and asked, “Have you a first-class violin in stock?”

“Yes, just one. I got it several months ago by the merest chance. We don’t keep such instruments usually,” said the dealer, taking out the violin. “It is wonderful for an instrument not ten years old.”

“I want one for the evening, only,” said the stranger. “Madame Camilla is here in the city, and to-night plays for the Orphans’ Home. One of her violins is under treatment, and her Cremona has been broken.”

“Madame Camilla!” exclaimed Pine, with a quiver of delight.

“Can it be our little Camilla?” asked Maple in a trembling voice.

In a few minutes the violin was taken from its case by Camilla’s own hand. She ran her fingers gently over the strings, looked at the varnish, tightened the bow and rosined it carefully and finally placed the violin against her shoulder, and drew the bow smoothly across the strings.

She played an air in which the coming of a storm was represented, and Pine and Maple heard once more the sighing of the wind as it once had swept through their branches.

“That’s the sound of the wind in the pine and maple that stood near my log cabin home when I was a little girl,” said the musician to the people standing near.

Then for the first time both Pine and Maple felt certain that this was really their Camilla.

The curtain rose, the manager stepped to the front and in a few words explained the accident, and stated that a new and untried violin must be used.

“Let us lay aside all discord, and act in perfect harmony to-night,” said the forgiving Maple.

“I’ll do it,” answered Pine, more cheerfully than he had ever spoken before.

Pine and Maple beat and throbbed under the wonderful strokes and long-drawn sweeps of the bow. When the piece was finished a storm of applause burst upon them like a tempest. Again the curtain went up and the violin found itself in the glare of the footlights once more. This time the performer touched the strings gently, and played a tune that many people who had come to the store had tried to play, the words to the first line being, “Way down upon de Suwanee Ribber.”

When it was finished the people were silent, and tears glistened in many eyes.

“Maple, forgive me,” said the now humble Pine. “I’ve learned a great lesson, though a very simple one. The best results in life are accomplished through harmony and not through discord.”

“We’ll live in harmony hereafter,” said Maple.

The great soul of the artist had breathed into the instrument and made it glorious.

A GARDEN OF EASTER STORIES

My garden is a lovesome thing.
Rose plot,
Fringed grot:
The veriest school of Peace.
And yet the fool contends
That God is not in gardens.
Not in gardens—when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign:
’Tis very sure God walks in mine.

_Old English Verse._

THE EASTER RABBIT

GERMAN LEGEND

Shrill and sharp North Wind whistled through the forest where the trees and flowers were patiently awaiting the arrival of My Lady Spring. Jack Frost was delighted. Perched on the topmost branches of the great trees he laughed gleefully. “Ha! ha! ha! surely Old Father Winter has forgotten that April is almost here,” said he. “I shall not remind him, not I. They say My Lady Spring who is waiting in Wild-Flower Hollow is growing most impatient!”

“And so am I,” whispered Mother Maple to her neighbour Dame Oak. “I’ve told my babies many pleasant stories about My Lady Spring and her companion Merry Sunshine. I’m afraid I shall be unable to keep them in their dark cradles much longer.”

“Oh! do hold them back a few days,” said Dame Oak. “You remember what trouble that rude rollicking fellow Jack-Frost made last year. So long as he is here he insists on playing with all the babies of the forest. I do wish Lady Spring would come and tell him to be off.”

“He’ll never go so long as his bold brother North Wind remains,” sighed Silver Beech.

“Never mind,” said Dame Oak. “I feel sure we shall not have to wait much longer. Indeed I saw Merry Sunshine dancing near the edge of the forest yesterday. I feel quite hopeful.”

“Oh, how happy I shall be to hear Thrush’s song again,” said Silver Beech.

“And the happy children’s voices! They haven’t been to the forest since nutting season,” said Dame Oak. “I’m sure they are longing to come again.”

For some time Lady Spring had been waiting in Wild-Flower Hollow near the edge of the forest. Only a few days ago the children had come there to gather flowers.

“Not a bird or blossom anywhere. See how brown and bare that bank is!” said one.

“And Easter is almost here. I wonder why Lady Spring is so late!” said another.

“Maybe she has forgotten us,” said a tiny companion.

“I am very disappointed. Last year at this time that bank was blue with violets. Come, let us go home!” And away ran the children.

“I shall wait no longer,” said Lady Spring. “Come, Merry Sunshine.”

Away danced Merry Sunshine and Lady Spring followed in trailing robes of green and white.

Waving her silver wand over the bank of Wild-Flower Hollow she whispered, “Ready, Violets; come, Starry Bluet; my sweet Anemone, you need wait no longer. Ah, brave Arbutus, I see you were expecting me. Did you think I was never coming, my dainty Spring Beauty?”

How graceful Lady Spring looked waving her magic wand here and there through the forest. Wherever she stooped and touched the brown earth the fresh grass leaped forth; when she tapped the great tree trunks the bare branches above instantly veiled themselves in tender green. She waved at the brooklet and away it ran over the moss and pebbles.

“Sing, Merry Sunshine, dance and sing!” Lady Spring called to her companion.

Merry Sunshine trilled the gayest song. It rang sweetly through forest and echoed far away over the hills to the South where the birds were waiting patiently for the call. How gladly they came! Bluebird and Bobolink, Cardinal and Chickadee, Blackbird and Thrush and Wren,—all the forest warblers answered Merry Sunshine’s Song of Spring.

“At last my work is done!” said Lady Spring joyously.

“When are the children coming?” asked Dame Oak.

“Oh, to be sure! I must not forget to send them word that I am here. Robin Redbreast, will you take a message of Spring to the children? I’m sure they will want to see the lovely blossoms and hear the sweet birds’ songs.”

“Lady Spring,” said Robin, “I’m afraid I cannot go to-day. You see my mate and I are building a soft warm nest in Oak-Tree. We are very late this year.”

“To be sure, Robin. I wonder where I can find a messenger.”

“I think Red Fox would go for you,” answered Robin Redbreast. “See, here he comes now.”

“Will you take word to the children that I have come, Reynard?” asked Lady Spring.

“Oh, I should be glad to go, but the people might think I came to steal their chickens. I believe Black Bear would be a better messenger than any of us. I’ll run and ask him to go.”

But Reynard brought back the answer that Black Bear was afraid he would frighten the children too much.

“What shall I do for a messenger,” sighed Lady Spring.

Robin cocked his head on one side and looked very thoughtful. Then he said, “I have it, I believe Bunny Rabbit would go; I saw him hop past but a moment ago. I’ll call him.”

At Robin’s whistle Bunny came leaping out of the bushes.

“Bunny Rabbit, I want you to take a message to the children in the city. Please go and tell them Spring has come.”

“A message to the city, Lady Spring!” exclaimed Bunny, raising his ears upright. “Please ask me to do anything but that! Dear me! The dogs might catch me! They bark so fiercely! And naughty boys might chase me! I’m sure I should never come back!” Bunny dropped his voice and looked quickly about in all directions. Lady Spring was puzzled.

“Bunny,” said Robin, “couldn’t you go at night? You know the dogs and boys go to sleep then and you can hop so softly that I’m sure they would not hear you. Besides, your ears are very sharp.”

“Well, perhaps I could go at midnight,” said Bunny, thoughtfully. “But how could I take a message to the children without wakening them?”

“Oh, I can manage that,” said Lady Spring. “Meet me in Wild-Flower Hollow a little before twelve o’clock. Then you shall know all about my plan.”

“I will come,” said Bunny.

Lady Spring made a beautiful basket out of twigs and leaves and grasses. She lined it with the softest moss. Around the top she placed a garland of choicest wild flowers. And, when the birds knew that she was sending a message to the children, each one wished to help her. So they sent lovely little eggs of all colours—greenish blue, brown, white and spotted. How beautiful they looked lying on the bed of moss wreathed with flowers.

A little before midnight Bunny came to Wild-Flower Hollow.

“I am ready,” said Lady Spring. “See, Bunny, here is plenty of moss. Do be careful with these precious eggs. When you come to a house where a little child lives take out a bit of moss and form it into a wee nest like this,” said Lady Spring, weaving quickly a moss nest. “Then put into each one a wild flower and an egg,—so. Leave an egg for each child in the house.”

“Yes, yes, I understand, Lady Spring,” said Bunny. “How pretty the nest is!”

Off he started as gaily as could be.

On Easter morning Merry Sunshine wakened the children early.

“See! see! I found this little moss nest on the door-step,” cried one of them. “There is a wild-flower and three coloured eggs in it. How beautiful!”

“An egg for each of us!” said another. “I wonder what it means.”

“I know, I know,” said little brother. “There are Bunny tracks on the path. He must have brought the nest to us. Perhaps he came to tell us Spring is here.”

“Of course he did!” cried the children, clapping their tiny hands in glee. “Bunny was Spring’s messenger.”

Away to the woods ran the children, crying out, “Spring is here, Spring is here. Bunny Rabbit brought us the message.”

THE BOY WHO DISCOVERED THE SPRING[15]

RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN

There came once a little Elf Boy to live on this earth, and he was so much pleased with it that he stayed, never caring to go back to his own world. I do not know where his own world was, or just how he came to leave it. Some thought that he was dropped by accident from some falling star, and some that he had flown away, thinking that he could fly back again whenever he chose, because he did not know that children always lose their wings when they come into this world. But no one knew certainly, as he never told any one; and, after all, it did not matter, since, as I have already said, he liked the earth so much that he did not care to leave it.

There was a Hermit who lived in the valley where the little Boy had first come, and, as he had a room in his house for a visitor, he took him in, and they grew to like each other so well that again the little Boy did not care to go away, nor did the Hermit care to have him. The Hermit had not always been a Hermit, but he had become a sorrowful man, and did not care to live where other people lived, or to share any of their pleasures. The reason he had become a sorrowful man was that his only child had died, and it seemed to him that there was nothing worth living for after that. So he moved to the lonely valley, and I suppose would have spent the rest of his life by himself, if it had not been for the little Elf Boy.

It was a very lovely valley, with great, green meadows that sloped down to a rippling brook, and in summer-time were full of red and white and yellow blossoms. Over the brook there hung green trees, whose roots made pleasant places to rest when one was tired; and along the water’s edge there grew blue flowers, while many little frogs and other live creatures played there. It was summer-time when the little Elf Boy came, and the flowers and the trees and the brook and the frogs made him very happy. I think that in the world from which he came they did not have such things: it was made chiefly of gold and silver and precious stones, instead of things that grow and blossom and keep one company. So the Elf Boy was very happy. He did not ask to go to play in the village over the hill, but was quite content with the meadows and the brook-side. The only thing that did not please him was that the old Hermit still remained sorrowful, thinking always of his child who had died and this the Elf Boy did not understand, for in the world from which he came nothing ever died, and he thought it strange that if the Hermit’s child had died he did not patiently wait for him to come back again.

So the summer went merrily on, and the Elf Boy learned to know the names of all the flowers in the meadow, and to love them dearly. He also became so well acquainted with the birds that they would come to him for crumbs, and sit on the branches close by to sing to him; the frogs would do the same thing, and although the Elf Boy did not think their voices as sweet as those of the birds, he was too polite to let them know it.

But when September came, there began to be a sad change. The first thing the Elf Boy noticed was that the birds began to disappear from the meadows. When he complained of this, the Hermit told him they had gone to make their visit to the Southland, and would come back again; and this he easily believed. But as time went on, and the air became more and more still as the last of them took their flight, he began to lose heart.

What was worse, at the same time the flowers began to disappear from the meadows. They were dead, the Hermit said, and in this way the Elf Boy learned what that meant. At first others came to take their places, and he tried to learn to like the flowers of autumn as well as those which he had known first. But as these faded and dropped off, none came after them. The mornings grew colder, and the leaves on the trees were changing in a strange way. When they grew red and yellow, instead of green, the Elf Boy thought it was a queer thing for them to put on different colours, and wondered how long it would last. But when they began to fall, he was very sad indeed. At last there came a day when every limb was bare, except for a few dried leaves at the top of one of the tallest trees. The Elf Boy was almost broken-hearted.

One morning he went out early to see what new and dreadful thing had happened in the night, for it seemed now that every night took something beautiful out of the world. He made his way toward the brook, but when he reached the place where he usually heard it calling to him as it ran merrily over the stones, he could not hear a sound. He stopped and listened, but everything was wonderfully still. Then he ran as fast as his feet would carry him to the border of the brook. Sure enough, it had stopped running. It was covered with a hard sheet of ice.

The Elf Boy turned and went to the Hermit’s house. By the time he had reached it, the tears were running down his cheeks.

“Why, what is the matter?” asked the Hermit.

“The brook is dead,” said the Elf Boy.

“I think not,” said the Hermit. “It is frozen over, but that will not hurt it. Be patient, and it will sing to you again.”

“No,” said the Elf Boy. “You told me that the birds would come back, and they have not come. You told me that the trees were not dead, but their leaves have every one gone, and I am sure they are. You told me that the flowers had seeds that did not die, but would make other flowers but I can not find them, and the meadow is bare and dark. Even the grass is not green any more. It is a dead world. In the summer-time I did not see how you could be sorrowful; but now I do not see how any one can be happy.”

The Hermit thought it would be of no use to try to explain anything more to the Elf Boy, so he said again, “Be patient,” and tried to find some books in which he could teach the Boy to read, and make him forget the outside world.

The next time they went for a walk to the village over the hill, the Elf Boy was very curious to see whether the same thing had happened there that had happened in their valley. Of course it had: the trees there seemed dead, too, and the flowers were all gone from the door-yards. The Boy expected that every one in the village would now be as sorrowful as the Hermit, and he was very much surprised when he saw them looking as cheerful as ever. There were some boys playing on the street-corner, who seemed to be as happy as boys could be. One of them spoke to the Elf Boy, and he answered:

“How can you play so happily, when such a dreadful thing has happened to the world?”

“Why, what has happened?”

“The flowers and trees are dead,” said the Elf Boy, “the birds are gone, and the brook is frozen, and the meadow is bare and grey. And it is so on this side of the hill also.”

Then the boys in the street laughed merrily, and did not answer the Elf Boy, for they remembered that he was a stranger in the world, and supposed he would not understand if they should try to talk to him. And he went on through the village, not daring to speak to any others, but all the time wondering that the people could still be so happy.

As the winter came on, the Hermit taught him many things from the books in his house, and the Elf Boy grew interested in them and was not always sad. When the snow came he found ways to play in it, and even saw that the meadow was beautiful again, though in a different way from what it had been in summer. Yet still he could not think the world by any means so pleasant a place as it had been in the time of flowers and birds; and if it were not that he had become very fond of the Hermit, who was now the only friend he could remember, he would have wished to go back to the world from which he had come. It seemed to him now that the Hermit must miss him very much if he should go away, since they two were the only people who seemed really to understand how sorrowful a place the earth is.

So the weeks went by. One day in March, as he and the Hermit sat at their books, drops of water began to fall from the eaves of the roof, and they saw that the snow was melting in the sunshine.

“Do you want to take a little walk down toward the brook?” asked the Hermit. “I should not wonder if I could prove to you to-day that it has not forgotten how to talk to you.”

“Yes,” said the Elf Boy, though he did not think the Hermit could be right. It was months since he had cared to visit the brook, it made him so sad to find it still and cold.

When they reached the foot of the hillside the sheet of ice was still there, as he had expected.

“Never mind,” said the Hermit. “Come out on the ice with me, and put down your ear and listen.”

So the Elf Boy put down his ear and listened; and he heard, as plainly as though there were no ice between, the voice of the brook gurgling in the bottom of its bed. He clapped his hands for joy.

“It is waking up, you see,” said the Hermit. “Other things will waken too, if you will be patient.”

The Elf Boy did not know quite what to think, but he waited day after day with his eyes and ears wide open to see if anything else might happen; and wonderful things did happen all the time. The brook sang more and more distinctly, and at last broke through its cold coverlet and went dancing along in full sight. One morning, while the snow was still around the house, the Elf Boy heard a chirping sound, and looking from his window, saw a red robin outside asking for his breakfast.

“Why,” cried the Boy, “have you really come back agin?”

“Certainly,” said the robin, “don’t you know it is almost spring?”

But the Elf Boy did not understand what he said.

There was a pussy-willow growing by the brook, and the Boy’s next discovery was that hundreds of little grey buds were coming out. He watched them grow bigger from day to day, and while he was doing this the snow was melting away in great patches where the sun shone warmest on the meadow, and the blades of grass that came up into the daylight were greener than anything the Elf Boy had ever seen.

Then the pink buds came on the maple trees, and unfolded day by day. And the fruit trees in the Hermit’s orchard were as white with blossoms as they had lately been with snow.

“Not a single tree is dead,” said the Elf Boy.

Last of all came the wild flowers—blue and white violets near the brook, dandelions around the house, and a little later, yellow buttercups all over the meadow. Slowly but steadily the world was made over, until it glowed with white and green and gold.

The Elf Boy was wild with joy. One by one his old friends came back, and he could not bear to stay in the house for many minutes from morning to night. Now he knew what the wise Hermit had meant by saying, “Be patient,” and he began to wonder again that the Hermit could be sorrowful in so beautiful a world.

One morning the church bells in the village—whose ringing was the only sound that ever came from the village over the hill—rang so much longer and more joyfully than usual, that the Elf Boy asked the Hermit why they did so. The Hermit looked in one of his books, and answered:

“It is Easter Day. The village people celebrate it on one Sunday every spring.”

“May we not go also?” asked the Elf Boy, and as it was the first time he had ever asked to go to the village, the Hermit could not refuse to take him.

The village was glowing with flowers. There were many fruit trees, and they, too, were in bloom. Every one who passed along the street seemed either to wear flowers or to carry them in his hand. The people were all entering the churchyard; and here the graves, which had looked so grey and cold when the Hermit and the Boy had last seen them, were beautiful with flowers that the village people had planted or had strewn over them for Easter.

The people all passed into the church. But the Hermit and the Elf Boy, who never went where there was a crowd, stayed outside where the humming-birds and bees were flying happily among the flowers. Suddenly there came from the church a burst of music. To the Elf Boy it seemed the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He put his finger on his lip to show the Hermit that he wanted to listen. These were the words they sang:

“_I am He that liveth, and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore!_”

The Boy took hold of the Hermit’s hand and led him to the church door, that they might hear still better. He was very happy.

“Oh,” he cried, “I do not believe that anything ever really dies.”

The Hermit looked down at him and smiled.

“Perhaps not,” he said.

When the music began again, a strange thing happened. The Hermit sang the Easter song with the others. It was the first time he had sung for many years.

All silently, and soft as sleep,
The snow fell, flake on flake.
Slumber, spent Earth, and dream of flowers,
Till springtime bids you wake.
Again the deadened bough shall bend
With blooms of sweetest breath.
Oh, miracle of miracles,
This life that follows death!

SHEEP AND LAMBS

KATHARINE TYNAN

All in the April morning
April airs were abroad,
The sheep with their little lambs,
Passed me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road;
All in an April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.

The lambs were weary, and crying
With a weak human cry,
I thought on the Lamb of God
Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains
Dewy pastures are sweet;
Rest for the little bodies,
Rest for the little feet.

All in the April evening
April airs were abroad;
I saw the sheep with their lambs,
And thought on the Lamb of God.

ROBIN REDBREAST—A CHRIST LEGEND[16]

SELMA LAGERLÖF

It happened one day when our Lord sat in His Paradise creating and painting little birds that He conceived the idea of making a little grey bird.

“Remember your name is Robin Redbreast,” said our Lord to the bird, as soon as it was finished. Then He held it in the palm of His open hand and let it fly.

After the bird had been testing his wings a while, and had seen something of the beautiful world in which he was destined to live, he became curious to see what he himself was like. He noticed that he was entirely grey, and that his breast was just as grey as all the rest of him. Robin Redbreast twisted and turned in all directions as he viewed himself in the mirror of a clear lake, but he couldn’t find a single red feather. Then he flew back to our Lord.

Our Lord sat there on His throne, big and gentle. Out of His hands came butterflies that fluttered about His head; doves cooed on His shoulders; and out of the earth beneath Him grew the rose, the lily, and the daisy.

The little bird’s heart beat heavily with fright, but with easy curves he flew nearer and nearer our Lord, till at last he rested on our Lord’s hand. Then our Lord asked what the little bird wanted. “I only wish to ask you about one thing,” said the little bird. “What is it you wish to know?” said our Lord. “Why should I be called Redbreast, when I am all grey from the bill to the very end of my tail? Why am I called Redbreast when I do not possess one single red feather?” The bird looked beseechingly on our Lord with his tiny black eyes—then turned his head. About him he saw pheasants all red under a sprinkle of gold dust, parrots with marvellous red neckbands, cocks with red combs, to say nothing about the butterflies, the goldfinches, and the roses! And naturally he thought how little he needed—just one tiny drop of colour on his breast and he, too, would be a beautiful bird, and his name would fit him. “Why should I be called Redbreast when I am so entirely grey?” asked the bird once again, and waited for our Lord to say: “Ah, my friend, I see that I have forgotten to paint your breast feathers red, but wait a moment and it shall be done.”

But our Lord only smiled a little and said: “I have called you Robin Redbreast, and Robin Redbreast shall your name be, but you must look to it that you yourself earn your red breast feathers.” Then our Lord lifted His hand and let the bird fly once more—out into the world.

The bird flew down into Paradise, meditating deeply.

What could a little bird like him do to earn for himself red feathers? The only thing he could think of was to make his nest in a brier bush. He built it in among the thorns in the close thicket. It looked as if he waited for a rose leaf to cling to his throat and give him colour.

After many years there dawned a new day, one that will long be remembered in the world’s history. On the morning of this day Robin Redbreast sat upon a little naked hillock outside of Jerusalem’s walls, and sang to his young ones, who rested in a tiny nest in a brier bush.

Robin Redbreast told the little ones all about that wonderful day of creation, and how the Lord had given names to everything, just as each Redbreast had told it ever since the first Redbreast had heard God’s word, and gone out of God’s hand. “And mark you,” he ended sorrowfully, “so many years have gone, so many roses have bloomed, so many little birds have come out of their eggs since Creation Day, but Robin Redbreast is still a little grey bird. He has not yet succeeded in gaining his red feathers.”

The little young ones opened wide their tiny bills, and asked if their forebears had never tried to do any great thing to earn the priceless red colour.

“We have all done what we could,” said the little bird, “but we have all gone amiss. Even the first Robin Redbreast met one day another bird exactly like himself, and he began immediately to love it with such a mighty love that he could feel his breast turn. ‘Ah!’ he thought then, ‘now I understand! It was our Lord’s meaning that I should love with so much ardour that my breast should grow red in colour from the very warmth of the love that lives in my heart.’ But he missed it, as all those who came after him have missed it, and as even you shall miss it.”

The little young ones twittered, utterly bewildered, and already began to mourn because the red colour would not come to beautify their little, downy grey breasts.

“We had also hoped that song would help us,” said the grown-up bird, speaking in long-drawn-out tones—“the first Robin Redbreast sang until his heart swelled within him, he was so carried away, and he dared to hope anew. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘it is the glow of the song which lives in my soul that will colour my breast feathers red.’ But he missed it, as all the others have missed it and as even you shall miss it.” Again was heard a sad “peep” from the young ones’ half-naked throats.

“We had also counted on our courage and our valour,” said the bird. “The first Robin Redbreast fought bravely with other birds, until his breast flamed with the pride of conquest. ‘Ah!’ he thought, ‘my breast feathers shall become red from the love of battle which burns in my heart.’ He, too, missed it, as all those who came after him have missed it, and as even you shall miss it.” The little young ones peeped courageously that they still wished to try and win the much-sought-for prize, but the bird answered them sorrowfully that it would be impossible. What could they do when all other robins had missed the mark? What could they do more than love, sing, and fight? What could—the little bird stopped short, for out of one of the gates of Jerusalem came a crowd of people marching, and the whole procession rushed toward the hillock, where the bird had its nest. There were riders on proud horses, soldiers with long spears, executioners with nails and hammers. There were judges and priests in the procession, weeping women, and above all a mob of mad, loose people running about—a filthy, howling mob of loiterers.

The little grey bird sat trembling on the edge of his nest. He feared each instant that the little brier bush would be trampled down and his young ones killed!